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Finally, she looked back at him. ‘I’ve had time these last few weeks, finally free of his menace, to think about all that happened. I found myself wondering if I did indeed overestimate his power. Perhaps he would only have threatened, but never actually used Papa’s debts to put him in prison or find perjured witnesses to ruin you. All I knew was that I loved you so much, I would rather die than destroy you. He understood that and was shrewd enough to use it.’
‘That doesn’t make him less despicable in my eyes. I do wish, though, that you’d doubted his influence enough to come to me then.’
‘So do I. But wishing won’t change the past. By the end, I think in his own way, he was...fond of me. Not that he would have let me leave him, but I think he respected my courage in resisting him, even as it infuriated and perplexed him. Of course, a Duke of Graveston could not admit he’d been wrong; he never returned the books or paints or musical instruments he’d had taken away. But when he came back from London, things would appear. An exquisite antique Greek vase in my sitting room. New gowns and costly furs in my wardrobe. His way, I suppose, of reaching out, asking for peace between us. If I had deferred to him then, even a little, he might have considered his victory finally won, given me back all he’d taken and treated me as less of a prisoner. But after years of suppressing all emotion save defiance, I didn’t know any other way to be. I couldn’t yield to him—if I had dismantled any of the barriers that had kept me upright through years of siege, I risked the whole edifice tumbling down.’
She sighed. ‘It may be bad of me, but I’m glad he’s dead, and I’m free at last.’
‘Perhaps one day, you’ll be able to forgive him. But I can’t deny that I, too, am glad he’s dead and that you are free to do whatever you want.’
‘What I want,’ she repeated, shaking her head. ‘Once I knew exactly what I wanted—you. Us. Our future together. When I had to give that up, I merely survived, holding on to the few pieces of myself by resisting. Now that I don’t have to fight any more, I’m not sure what to do, where to go. I spent nearly nine years of my life virtually alone, pushing back against the forces of the world, first Graveston, then his son. Like a game of tug of war one plays as a child, pulling and pulling and pulling, until suddenly, when your opponent gives way, you fall backward into nothingness.’
‘Is that how you feel—that you’ve fallen into a void?’
She shivered and rubbed her arms, as if chilled. ‘Yes,’ she admitted in a whisper. ‘I loved you. I always loved you. I never stopped. But I pushed the emotion deep within, until it was frozen far below the surface of my thoughts. When I was a child, tromping a winter field with Papa, intent on finding a particular plant, I’d go on until my toes and fingers were numb. Once home by the fire, I’d slowly unthaw, feet and hands burning and tingling in pain. I don’t know how long it will take me to unthaw my heart from all the years with Graveston, or how much pain there will be. It’s...frightening, to not know who you are any more.’
He couldn’t help it then; he had to take her in his arms. To his relief, she clung to him willingly. The shivering increased, until he realised, for the first time, she was weeping.
Her sobs grew in intensity until her whole body shuddered in his arms. His heart aching for her anguish, he tightened his grip.
‘I’ll be here for you always, however long it takes. Whatever happens. You’ll never be alone, never again afraid,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘I love you, Diana. I always have; I never stopped. I will always love you.’
For a long time, he simply held her, until at last the sobbing lessened, then ceased and she leaned against him, limp in his arms.
He closed his eyes, savouring the feel of her cradled to his chest. Even as his body clamoured for more, he rebuked it.
Yes, he wanted more; he wanted everything. But he was wiser now, no longer an impetuous boy, insisting on having it all now. Breaking a nervous, green filly, one couldn’t force her; she must come to him on her own terms.
He could wait as long as it took.
After several grim years lost in an emotional wilderness, he’d once again found the centre of his universe. And he would never, ever give her up again.
* * *
Pulling away from Alastair, Diana sat up, feeling dizzy and disorientated. She’d wept—in Alastair’s arms. Actually shed tears, something she hadn’t done since the terrible night she’d realised she must marry the Duke and Alastair was lost to her for ever.
