The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(83)

Her tears were coming in earnest now. She closed her eyes, the pain of the memories and the moment etched upon her like stone. “I am haunted by Januaries.”

“I know,” he said. He was, as well.

“I had to leave.” She ached, beautiful woman. And he wanted nothing more than to stop it.

He pulled her close. “I know.”

“I’ll never have her. And never another.”

The words devastated him. “I know.”

Sera stayed rigid in his embrace for an age, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her hands at her side, her only movements the little breaths that seemed wrenched from her. Wrenched from him, as well.

And then she gave herself to him, collapsing against him, giving him her weight and her pain and her strength and her sorrow. And he caught her and held her, and let her cry for the past—the past for which he, too, had ached.

The past that, together, they finally mourned.

His tears came as hers did, from a deep, silent place, filled with regret and frustration and an understanding that there was no way to erase the past. That the only possibility for their future lay in forgiveness.

If she could ever forgive him.

If he could ever forgive himself.

And so he did what he could do, holding her for long, sorrow-filled minutes, until she quieted, and their tears slowed, and they were left with nothing between them but the sun and the breeze and the past. He pulled away enough to look at her, enough to cradle her face—more beautiful than he’d ever seen it, tearstained and stung with grief—and look deep into her eyes.

“I was late, Angel,” he said, the words coming on a near beg, unashamed. “I’ve always been too late. I’ve always missed you. I had no plans to come to Highley for the summer. I was headed to search for you again. I will never stop missing you.” He took her lips, the kiss soft and lingering, a salve.

She had always been his salve.

He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, loving the long exhale of her breath, as though she’d been waiting for years for this moment. And hadn’t he been waiting, as well?

“Don’t make me miss you today,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes at the words, and for a moment he thought she didn’t feel it. The keen, unbearable need, as though there was air and food and them, now. Here.

And then she opened her eyes, and he saw it there. She needed him, too.

They needed each other.

He lifted her into his arms, and carried her home.





Chapter 22



Marriage on the Mend? Maybe!



They did not speak on the ride home, and Sera was grateful for it, grateful for the chance to stay in Malcolm’s lap, the scent of him consuming her, fresh earth and spice, encircling her along with his strong arms, like a promise. She knew there was no possible way that he could make good upon that promise.

Promises were never theirs to offer.

Not even now, wrapped in each other, the movement of his horse beneath them the only reminder of the world beyond.

She turned her face to his chest, loving the warm strength of him there, loving, too, the way he pulled her closer and pressed his lips to her temple, whispering words there that were lost to the wind.

She did not care that they were lost—they were better there, because if she’d heard them, she might have loved them. And she might have loved him. But there was no room for that. Everything she had ever loved had been ruined. So she knew better than to let herself fall into the emotion again. They had loved each other at the start, and it had been a battle nonetheless. It would always be a battle between them. Always a game. And never enough.

But that afternoon, as they had unlocked their past and confessed their sins and their regrets, it did not seem to matter that love was not their future. Instead, all that mattered was that each somehow understood the other.

It was that understanding that spurred them toward Highley, Malcolm choosing the back entrance to the manor house, helping her down from the horse and following her without speaking and without hesitation, taking her hand and leading her through the kitchens, ignoring the servants pretending not to notice them as they took to the back stairs and down the long, wide, dark hallway to his rooms. To their rooms.

All without speaking, as though giving voice to words would give voice to the rest—the doubt and fear and the fight and the world beyond. But there, in silence, as she entered his bedchamber and he closed the door behind her, there was only the two of them. Alone, finally. Together, finally.

Just once.

She walked to the center of the room, her heart pounding, knowing that she should speak. Knowing she should remind them both of who and where they were and what the future held.

Except when she turned to face him, his back pressed to the closed door, his gaze unwavering, she did not want to speak. She only wanted to touch. She only wanted to love.

Just once.

And so she reached for him.

He was already coming for her, but he didn’t do what she expected. He didn’t take the lead, did not set her aflame with his kisses and steal her breath with the passion that too often consumed them both. Instead, he went to his knees, bowing his head to their joined hands—a knight pledging fealty to his queen.

And there, on his knees, he pressed kisses to their entwined fingers, and whispered her name until she could no longer bear it, and she took his face in her hands, tilting him up to face her, staring deep into his eyes before joining him, kneeling before him.