The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(105)

“Do you remember the first song you ever sang to me?”

Of course she did. And he knew it. She’d sung it that last night at the Sparrow. “I do.”

Mal had reached the first of several rows of seats separating them, all populated by robed, wigged lords. “Careful, Haven,” one of them grumbled.

He didn’t seem to hear. “She was born that day in the heart of a boy. I always thought it was about you. That you found yourself in me.” Tears pricked at her eyes. “But as the years passed, I realized it was a fool’s thought. Because what of him? What of the boy, born that same day, in the heart of a girl?”

The words were thick with emotion, and Sera’s knuckles turned white with the force she used to clutch the railing. “What of the boy who hadn’t seen the sun until he’d seen her? The moon? The stars?” He stilled, staring up at her, his gaze tracking every inch of her face as she did the same, wishing he were closer.

He must have wished the same, because he moved then, climbing up onto the heavy benches below, caring neither for the venerable furnishings, nor the venerated aristocrats who had to lean out of the way or find themselves trampled by the Duke of Haven. He seemed to care only for getting closer to her.

“Here it comes,” Sesily whispered.

Sera leaned over to watch him as he reached for the inlaid pillars in the wall beneath and, without hesitation, began to scale the wall.

The room gasped in collective shock, a dozen men on the floor bursting into angry censure, and two directly below reaching for him, as though they could stop him.

They couldn’t. He was too fast, and too strong, and too damn perfect, throwing one leg over the rail as Seleste and Sophie backed away to make room for him while Sesily squealed her excitement from several feet away.

At least, Sera was fairly certain it was Sesily. She wasn’t about to look away from Mal to be certain. And then he was standing in front of her, breath coming harsh from the exertion of—Dear God. He’d scaled a wall.

He reached for her, his fingers trembling as he pushed a curl behind her ear, leaving a trail of fire in the wake of his touch. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “What of the boy who couldn’t let her go?”

Tears came, hot and unexpected. “That was always the problem,” she said to him. “You wouldn’t let me go.” Or perhaps it was that he wouldn’t keep her close. Nothing made sense anymore. Except this. Him, here, touching her.

He shook his head. “I was a bastard. I didn’t see that the closer I held you, the farther you’d fly. I didn’t realize you could take flight. And I was young and stupid, and God knows I did young and stupid things, not the least of which is vowing never to let you go.”

He paused, and she ached for the people they’d been, for the young, beautiful, restless people who had done everything wrong. “Even when you returned, I swore I’d never let you go, Sera, because I never stopped wishing that you’d stayed.”

But she’d had to go. She’d ruined so much.

It was as though he could hear her thoughts. “I know you think we failed, my love, but we did not. I failed. I failed you.”

She shook her head, tears coming hard and fast. “No.”

It wasn’t true, of course. They had both failed, and they had both succeeded. They were better for their losses, for their risks, for the world they had left behind and the new ones they had built.

They had not failed.

They had loved.

Did love.

He lifted his other hand, holding her face firmly in his grasp, speaking as though the whole world weren’t watching. “I thought that if I chased you long enough and far enough, and held you close enough, I could convince you that I had changed. That we could start anew. But I can’t do that and give you your freedom, which is all you’ve ever asked me for, and all I’ve ever refused you. Because I’ve been a bastard from the start. Never once deserving of you.”

“No, Mal.”

“Yes, love. I’m through chasing you. I shall have to be happy with finding you in the stars, at night.” He paused, and she gasped, realizing what he was about to do. “There will never be another for me. But it is not my choice that matters; it is yours. And if you do not want this, then I would rather you be free of it, as you’ve wished since the start. To begin anew. To choose your happiness somewhere else. With . . .” He paused, began again. “. . . with someone else. Someone you can trust. Someone you believe.”

He’d stolen her breath; her tears were coming in earnest now, streaming down her cheeks, and she could not stop them any more than she could stop herself saying his name.

I believe you.

This is enough. You are.

“We are yet married,” he whispered, and he kissed her, in front of her sisters and Parliament, amid cheers and shouts of disapproval that faded away into the caress, long and lingering and beautifully soft. And sad. Because it felt like a last kiss.

It felt like good-bye.

When it was over, he pressed his forehead to hers. “I only ever want you to be free, love. I only ever want you to be happy. I only ever want you to choose your path and know that I shall love you better for it,” he said, softly, as though he could release her, like a bird, into the sky. “I shall love you.”

What was he doing?

And then he did release her, turning away with utter conviction and raising his voice to the House of Lords. “My Lord Chancellor, I vote Content.”