Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"I just don't know what to do. Do you think I ought to send flowers or not?" Richard looked hopefully to his footman for the answer.

His poor footman, though, looked uncomfortable with such a forthright and personal question. "Only you can answer that, Your Grace," he replied tactfully.

Richard sighed and returned his attention to the array of lilies at the market's flower stand, the cool night's air blowing the stems this way and that. He'd sent Celestina a bouquet of flowers with a note of sympathy when her parents had died four months earlier, expressing his condolences. He'd liked the Thorpes.

But he'd never received a response then, and besides, his feelings for her husband were quite different. He sighed, his indecision toying with him.

"Yes, but what would you do if you were in my situation?" he tried again.

The footman shifted from foot to foot. "I can't imagine I'd ever be in such a situation, Your Grace. It's hard to say."

"No." Richard pursed his lips unhappily. "I don't suppose you would."

He wasn't always quite so indecisive. Indeed, when he became Duke of Exeter quite by surprise, he'd learned very quickly how to make decisions. But this conundrum was entirely different. This was his past life butting with his present, and he hadn't quite worked out how to handle it.

At the age of one-and-thirty, Richard Kingsley was a sensitive man. He was kind and humble and fiercely protective of those he loved. It was true he was prone to the odd occasion of hot-temperedness, and he had to admit he tended to hold a grudge, but in general, he was strong, gentle, and resilient.

As soon as he discovered he had inherited his uncle's title and wealth, elevating him in society overnight, Richard had promised himself that he would be a thoughtful, considerate duke who took his role very seriously indeed. After all, so few people were given such chances. He would not allow himself to squander it.

"Maybe it was her husband who stopped her responding when I sent the note about her parents," Richard mused. The footman, for his part, remained perfectly still and silent, his back ramrod straight. "Or maybe he even intercepted the flowers in the first place." He huffed. "What on earth is one to do?"

He took off his top hat and with the same hand, scratched the top of his head. His raven black hair flopped over his forehead, and he shook it back before returning the hat to its rightful place. He pursed his lips again, his grey eyes boring into the flowers as if they might give him an answer if he asked politely enough.

"It's just such a dilemma," he said, turning to the footman.

"It is, indeed, Your Grace." The footman didn't even crack a smile, the very picture of seriousness.

"The thing is," Richard continued, feeling as though he were rather talking to himself, "I never really liked David Courtenay, and we certainly weren't friends. Hearing about his sudden death when I returned to London was … uneventful. The only emotion it stirred in me was, I suppose, nostalgia and maybe a little sadness for my old friend."

The footman nodded again, and Richard sighed, returning his gaze to the flowers once more. What made it all the more confounding was that Richard knew Celestina's husband wanted him to stay away from her. Perhaps even after the man's death, he had a duty to respect his wishes. After all, Celestina was still his wife, was she not?

Widow , he reminded himself. There was a stark difference. He blinked in surprise at his own thought. Was that a drop of hope? he wondered, but he quickly shook his head. Of course, it wasn't. He'd been over all that for years now.

Haven't I?

"Can I get you anything, Sir?" a young lad said from behind the plumes of colour. He couldn't have been more than ten years old, and his face was grubby from field work. Richard wondered idly where the boy's father was, but then he didn't suppose it mattered. That was the lot of the poor, and at least the boy looked like he'd been fed well enough.

"Do you think I ought to send flowers to an old friend who has recently lost her husband?" he asked. "Is that appropriate, do you think? Or would it be better not to mark the occasion?"

The boy stared back at him wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open to display several rotten teeth.

"Er …" he said, looking as though he hadn't understood a single word.

Richard shook his head, realizing his mistake. "Never mind," he said. "I'll take the lilies, thank you."

If nothing else, they would look pretty in the entrance hall to Exeter House. Richard paid the boy in small coins, took the bouquet, and handed it immediately to the footman. He turned and walked away without another word, too lost in his thoughts to do much else.

He often thought fondly of Celestina, especially in the darkness of night, when memories tend to haunt one's thoughts. They'd been so very close as children. Indeed, he'd believed they would remain so forever. It had taken him a long time to recover from the heartbreak he experienced when she married another.

