Page 121 of A Troublesome Circumstance

He cut her off. “What did he say when you told him you loved him?”

Her gaze dropped to her lap.

“Dear heavens, you didn’t tell him? Josephine!” He slapped his knee. “We must go back so you can tell him how you feel.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she asserted. “The article will be printed tomorrow. It is over.”

He settled back in his seat. “You are right,” he said. “It is over.”

She looked up sharply.

“Because how much could you love Lord Pendryn,” he started, “if you gave up so easily?”

“I did not give up!” she snapped. “I’m protecting him.”

“Bravo!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands slowly. “You will die falling on your sword rather than face what is right in front of you.”

“And what is right in front of me?”

He held her gaze. “A chance at true happiness.”

Josephine felt the sting of her uncle’s words as keenly as if he had struck her. Her throat tightened, and tears pricked at the backs of her eyes—unwelcome, traitorous things she refused to let fall. He wasn’t wrong, and that truth cut sharper than any reprimand.

A soft, unsteady breath escaped her.

This is what you chose, she reminded herself. This is the only way to protect him.

But the farther the coach traveled, the more hollow the reassurance felt.

19

Jude paused outside the study door, his palm pressed flat against the polished wood. His father’s study was the one place in the world where truth had weight—sometimes crushing, sometimes freeing. Tonight, he prayed it would be the latter. He needed his father to understand, to be reasonable, to see what Jude saw so clearly: that he loved Josie, and he would never be content until she was his. Until he was hers.

Drawing in a breath, he knocked once but didn’t wait for permission. If he hesitated now, he might never find the courage again.

The room was warm, lit with the low amber glow of the hearth. His father sat in his favorite armchair, shoulders bowed slightly forward, his gaze fixed upon the crackling flames as though seeking answers in the embers.

Jude cleared his throat. “Father.”

His father looked up, startled from whatever thoughts held him captive. “Jude,” he murmured. “I apologize. I was woolgathering for a moment.”

Jude stepped farther into the room. “Anything you wish to share?”

A strained smile tugged at his father’s mouth—more grimace than mirth. “I was thinking about Lady Redden.”

That drew Jude up short. He crossed to the chair opposite and sat. “And what did you conclude?”

His father exhaled slowly. “That I want to offer for her. Tonight. But… I am scared.”

Nothing surprised Jude more than his father’s admission. “You, scared?”

A brief chuckle escaped his father. “Many things frighten me. I simply do not speak of them. And marriage to Lady Redden—well, that is one such thing.”

“May I ask why?”

His father’s gaze dropped to the fire. “Because I loved your mother with my whole heart. And I worry that by marrying another, I dishonor her memory. As though loving again diminishes the love we shared.”

Jude’s chest tightened. “You could never diminish what you had with Mother. Our home was built on your love for her. On her love for you.”