Page 24 of A Wicked Duke's Redemption
“Was she excited?” he asked.
“Surprised, Your Grace,” McCarthy replied.
That was to be expected. Leo sighed, and McCarthy fixed him with an unreadable expression. “I am hoping for too much from her,” Leo said. “I know.”
“I was not thinking that, Your Grace.”
Leo suspected that was a lie, though. They reached the house, and Leo cleared his throat. “Where are you staying?”
“The Holly and the Ivy,” McCarthy replied.
That was one of two inns in the village. “You are welcome to stay at Groveswood if you prefer,” Leo said. “Or if the inn is to your liking, send me your bill for staying there. I will pay for your accommodations.”
“That is kind of you, Your Grace. Thank you,” McCarthy said. “I do think I will remain at the inn for the time being. It is a quaint little place, and besides, I would not wish to impose on your generosity.”
Leo inclined his head. “You would not be an imposition,” he said. “Nevertheless, you are welcome to do whatever suits you best.”
“Thank you.”
There was another awkward moment.
“Enjoy your day,” Leo said.
He and the solicitor parted ways, and Leo entered the house alone. For a long moment, he simply stood and stared at the lavish furnishings. He steeled himself and walked past his study, down the seldom-visited corridor. During their marriage, Lydia had her own set of rooms, and Leo had not visited them since her death. He paused outside the morning room, where Lydia had answered her correspondence.
When Leo closed his eyes, he could almost remember precisely how she had looked, her silhouette dark against the light of morning streaming through the windows. He remembered the delicate way she held her pen and the way she had written in that fine, looping hand.
These would be Violet’s rooms if she wed him, unless he asked her to spend her time elsewhere. That seemed a little untoward, though. He could not keep Violet from all the rooms in the house. Leo gently opened the door to the morning room. It looked the same as it had before Lydia’s death due to the diligence of his staff. A lump rose in Leo’s throat, threatening to choke him. He swallowed hard. “Lydia,” he murmured.
Leo hesitantly entered the room. There were even fresh flowers placed on the writing desk, despite it having not been used in years. Leo placed his hand on the desk and stared mournfully at it. Was he ready to accept another duchess into his life? He must be. Leo had already sent McCarthy to make the offer to Violet. He could not possibly retract it.
Leo trapped his fingers on the desk, thinking. Logically, there was no reason for him to worry about such things, not until he had learned whether or not Violet intended to accept his offer. Still, he could not help but think about what might happen if she accepted or refused.
“I ought to visit you more,” Leo said softly.
Lydia was buried in London, but she had always seemed to feel more welcome in Essex. Besides, this room was where Leo felt her presence the most strongly. This was where Lydia had left her mark on the house, in this room which she had furnished and where she had spent most of her time.
“I suppose it just hurts still,” Leo said. He drew out the chair and seated himself in it. The desk was a little shorter than his own, more suited to her height than his. “I wish that it did not, but I also…I never want to forget you, my Lady. Ever.”
He fixed his gaze on the gardens outside the window. They were dotted with pink and purple foxgloves, which was Lydia’s favorite flower. There was a story she had recounted to him once. She claimed that foxgloves were so named because foxes would take the flowers and wear them on their feet to soften their steps, so hunters could not find them. It was a little children’s tale, but Lydia had found it so utterly charming. Leo remembered laughing.
When she died, Lydia had planned to make a book collecting all the folklore and stories from the villages in Essex. Although Leo had not shared her passion, he remembered the way that her eyes would shine when she talked about it. Perhaps that was why Violet intrigued him. He did not love her, but that spark of passion for literature reminded him just a little of Lydia.
“She will never replace you,” Leo said. “No one can. I know that you might—that you would want me to be happy, and I am. Sometimes.”
Leo bit the inside of his cheek. He felt as if he might be lying a little, but it was expected that a grieving man would not be happy.
“I think you would like her, though. Violet,” Leo continued. “I do not know if she will agree to wed me, but…I think the two of you would have gotten along.”
Everyone had loved Lydia, after all. She had no enemies. Like Violet, she had enjoyed her books, too.
“Anyway,” Leo said. “I suppose a visit here is long past due. I am sorry for that.”
Leo slowly stood, smiling gently. The last time he had seen Lydia at her desk, she had been laughing with Lady Priscilla over some small shred of gossip. Leo remembered standing in the doorway, happy. That felt like an eternity in the past, and with Lydia gone, perhaps contentment was as close as he would come to happiness.
Chapter 12
The poets of old had always seemed to understand themselves better after spending some time in nature. As Violet sat beneath the sprawling oak tree, colored in the reds and golds of autumn, she wondered if the same would be true of her. Then again, most of the renowned poets were men. Ladies were seldom afforded opportunities to write verse.