Even at a young age, Richard had harboured a secret desire—indeed, a secret expectation—that the pair would become husband and wife. When she married David, well … Richard almost fell apart entirely. He'd had to go away for a while to recover.

His shoes clipped loudly on the cobbles as he marched across them, his cane tap-tapping on the floor in time to his steps. Around him, the world seemed in such a hurry, people dashing this way and that as they went about their business, but Richard found his every thought going inwards. The world, normally so fascinating, held no appeal for him that day. Neither did the present.

How desperately he had wanted to stop the wedding. He'd even spoken to his father about it, but his father had strictly forbidden it. Of course, he'd never told Celestina about his feelings, so he could never blame her. But in the eight years since she married David, Richard often wondered what would have happened if he had put his hat into the ring, as they say.

Now, of course, he was completely over the entire thing. Fully healed. He no longer mourned the loss of their friendship as he had done for so many years. But had he known what he knew now at the age of three and twenty, he would have disobeyed his father completely.

Then, Richard had been a young man unsure of himself, whereas David Courtenay had been well-established. He'd had connections and wealth. For all intents and purposes, he was the better—more logical—option for Celestina. There was, plainly speaking, no competition.

"But I'm no longer an uncertain young man. And David is dead."

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace?" the footman asked.

"Mm?" Richard blinked in his direction, the world forming once more around him.

"You said something," the footman replied.

Richard smiled and shook his head. "Thinking out loud. Nothing more."

The pair continued walking through the streets, Richard strolling in his thoughts, the footman hidden behind the huge bouquet of lilies.

Richard had heard, too, that since David's death, Celestina had experienced financial difficulties. It made no sense, of course. Everyone knew what a wonderful businessman David had been. He had a name for sniffing out good deals and negotiating like a master. But then, Richard supposed one never knew the truth of other people's lives. Gossip and conjecture were just that—and neither had a reputation for truth.

"I would like to help her, you know," he said, glancing at the footman.

"Of course, Your Grace," he replied.

"For old times' sake, naturally. For no other purpose whatsoever."

"I cannot think what other purpose there may be, Your Grace," the footman said.

They reached the carriage. The footman laid the bouquet onto the front seat next to the coachman, and then he opened the door for Richard. Richard, who had been standing and waiting for his invitation to enter, even though it was his own carriage, took hold of the bar and pulled himself up the steps.

He settled himself onto the red velvet seating. The sun poured in through the windows and glinted against the ormolu detailing. This had been one of the biggest extravagances he'd purchased when he first received his wealth.

It was the very definition of opulence, and now he could see it for what it was—an unnecessary splurge of expenses. That didn't mean it didn't make him smile every time he entered it, of course, but since then he'd been much more prudent with his finances.

"Unlike David Courtenay, it seems," he muttered. He rested an elbow on the door, then rested his chin in his hand.

Would Celestina take offence if he offered her financial assistance? He didn't know. It had been some years since they'd been in contact. But she'd always been proud, even when she was a slip of a girl, and he suspected she always would be. He smiled, remembering how she chastised him for his mockery and teasing.

He knew her so well. He probably knew her better than even David ever did. The Thorpes had been pleasant people, but they'd always kept Celestina on a tight rein. He knew, even then, that her marriage to David was their doing, and he knew now that David kept her similarly bound. If he knew Celestina, he knew she would never have shown him her true self.

She would have remained sweet and kind, as always. But she would have closely guarded the secret truth of her being. That fiery nature that bubbled just beneath the surface. Her will and determination. The way she would survive anything thrown at her. She kept those secrets for herself.

"And, once upon a time," he muttered, "for me."

How wonderful that time had been. How free. He liked his life now. There was certainly nothing wrong with it. But when he thought of Celestina and their gentle history, he couldn't stop himself from smiling. It was that, ultimately, which made his decision for him. The memory of the smiles. He turned to the footman.

"I think it's probably best if I deliver the lilies in person. We'll go after the morning's business tomorrow."