Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"I think a yellow or pale pink gown would be lovely for the day of the wedding," Josephine's mother gushed, her head down as she pored over the fabric swatches that the duke's butler had given her.

Josephine fought to keep from wrinkling her nose, quickly smoothing her expression and feigning interest as her mother looked excitedly up at her.

"Perhaps not," the duke murmured, drawing her mother's attention to him despite how his eyes were still firmly upon Josephine.

A small, fond smile played about the corners of his lips, his green eyes dancing in a way that let her know that he had caught her disapproval even as quick as she'd been to try and hide it. "What other colours did the seamstress send over?"

Josephine's mother looked disappointed, but not overly so, as she looked back down at the swatches with a thoughtful frown. She wasn't going to argue with the duke about colours, but it was just as clear that none of the other colours caught her fancy quite so well, either.

"Well, there's a blue here," she murmured, holding it up as she flipped through what remained. "Green, a darker blush colour–"

But Josephine had stopped listening as soon as she'd held up the blue swatch. It was pretty and light, almost periwinkle in colour.

"The blue matches her eyes," the duke pointed out, stopping all conversation entirely as her mother held up the fabric closer to Josephine's face in surprise.

"It does!" her father exclaimed with a chuckle.

Her parents quickly fell to teasing one another about missing such a thing, but Josephine only had eyes for her husband to be.

The blue matches her eyes.

How quick he'd been to notice something she had not even realized. And they were her eyes. Did it mean something? Was she simply being silly and looking for crumbs where none existed?

"Josie, maybe we ought to–"

But whatever they ought to consider was forgotten as the sitting room door slammed open, the sound of angry, rushed voices preceding a tall figure bursting into the merriment with a cloud of violence gathered around him like a cloak.

"Lord Brisby!" Harbuttle admonished as he followed into the room on the tall man's heels.

"You!" The man, Lord Brisby, yelled with one finger pointed out accusingly in front of him at the duke. He was a tall man, though not quite as tall as the duke, but in his rage, seemed to tower even further. His brown eyes were coals of righteous indignation, and his thick brows lowered as he stormed further into the room. "How dare you!"

Josephine's mother and father had fallen silent in the wake of the interruption, their eyes cutting first to one another and then to Josephine worriedly as their host rose unhurriedly to his feet.

"Me?" Henry repeated silkily. "It is not I, dear brother-in-law, who have forced myself uninvited into your home."

Lord Brisby sputtered, his dark eyes flashing as he took another two angry strides forward. "Not today, no! Did you think that my wife would not tell me? That she would take your sin to her grave?"

Brisby … As if lightning had struck her, Josephine suddenly remembered why that name sounded so familiar. Henry's sister-in-law's pinched, furious features and all her angry tirade over their engagement flashed in her mind's eye as her husband advanced with even more passion.

"I've borne no sin against either of you," Henry bit out sharply, stepping in front of Josephine and her parents as Lord Brisby advanced. "If you are referring to my visit to your home the other day–"

"Of course I am referring to that day!" Lord Brisby shouted, cutting the duke off once more. "Is there another day you called upon my wife in private to treat her so roughly?! Another day that you forced yourself upon her?!"

Twin gasps were pulled from Josephine's parents, horror filling both similar sounds, but Josephine couldn't tear her eyes from the scene in front of her.

Force?

She would have doubted that he had engaged in such an act even if his sister-in-law had been willing after their talk – at all, given how desperately he still loved his late wife. But to hear him accused of forcing himself upon her? She couldn't believe it even half-possible.

"I did no such thing," the duke snapped. "Have you taken leave of your senses as well as your decorum?"

Lord Brisby's already heightened colour deepened, his lips thinning out as he stopped mid-step with the first sign of hesitation since he'd burst through the door.

"Are you accusing my wife of willingly taking you to her bed?" he asked carefully, his eyes narrowing as if daring Henry to say yes.

But Henry only snorted.

