Page 68 of The Duke and the Wrong Bride

As much as Charlotte hated the idea of leaving Henry’s side, she found herself rolling out of his arms and moving toward the window. The sound of singing grew louder the closer she got, and by the time she stuck her head outside, seeing who it was exactly, able to hear it clearly now, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was still dreaming.

It was her father. Standing by the front door. A bouquet of colorful flowers in one hand. Head thrown back and chest puffed out. He sang loudly and clearly and, most of all, passionately. No shame whatsoever, it was very much as if his life depended on it.

“I don’t believe it,” Charlotte gasped.

“Who is it?” Henry asked, sitting up.

“I think you better see for yourself…”

Henry frowned curiously as he slowly climbed out of bed and wandered to the window. As he did, Charlotte went back to watching her father, who was really getting into it by now. She realized, too, that the song he was singing—one she did not know—was in French, a ballad by the sounds of it, no need to guess who it was for.

“Has he lost his mind?” Henry queried.

“Love will make a man do crazy things,” Charlotte said, side-eyeing her husband, who furrowed his brow at the comment.

And it was for love, too. There was no doubt about that. When Charlotte’s mother said that she loved her husband, it was spoken as a fact. And while one might have wondered if the sentiment was returned, now there could be no doubt.

A few seconds later, Charlotte saw the front door open as her mother finally stepped outside. She stood on the top step, leaning back and clutching her chest as if struck. It was hard to make out her face from where Charlotte was watching, but there was no doubt she was both surprised and taken by the gesture.

For a moment, Charlotte thought that her mother was scowling in contempt, not at all appreciating the gesture, but then she looked closer and realized she was crying.

“Letitia!” her father cried, opening his arms wide. “I’ve been an old fool! An ignoramus of the highest order! Will you please come back to me?”

“And what else?” her mother pressed through sniffs.

“I’ve already spoken to Lord Malbourne. The betrothal is canceled—I don’t care about that! It’s you I care for, Letitia. You and you only! If Beatrice doesn’t want to marry him, if you don’t want it, that’s good enough for me!” He swept toward her, stopping at the bottom of the steps, dropping to one knee, and holding the bouquet of flowers to her. “Please come back to me! Every morning that I wake without you by my side, I feel my heart break as if smashed by a hammer! I love you, Letitia. I only regret it took me this long to tell you so.”

Charlotte watched her mother intently, wondering how long it would take for her to?—

Her mother swept down the stairs and threw herself at her husband. It was never in doubt, it seemed. That was all she had wanted. The apology. The admission that he was wrong. And, of course, the confession of love. Her father was up, lifting her mother in the air before pulling her to him, kisses and hugs and mutterings in her ear that were for them only.

It was as sweet a sight as Charlotte had ever seen, and as she watched the display, she dared to rest her hand on top of Henry’s, for he was standing right beside her, leaning out the window. He didn’t flinch at her touch, accepting it as a most natural thing. A smile also, possibly at her hand on his, maybe at the sight they were both witnessing. Not that it mattered, for the result was the same.

“It looks like we might have the place to ourselves again very soon,” Henry said.

“Looks like it,” Charlotte agreed with a smile of her own. “And just when I was starting to get used to having her here.”

Henry snorted. “I love your mother, but a few more days of her about, and I think I might have lost my mind.”

Charlotte frowned and looked at Henry. “And here I was, thinking that you lost your mind last night. At least it felt that way with how you treated me.”

His eyes flashed at her, and his grin was wicked. “That? That was nothing. And now that we’ll be on our own…”

She gave his hand a squeeze and then kissed the back of it—a slight flush in her cheeks, but one she wanted him to see. “I cannot wait to see.”

“As you wish.” He winked.

ChapterTwenty-Two

Charlotte was in the garden, reading, when Henry found her.

Perched under a tree to protect her skin from the summer sun, sitting on a blanket for comfort, her back against the trunk, with her book resting on her folded knees, she was so engrossed in her book that she didn’t even see Henry coming until he called for her.

“There you are!”

She looked up, smiling at the sight of her husband striding down the stone-laid path right for her. His smile matched the one she wore, and the way he hurried when she spotted him had her heart skipping a beat. But that was the normal way of things by now.

They truly had turned a corner in their relationship. More than companionable. More than antagonistic. They liked one another is what this marriage had developed into. Able to sit together and talk for hours without arguing, willing to be kind and thoughtful in conversation only to then turn it into a moment of romantic passion because they didn’t need that spark to create fire anymore, she was beginning to see another side to Henry that had previously been hidden. One that she was very much growing to love.

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