Page 25 of A Wicked Duke's Arranged Marriage
Henry looked up, his emotions torn.
“You never remarried.”
And there it was. The guilt eating away at him, that proof of how unfaithful he really was just in front of him. Harbuttle had lived another fifteen years honouring his wife’s memory. And Henry hadn’t even been able to go five.
“I was already an old man,” Harbuttle returned evenly. “At two and sixty, who would I have married? Besides, I was not a duke.”
Henry snorted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass and glaring down into it.
“Duke or commoner, I think it makes very little difference when it comes to loyalty.”
Harbuttle took another sip, seemingly staring off into space for a moment.
“When you brought Lady Martha home, I was prepared to dislike her,” Harbuttle admitted randomly. “She was so very outgoing, so very friendly. I was sure that some of it must have been put on for our benefit.”
Henry blinked, surprised by the admittance.
“It wasn’t, I see.” Harbuttle chuckled. “We all fell in love with Her Grace. She was a force to be reckoned with. She was unfailingly kind.”
Henry nodded, his throat tight as he felt that edge of guilt press even deeper into his chest.
“She would have wanted you to find happiness,” Harbuttle said softly, echoing Catherine’s words in a way that startled Henry.
“I am getting married,” Henry blustered, his ears hot like he was a young boy caught stealing into the pantry after nightfall all over again.
“And Lady Josephine and her family seem to be of a very good sort,” Harbuttle said knowingly. “I think Her Grace would have liked her.”
Henry groaned.
He didn’t know if that made it better or worse.
Harbuttle stepped forward, empty glass in hand, and put his other hand heavily on Henry’s shoulder. He squeezed oncebefore stepping back and dismissing himself without another word.
Henry drank his second glass of whisky in one shot.
He wanted to forget such things.
He wanted to forget his impulses. He wanted to forget how Lady Josephine looked up at him, forget her wit and how well her jokes had landed. He wanted to forget the way that she had smelled.
Could he even remember what Martha smelled like?
He didn’t know. Juniper berries and … something.
Her face was like a shadowed mirror image in his mind, ripples reflecting over the glass as the shadows surrounded it.
She would have wanted you to find happiness.
But at what expense?
Forgetting her?
Henry scrubbed his hand down his face again.
Impulsively, he reached over to pour another glass of whisky, his throat tight.
She would have wanted you to find happiness.
But how could he when all his happiness had been wrapped up in her and her brown eyes?