"Willingly or unwillingly makes no difference as I have never been in her bed. Or with her in any such fashion outside of what would be considered appropriate, no matter how she tried to urge me to consider otherwise." His words were sharp and caustic each one spat as if he despised having to do so.

And Lord Brisby seemed to deflate just hearing that much.

"I demand an explanation," he muttered. But even that was lacklustre in the face of what he had arrived spewing. There was something in his eyes, a long-weary resignation that spoke to the fact that he already believed the duke.

"That makes two of us," Josephine's father muttered, his eyes narrowed in a glare that seemed ill-fitting for his face as he looked worriedly between both men.

The already sour pit in the centre of Josephine's belly seemed to expand, her nails biting into her palms as she watched Henry run a hand frustratedly over his face.

"I had hoped to leave things as they were," he started, his words halting as he seemed to search for what to say next. "The other night is not the first time she has suggested similar." He paused there, his sigh heavy. "Nor the second."

"Are you saying she proposed such a thing, Your Grace?"

Henry winced, his lips twisting sourly as he nodded.

"The first time was at Martha's grave. It was only a mention there. A comment on how she would want me to be happy and move on, that I could do so with her. I attributed it to her grief, to the magnitude of the day." He broke Lord Brisby's gaze, his eyes darting to Josephine with a slightly apologetic glint. "And then she approached my fiance here at the seamstress."

Lord Brisby's eyes swung to Josephine as the duke indicated her, and she felt her stomach tighten responsively.

"She did, sir." She didn't know why she was talking. No one had asked her to. Her mother's hand was a word of warning against her arm as she did, but the words just kept tumbling from her mouth regardless. "I did not know that she was your wife. I did not know her at all. But she came to warn me against marrying the duke. She even offered to pay me were I to call the engagement off."

"That is why I called upon her," Henry continued, quickly picking up as Josephine's words teetered off into nothingness. He drew all eyes back upon himself as he drew himself up, a look of disgust filling his features. "I had hoped that you would be present as well. I wanted to settle this matter once and for all. I never imagined that she would repeat the scandalous offer from that afternoon all those years ago. Nor did I expect her to try acting on it, but she did. She asked me to take her as my mistress. She offered to bear children for me."

Henry said it all so blandly, without any inflection outside the revulsion he'd been displaying the whole time. It was as gentle a blow as he could offer, his eyes steady on Lord Brisby despite the scandal that he outlined.

And, as he spoke, Lord Brisby seemed to wither even further.

His shoulders hunched in upon him, his frown growing as he looked down at his feet in shame.

"I knew that she harboured an unhealthy attachment to you," Lord Brisby muttered. "When you first started courting Martha, she railed against the injustice of it all. That you, a duke, would choose her when she was so lucky already. Martha was their father's favourite, did you know?"

He seemed to be talking half to himself, his words hurried and his inflection slipping as he grappled with the truth of things.

"When I met Catherine, she was so warm and lovely. She was social and happy … I never imagined that she would be anything but. But she was never satisfied, never happy. When their parents died, Martha told me that it had affected Catherine greatly, that she was having such difficulty because she and their father had never been able to reconcile. She told me to be patient with her." He laughed, but the sound was as mirthless as it was cold.

"I tried to be, you know. But when Martha married, she became even more distant and angry. I never imagined–" he cut off, grimacing as he lifted both hands to his face. He pushed his fingers into it, scrubbing them down his skin before sighing heavily. "You have my deepest apologies, Your Grace. If I had known that her discontent had slipped so – if I had paid better attention, maybe …"

Josephine tore her eyes from the grief-filled man in front of them to look at Henry, her heart hurting for all the parties involved. It was an odd feeling to account for alongside her own embarrassment. She didn't know which was more prevalent, her understanding or the feeling that she ought to be yelling at Lord Brisby for having believed such groundless accusations so easily.

Henry looked as if he'd been struck, his face slack as he stared at Lord Brisby, his eyes twin pools of disbelief and a begrudging understanding.

