The duke, contrasting with his earlier sternness, seemed to waiver, a hint of regret reaching his eyes.
“Julian, I want you to produce an heir, but I want you to find happiness, as well.” he said. “Your mother would want that for you, too. You will not find that by wallowing in your sorrow alone for the rest of your life.”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Julian looked away from his father.
“Happiness cannot be forced, Father,” he said. “And who’s to say that happiness exists only in marriage and conforming to societal expectations?”
With those words, Julian rose. His mind was reeling and his heart was racing, but his expression remained cold and stern. He let the study door slam behind him, pretending not to hear his father call after him. He was in shock. How could his father think that the solution to anything was forcing him into marriage? And why would he not give Julian, as a full-grown man, any say in what happened with his future?
The portrait room beckoned him like an old friend, promising solace from the brewing anger and frustration bubbling within Julian. His father had caught him completely off guard, and Julian couldn’t pick one single thought from the turmoil that was his mind in that moment. Pushing open the door, Julian stepped into a room bathed in the soft light of the setting sun. The walls were lined with portraits of ancestors, each face telling a silent story. But it was one particular portrait that always drew him in—a painting of a younger Julian, his face innocent and hopeful, standing beside his mother. Her eyes sparkled with joy and love, and there was a smile forever painted on her lips.
He approached the portrait, a sad smile touching his own lips.
“Oh, Mother,” he whispered, his voice catching. “I wish you were here. You always knew how to help me make sense of the world.”
Losing himself in the depth of his mother’s picture, memories once again flooded him. The sound of her laughter, the touch of her hand, and the endless words of wisdom she bestowed upon him resonated in his mind as clearly as if he had just experienced them that morning. He remembered how she used to tell him that true love was worth waiting for, and how she wanted him to find a wife that he adored, and who adored him just as equally in return.
His thoughts turned to Clara, the girl with chestnut curls and the innocence in her eyes. She had been a constant in his life, their families intertwining in various events and gatherings since childhood. He recalled their playful squabbles, his constant teasing her, and their shared adventures on the grounds of both Thornmire Manor and Berrington Estate. Over the years, Clara had blossomed into a young lady typical of the ton.
Yet, for Julian, their friendship had dissipated during the years since his mother died. He hadn’t even seen her in years, so he didn’t even know how she looked now. Whether he had pushed her away, or she had distanced herself from his brooding, he wasn’t sure. But the fact remained that he didn’t know her anymore. The thought of marriage felt almost sacrilegious, especially since his mother would not be there to witness the union. He harbored no illusions of passion or deep-seated romantic desires for Clara. And he was sure that she had to feel the same way.
“Why would Father do this?” he asked, addressing the portrait of his mother.
But the silent image of his mother offered no answers, only a reminder of a life lost too soon.
Julian sank into a plush chair, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. He could never do what his father was expecting of him. But he also didn’t have the emotional strength to fight with the duke. His father thought he was doing what was best for Julian. But how could Julian ever convey that his father was pushing him further into the darkness that had ruled his life since his mother died?
Chapter Three
In the days following the earl’s proclamation that Clara was to wed Julian, Berrington Estate felt like a prison to Clara. She felt like she no longer belonged within the walls of the place she once happily called home. The house, which had once served as sanctuary for Clara and represented everything she understood about family, now felt imposing and claustrophobic. She didn’t even feel secure in her own chambers, as her mother frequently disturbed her brooding as she tried to process what her father was expecting of her.
When Barbara, Clara’s lady’s maid, came to help her dress three days after receiving the news of her unexpected betrothal, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring blankly out the window. She offered the maid a small smile, which Barbara returned as she greeted her mistress with a curtsey.
“Good morning, milady,” she said. “Have you thought of what you’d like to wear today?”
Clara shook her head, biting back the thought that she would prefer to wear her blanket around her again as she laid in bed all day.
“No,” she said. “Anything you select will be fine.”
Barbara went to her wardrobe, fetching a festively green, long-sleeved dress and a deep green shawl. She brought them to Clara for her approval, and she had to tear her gaze from the window yet again.
“That will suffice,” she said.
Barbara frowned.
“Forgive me if I’m being too bold, but this is usually the happiest time of year for you, milady,” she said. “What’s troubling you?”
Clara sighed, forcing herself off the bed to move behind the dressing partition on the other side of her room.
“Father has chosen a husband for me, it seems,” she said.
Barbara gave her a sympathetic look, her gray eyes warm and kind and her round cheeks, framed by black locks of stray hair, flushing.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I know that finding a real, true love has always been important to you. Will you accept the arrangement?”
Clara looked at her lady’s maid with a heavy heart.
“I don’t have much of a choice,” she said. “Having had two failed seasons, I must comply with Father’s wishes.”
