Page 128 of Duke of Sapphire

The silence stretched.

“I believed I was securing your future,” he said at last. His voice had lost its edge. “I thought I was protecting you.”

“I know that.” Charlotte’s chest ached. “I believe you meant well. I do.” She met his eyes. “But all I ever wanted was the chance to choose it myself.”

He said nothing for a long moment. He picked up his hat from the chair. He turned it once in his hands.

“If you love him,” he said, not looking at her, “do not let your pride keep you from fighting for the marriage.” He set his hat on his head. “That would be a waste.”

She stared at him.

He was already crossing toward the door.

“Father,” she said.

He paused.

She could not think of anything to say. He gave her one short nod, not warm exactly, but not cold either, and walked out.

The front door opened. Closed.

Charlotte stood very still.

Then her aunt was there, quiet in the doorway, and Charlotte did not bother holding herself together any longer.

“I love Henry,” she said. The words came out roughly. “I love him and I do not know if he knows it and I do not know if it matters and I left because I thought he wanted me to go.” She pressed her fingers against her mouth. “I want him to come. I keep waiting for a letter or a rider or—something.” Her throat tightened. “He hasn’t come, Georgiana. He hasn’t even written.”

Georgiana crossed the room and took Charlotte’s hands.

“I wish he would come,” Charlotte said. “I wish he would walk through that door and be insufferably calm about the whole thing and tell me I have been ridiculous.” She laughed, and it broke a little. “I would not even argue with him.”

Georgiana said nothing and only held her hands. Perhaps she thought Charlotte’s wish an impossible one.

CHAPTER 35

The letter came from Scotland, and Henry recognized Nathan’s handwriting before he had even fully broken the seal.

He had been staring at the dispatch on his desk for the better part of an hour without reading it. The house was quiet. It had been quiet for six days. He had told himself he preferred quiet.

He broke the seal.

Nathan’s note was short, which was unlike him. The man could fill three pages discussing a single sheep.

Henry. Ian drew this for you. He asked me to send it. I thought you should have it straightaway. We are all well. Come north when you are ready. Bring your Duchess. Ian asks about her every morning.

There was something folded inside. A small square of paper, thicker than writing paper, the kind used for sketching.

Henry unfolded it.

Three figures stood beneath a tree. Stick arms, round heads, uneven legs planted in a row of green scribbles that were presumably grass. The tree above them was enormous, sprawling, its branches taking up most of the top of the page, and from one of the branches hung what might have been a bird or a very confused hat.

The tallest figure had dark scribbles on his head. The middle figure had a skirt and brown curls. The smallest had a gap-toothed smile inked in with great care.

At the bottom, in Ian’s uneven, seven-year-old hand: Me Family.

Henry sat very still.

He turned the drawing once. The paper was slightly crumpled at one edge, as though it had been carried in a pocket before Nathan thought to fold it properly. Ian had pressed hard with the pencil. The letters were proud. Not uncertain. Not provisional.