"You could pay better attention now," Henry suggested. He said it gently, the bite he could have used missing from his words. "I will not have her harassing my intended."

"I can only ask for your forgiveness and forbearance, Your Grace," Lord Brisby murmured, his eyes downcast. "Your mercy, even. I should not have barged into your home in the manner that I did. I should not have allowed things to get to this point at all."

Josephine felt for the man, his whole world in shambles at his feet the way it was, but she felt even more for Henry, his jaw ticking as he stared at him.

"You have all three," the duke whispered, his voice catching, and Josephine knew without knowing how he was thinking of his late wife. "Just … take Catherine away. Take her back to London so she cannot interfere anymore with the wedding or my future wife. Maybe the change in scenery will be good for her. I cannot imagine remaining will bring anyone anything but harm."

"I–" Lord Brisby's voice caught, his eyes swinging around the room as if there were a part of him that wished to contest the request, but he struggled only for a moment before swallowing thickly and nodding. "Of course, Your Grace. My deepest condolences … and congratulations," he tacked on as an afterthought as he gestured towards Josephine.

He bowed his head before anyone could think of a response, fumbling with something in his hands as he turned and hurried from the room even more quickly than he had come.

Harbuttle cast a long look at the duke before following him out, closing the door with a quiet ‘whick' behind them.

For several long moments, there was only the sound of breathing in the room; the inhabitants left reeling in the aftermath of the scene Lord Brisby had caused.

At least until Josephine's father cleared his throat.

Henry snapped back to attention, turning to face Josephine and her parents with a grimace.

"I apologize to the three of you. I had no idea … I understand if what just occurred gives you pause, but I assure you that I will endeavour to keep Lady Brisby from being any grievance. I promise you, as well, that I did nothing to encourage these attentions."

"The scandal any of this would cause is quite great," Josephine's father muttered, seemingly torn as he looked between the duke and his wife. "Were word to get out–"

"But it won't," Josephine interrupted quickly, her heart hammering in her chest at the sudden realization that her parents could still call the wedding off themselves.

She didn't know if the thought of them losing their safety net or never seeing Henry again scared her more. And that uncertainty was even more damning than anything else yet.

Josephine's father shot her a long, hard look, his moustache bristling as he glanced again at his wife and sighed.

"We trust you, Your Grace," he murmured graciously after a short pause. "I did not mean to imply anything else."

"You were just thinking of your daughter," Henry acknowledged, nodding as if it were to be expected. "I can perfectly understand how the accusations might give you pause, even hearing my defence of them. The charges levelled against me were no small matter."

He stopped, his gaze swinging from her parents to her and Josephine felt her breath catch in her chest from the sudden intensity in his glowing green eyes.

"Speaking of which, Lady Josephine, I believe I owe you my thanks for advocating for me as you did. You did not have to trust in me as much as you did nor vouch for my reputation. I am forever in your debt for doing so."

Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe?

It was as if the duke had stolen all the air in the room, gathering it up around him and leaving none for Josephine as she stared at him, her eyes caught and held by his gaze as warmth spread through her.

"It was my honour to defend my future husband," she murmured, at a loss for anything better to say.

But her words seemed to have sparked something in him, his gaze darkening as his eyes travelled her face.

There was nothing untoward about it, but Josephine felt as if they were under a microscope, her heart hammering and her cheeks heating at the thought that her parents were right there witnessing everything.

It was heated and emotional, two things that were more than enough to feel as if they should have been more private.

But … at the same time … there was another layer. Something strong and solid that felt as if it bound the two of them together. Maybe it was just their united front or the fact that she realized how much she really did trust him. Even with all the questions still before her, even with the mystery of his wife's death still looming like an ever-present shadow over the manor …

She trusted the duke.

And despite his great love for his late wife, it was clear that he felt something for her. What that something was, was the only question.

And if it was strong enough to withstand whatever darkness still awaited them.