Magdalene smiled at all the memories that suddenly flooded her of her dear Charles over the years. “Endearing doesn’t even begin to define him. If you ever wanted a star, he will not only draw it for you, but he will ensure that the ceiling is removed so you might never be wanting of a star again.”
A muffled laugh escaped the young woman as she continued pinching and playing with the fabric of her gown, watching her own fingers. “I suppose a part of me wants to believe that our moments spent together were real, is all.”
Magdalene leaned in, searching that pretty face, and tapped her cheek. “Then I would venture to say, yes. Yes, they were real. No one knows him more than I. He is ever loving, he is ever protective and above all, he is ever genuine.”
Much like…Thornton.
Magdalene swallowed and lowered her hand, knowing she had openly rejected him with a smack similar to the ones she had received throughout the years. It was unforgivable. Especially when all she had ever wanted to do, if she were honest with herself, was love him for everything he was in the best way she could. But the old way wasn’t best anymore, was it? He and she were well beyond that best.
Miss Vance glanced toward Magdalene, tears welling within those large eyes. “What am I to do? Given that I am with child?”
This was a wedding waiting to happen.
Everyone in her circle was going to hang the last of her, that much she knew. But after the supposedly respectable marriage she had endured, they could all hang themselves. At worst, there was always Germany or France. “I ask that you wait downstairs in the servants’ quarters, Miss Vance,” she eventually offered, gesturing toward the corridor behind them. “I would like to speak to my son. Rest assured, you and he will be settling this on your own. It
will be whatever you both decide, though I genuinely hope your love for him and his love for you will prevail. Especially with there being a child. My grandchild.”
Miss Vance blinked.
“Now go,” Magdalene prodded, hoping the girl didn’t start blubbing on her, lest she make her blub knowing she was going to be a forty-year-old grandmother.
“Thank you, my lady. Thank you for being so… Thank you.” Miss Vance nodded in what appeared to be a half daze and hurried past, disappearing around the corner, her skirts dancing about her slippered feet. Those quick, eager feet thudded down, down the corridor until they faded, leaving Magdalene to realize that everyone’s path to a happily-ever-after wasn’t always the same. Nor could it ever be personified or defined by the realm of the ton.
Thank God.
There was something profoundly touching about that moment. It made her realize that facing life for what it was and opening one’s self to one’s true heart as opposed to one’s fear gave way to unexpected and beautiful things. It was a lesson she had needed to relearn.
It would seem her own stupid, stubborn fears had been as equally unfounded as her son’s, given Thornton’s unexpected admission of love for her. It hadn’t been mere lust or a fancy that had compelled him to kiss her. It had been love. It was a love she had yet to fully grasp and kiss and cradle. Because Thornton, her dear beloved Thornton, deserved more of a chance than she’d been willing to give him. The man had already won her heart long ago. He just didn’t know she’d been squirreling it away, burying it should everything go to hell, as she was accustomed to. In truth…she now knew there were worse things than hell.
Such as living without Thornton for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER FOUR
BLOWING OUT A RAGGED breath in an effort to remain focused, Mark strode out onto the eerie, lonely stillness of the verandah, long emptied of the crowds that had earlier swarmed in frenzy. Moonlight blanketed the sweeping stone stairwell leading out into the shadows of the provincial garden.
He paused. There, sitting on the stairs, was none other than Charles himself, his dark head resting on a forlorn hand. His leather-bound sketchbook had been tossed beside him, pages and pages ripped out, scenes of drawn London life rebelliously strewn everywhere.
And Mark thought he had problems.
He strode over and sat beside Charles. Setting his forearm on his knee, he eventually offered, “Know that I’m not going anywhere.”
Charles glanced toward him, those soulful dark eyes hauntingly reminding him of Magdalene. He looked away. Shifting against the stair they sat on, he fingered a graphite stick. “Ever since I could remember,” Charles confided, “I only ever wanted to sketch the goddamn moon and make it my own. Even knowing it could never fit on any page, let alone in my mind or my life. And now, because of it, this is my life. This. A mess beyond anything I can fix.”
Oh, to be young again and full of that much spirit to even bother with the moon. Sadly, Mark hadn’t made use of his youth all that well, either. He should have rebelled against his status more, and married a woman of his own choice, as opposed to a titled beauty who made his inherited estate look good. He had spent seven miserable years married to a duke’s daughter who, as it turned out, had fallen in love with another man of a lesser station, but whose parents had denied the union to insist upon him. And devil take them all, he hadn’t known about it until after the wedding.
Though he never doubted Anne’s loyalty, he sensed that secretly, she hated him and blamed him for the happiness her parents had denied her. Despite repeated attempts to connect with her, she always put him at a distance. Their conversations were one-sided, and the sex was at times awkward. She kept her eyes closed, more often than not, as if envisioning someone else. He simply couldn’t compete with a love she had already given to another and eventually…he just stopped trying. The only good to have come of the union were his three girls. He’d been monstrously bitter about Anne and women and his lot until…Magdalene. Damn her.
Both he and Charles sat in grudging silence.
Mark knew better than to say anything or push the boy into saying more. Charles didn’t like being rushed into talking. In that way, they were alike.
Charles puffed out a breath. “Are women really as complicated as they seem?”
Mark muttered, “Yes. They like to think we are the only ones complicating everything, but in truth, it is an infinite circle of mutual offenses. Sadly, no one ever wins until both sides admit defeat. Which is rare.”
Charles rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “This is where I will admit that I did something rather…fatuus.”
Charles and his Latin. “English, please.”