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Chapter Thirty-Six
Charles had only just finished eating a late breakfast, when heard the knock on the front door. He remained where he was, reading the newspaper. He heard Mrs. Osbourne, talking to whomever it was.
Charles was tired. He’d been up until late. After arriving home from Lord and Lady Danstall’s, he’d stayed up, drinking brandy and staring into the fire. He had come to terms with the reality of his situation. He was going to love Arabella from afar.
It was certainly better than his father’s lot in life. But that was Charles’s burden to bear. To be in love with someone who loved him back, though they could never be together.
At least not in this life.
“Mr. Conolly,” Mrs. Osbourne said, peering inside of the dining room. She was wringing her apron in her hands nervously.
“Yes, Mrs. Osbourne?” he asked, looking up from the newspaper.
“The Duke of Tiverwell has arrived for you,” she said.
Who?
The Duke of Tiverwell had never been in his home. He had sent him word there, but usually met with him at the office. He wondered what the matter could be. He wondered if he was still angry, from the night before.
“I showed him into the parlor,” Mrs. Osbourne said.
“You did right,” Charles assured her.
“I hope he thinks it clean,” she said, as she wrung her hands nervously.
“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Charles assured her. “You keep it looking very nice. There’s never a thing out of order.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Sir,” she said. “Shall I fetch some tea?”
“Let me see what business he’s come here on,” Charles said. “How about you sit down and have a cup?” She smiled, then bustled off into the kitchen. Charles knew that she’d have tea prepared, on the off chance that the Duke wanted any.
Charles entered his own parlor, to find the Duke, looking about it. He was standing in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, as he looked at the clock over the mantel.
“Your Grace,” Charles said, bowing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Have a seat, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said. Charles, unused to being ordered about in his own home, did as he was told. The Duke didn’t sound angry. Charles found himself curious more than he was offended.
“I have come here on behalf of my daughter,” the Duke said. “And to apologize.”
“For what?” Charles asked, surprised. The gentlemen of the ton never apologized. He couldn’t recall a time when it had ever happened. Lord Dunsmore apologized, although he rarely acted like any other gentleman of Charles’s acquaintance.
“I won’t allow my own mistake to stand in your way,” His Grace said. “I have come to tell you that I give my permission for you to marry my daughter.”
Charles was silent as he processed what he was hearing. He swallowed, his heart pounding. He didn’t know whether to be happy or shocked. He could scarcely believe his own ears. “Why have you changed your mind, Your Grace?”
“Last night, I saw the two of you, dancing. I saw how you both looked at each other—with such love. I have seen much, and I know what true love looks like. Watching the two of you part was unbearable, even for me.”
“I appreciate it, Your Grace,” he said.
“I believe that you will keep her comfortable, here,” he went on, letting his eyes travel about the room. “As for the rest, I will give you money.”
“No need,” Charles replied, out of reflex more than anything.
“Let me do what I can,” the Duke said. “Don’t be so proud, Mr. Conolly. You’ll need to have the stables out back fitted up, so that you can keep her horses.”
“We’ll discuss it with Lady Arabella,” Charles said, wondering when the Duke had seen the stables in the back of his home.
“Indeed, I suppose after this, we can never have another conversation without her,” the Duke commented.
