“No, no…” He paced in front of the bench, boots crunching the snow, footprints etched in all directions.
Back and forth.
Forth and back.
“Are you well, Marcus?”
He paused, breathed deep again. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Continued to pace. “I’m just going to say it,” he mumbled.
“Say what?”
Marcus straightened his shoulders. Paused. “I… Are you warm enough?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He pinched his brow. “I… How did you know I was here?”
“Dinah.”
“But she told me that… Ah.” He paced once more. “Well, I… You see, Charlotte, I–”
“Marcus.” She peeled off her worn gloves and crossed her arms. “Have you had too many glasses of Mrs Mossop’s mulled wine?”
“‘Don’t interrupt,’ as Wordsworth would say.” He threw his hat to the bench. Heaved another breath. “Charlotte, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well, no. You just keep pacing back and forth.”
“I don’t mean…” He peered to the sky. “Oh, for hell’s sake, I’m just going to say it and be damned.” His fists clenchedand unclenched. “I mean, Charlotte, I am not going anywhere withoutyou. Not this Christmas. Not ever.”
“Wh…”
“I… I love you, Charlotte. I’ve always loved you. I know you were fond of the boy I was but he is gone, and I just hope…I hope the affection you feel for me as a friend may grow in time. I hope it’s not too late for me to find a better equilibrium. With life. With the estate. That you might help me do that and come to love me as I am. That you might give me that hope.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, tears pricking like nettles. Maybe she was still asleep? Dreaming? If so, it was a cruel dream.
“Say something, Charlotte,” he demanded. “Even if to put me out of my misery.”
She opened her eyes, words lost.
Marcus’ gaze was a meld of gold and green. And she was lost in them also.
His jaw gritted. “I wanted to give you the world eight years ago but all I had were the clothes on my back and a debt-ridden dukedom. I am still in debt, but now I will not give you up, Charlotte, unless…unless you tell me there is no hope.”
She rose to her feet. Brought her bare hand to his arm. The wool of his coat was cold, flecks of snow dotting it like pearls. It was no dream.
“Eight years ago,” she whispered, “I wanted naught but you.” She watched her hand travel to his cheek. “And eight years later, I still want naught but you.” A tear fell. “Of course, I love you, Marcus. I always have. I love the man, the duke, the boy, my friend. The man who makes my heart sing. And I always will.”
He looked a little taken aback for a moment but then smiled, eyes fierce yet vulnerable, and his throat bobbed. “Charlotte… Are you sure? I still fear I may… Hell, that I may let you down as I did when we were young. Fail you.”
“I love you, Marcus. In failure and success. In magnificent victory and ignominious catastrophe. For love is not love if it solely endures in triumph. In fact, it is the support through failure that makes it love. You could never failme. Only yourself. And then I would seek to lift you up.”
“Char–”
She pulled him close and kissed him.
His lips were warm and she now knew his heart was the same; it had merely been wrapped in ice in an attempt to protect everyone, including himself.
Broad cold hands cupped her cheeks, the kiss fervent and forever.