Embarrassment replaced surprise as she looked at the soggy cravat, now hanging limply at his throat. ‘I’m afraid I’ve ruined your neckcloth. I’m so sorry.’
He made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Don’t be. I’ve got others. Besides, the first part of healing is letting go.’ He smiled, the tenderness of his expression making her chest ache. ‘I should know.’
‘I’m not sure I can let go. There’s so much.’ She pressed her hands to her chest, feeling as if a lead weight were imprisoned there. ‘So much pain and ugliness, I don’t dare open up, lest it all rush out, and I...I drown in it.’
‘I’ll be here. I won’t let you drown.’
‘Attentive Alastair. So you intend to protect me?’
‘In every way I can. Whatever grief and pain bedevils you, we can meet it, conquer it, together.’
After the bout of tears she felt—strange, fidgety. The idea that Blankford could no longer threaten her still seemed impossible to believe. Uncertain, her whole world shifting around her, all she knew for sure was she could not bear to be pressured.
Even by Alastair.
When he reached for her again, she held up a hand to fend him off.
‘I know you care for me and want to help. But...I need time to myself—to find out how to breathe freely again. I do love you, Alastair, but I don’t know if I can become a woman who could share her life with you. I don’t even know if I can succeed in mothering my own son!’
Compelled by a distress she didn’t seem able to control, she jumped up again and began pacing.
What was wrong with her? Alastair had just affirmed what she would have given her life to hear eight years ago—that he’d forgiven her betrayal and loved her still. That he wanted to help her heal. That he wanted her as his lover—his wife.
Why could she not accept that offer with joy, and move on to a future with him?
It made no sense. But with her whole body trembling in anxiety, her thoughts in turmoil, all she knew was that she couldn’t.
She looked back to see him watching her, his expression unreadable, his hands rigidly at his sides, as if he had to fight with himself to keep them there.
Foolish tears stung her eyes again. ‘I’m sorry, Alastair. I don’t mean to hurt you, and I’m grateful—’
‘Sweet Diana, don’t apologise,’ he interrupted. ‘You’ve lived through eight years of torment, had your child and your very life threatened, and have only just learned you can in safety move forward. How could you not need time to let the upheaval settle before you can decide what you want to do with your life?’
Another tear escaped. ‘Thank you...for understanding.’
‘Shall I tell you what I suggest? Just a suggestion, of course. You shall do whatever you feel is right.’
That sounded less threatening. The pressure in her chest easing a bit, she said, ‘Very well. What do you suggest?’
‘The late Duke’s will stipulates you are to receive as a widow’s portion the incomes and rents from four of Graveston’s most prosperous properties, the land itself to be owned in trust for your son until he reaches his majority. The estates are located on good land and should earn you a comfortable income. There happens to be a small property in this county, not too far from Barton Abbey, that the absentee owner is interested in selling. The property, Winston Hollow, is close enough for Mother to call on you. She’s grown quite fond of that son of yours, and would hate to give him up. I suggest that you settle at Winston Hollow, plant a garden, paint, enjoy running a household again, as you did for your father. Take time to find yourself.’
A place of her own, staffed with servants of her own choosing. A place to rediscover who she was, to purge the mistrust, the grief, the regret of the past and build the courage to believe in a future.
She’d battled against a strong-willed master for as long as she could remember, existed under the scrutiny of his watchful, disapproving staff. Never in her life had she lived both alone and free. The prospect was both liberating...and alarming.
‘Will you...call, too?’
‘If you want me to. I spend most of my time at Barton Abbey; Mama is a good manager and Hutchens knows his job and the land, but an estate this size requires a lot of work, and I don’t like to burden her. Call on me whenever you want advice or company.’
Alastair—close, but not pressing her to do anything or be anyone. The tension within her dissipated a bit further. ‘I think I would like that.’
