Page 65 of Truly, Madly, Daring

I shall always write my letters to you here, where I may feel some small connection to the man I married and hope for better things in the future.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ St Just, Marchioness of Kilbane (daughter of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu) to her husband, Ciarán St Just, Marquess of Kilbane.

23rd of February 1845, Cawston Hall, Cawston. Norfolk.

“I don’t like it,” Emmeline said for the fifth time that morning as Lennox tied Wrexham’s cravat.

For the moment, Wrexham held his tongue. Lennox had only just forgiven him, and moving so much as an eyelash while the man was concentrating on the Osbaldiston knot would be seen as a direct affront to his valet’s talents. He wasn’t about to risk it.

Emmeline was fretting about the plan they were due to execute. Wrexham, however, was eager to get it done and get his blasted father and Cecil out of their lives, but he could not dismiss Emmeline’s concerns, and that she was so anxious about him warmed him more than he could express.

“How do we know the duke’s men won’t outnumber yours?” she persisted. “How do we know your wretched brother won’t be armed? How do we—”

“Leave us,” Wrexham murmured to Lennox, once the delicate procedure was complete.

“Yes, my lord.” Lennox removed himself with haste, leaving Wrexham to soothe his wife. He could hear her pacing, sense her agitation in the quick, clipped way she spoke. She was afraid for him because she loved him.

He wondered if she had the least idea of what those words had done to him? She had given them so casually, as though it were the most obvious and natural thing in the world, yet to Wrexham, they had exploded in his heart with the force of cannon-fire.

I love you too dearly to take the slightest risk.

Of course, she had been placating him because his pride was smarting. He wasn’t a fool. He had known that much, and his brain had immediately told him that was the only reason she’d said it, she was simply trying to keep him calm by flattering him and playing the affectionate wife. Except he had believed nonsense about his wife before, when his instincts had told him otherwise. His instincts told him she had meant those words. They had been given too naturally, and with too much sincerity, to be mere flattery. He could not account for it, but his heart thudded in the oddest way, his breath snagging in his throat every time he remembered it, which was a dozen times an hour if he was being completely honest.

He had heard the words before. Before he’d lost his sight, women told him they loved him often enough, and yet he had never quite believed them. Love seemed to be a commodity that must be paid for with jewels and carriages and whatever else the lady wished for. Not that Wrexham had ever begrudged them, he had enjoyed their company and enjoyed pleasing them too, but he had never allowed himself to return the emotion or trust in their words, even though he had wanted to at times. He was uncertain why. There had certainly been little enough of it in his life, so he ought to have welcomed it.

His father had made his animosity clear from a young age, though Wrexham had never quite figured out why that was. He’d given up trying by the time he was twelve, resigned to being reviled by his sire. His mother had been a fleeting figure in his life and had died when he was barely five. Memories of her were vague and hard to grasp. Had she ever told him she loved him? If she had, he could not remember it. Delia and Genevieve had been his only sources of affection, he thought with a smile. They had been bright spots in his life, and he was only grateful that the duke had absolutely no interest in his female offspring… unless he could sell them to the highest bidder, of course. Wrexham had not known Genevieve until she was ten, and her parents died. But the duke had no time for his granddaughter, so she had come to Cawston Hall. His little sister, Delia, had been deposited at Cawston when she was barely three years old, and Wrexham had loved her at once. She had adored him too, and was likely the only person in his life who had loved him unconditionally and with no restraint.

Now, though, there was Emmeline. His heart did another odd thud in his chest as he heard his wife still pacing and talking earnestly about all the reasons he ought not to go along with her father’s plan.

“—what if they know it’s a trap? They may have other plans that we know nothing about and—”

“Emmeline.”

“—and what if they hurt you? Oh, what should I do? I could not bear it! I will murder your father, for one, and—”

“Emmeline.”

She paused, and he heard the rustle of her skirts as she grew closer.

“Yes?”

“Come here,” he said, unable to keep the smile from his face.

“I am here,” she said, sounding perplexed.

He shook his head. “No. Closer.”

“Oh.” She slid her arms about his waist and hugged him, laying her head on his shoulder.

Wrexham held her to him and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of orange blossom. “One day we shall go to the Mediterranean. To Italy. I shall show you the sea. It is so blue, pet, you will adore it, and we shall visit every beautiful site and magnificent view, and sit beneath orange and lemon trees and picnic, and you will show me the world through your eyes, and I shall see it all anew.”

“That sounds wonderful, but you hate travelling,” she said, and he sensed her looking up at him.

Wrexham shook his head and raised his hand to stroke her hair. “Not with you. With you, everything is possible again. I don’t want to live in a cage any longer, not even if it is tempting to do so with you. I won’t keep you a prisoner as my father did me.”

“I should never feel that way!” she exclaimed. “I should be content to live here with you for the rest of my days, Wrexham. So long as we are together, I am happy. This is enough,” she said, and once again he heard the ring of truth behind the words and any hidden corner of his heart that had not been entirely hers, gave up the fight and surrendered on the spot.

He huffed out an exasperated breath and lowered his head, resting his cheek atop her head. “You are the most maddening creature,” he protested, uncertain whether or not to laugh. “Every time I think I can do and say what I must without becoming entirely too sentimental, you do something to completely unravel me!”