Chapter 19

Teague gave his mother’s hand a squeeze, noting her happy smile as she listened to each performance with pleasure. His mother adored music, and she had expressed her joy that so many pieces played that evening would be compositions by Irishmen. She seemed especially touched by Ivy’s selection.

As had he.

He bent forward slightly, looking down the row of chairs, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ivy to offer her another congratulatory smile. Yet he realized at once her chair sat empty. His eyebrows furrowed. He sat back again.

Where had she gone? Why hadn’t he seen her leave? He bent toward his mother. “Lady Ivy. She’s left the room.”

“Perhaps she needed to compose herself,” she whispered back, eyes focused forward. “The music touched her heart. Not every lady wishes to sit still after expelling such emotion. Step into the corridor. You will likely find her there, her heart all aflutter.” She gave him a warm smile. “She plays beautifully, son. One can tell she has a gentle soul. I think you chose well.”

He took his mother’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, thanking her in the Irish tongue. “Go raibh maith agat, Máthair.” He kissed her cheek, then rose and carefully wound his way through the chairs and out the room.

Stepping out of the music room, he immediately found Sterling at attention, another guard at the side of the door. Their gazes flicked to him, then away. Other than the two of them, the corridor was empty.

He raised his eyebrows at Sterling. “Lady Ivy?”

The guard posing as a footman tilted his head to the side, glancing at a door. “Through there, my lord.”

He grinned his thanks and went to the door, ready to praise his betrothed for her skill. The moment he opened the door, however, he caught sight of her standing with her back to him, her shoulders hunched, head bowed, body shaking with sobs.

The moment he understood what he saw, he approached. “Ivy, my darling.” He took her shoulders and turned her gently toward him. She lifted her face, her cheeks shining with tears and her eyes clouded with sorrow.

He guided her into his arms, her cheek against his chest, and held her as though he could offer shelter from the storm of her heart.

He should not hold her like this. Then again, he should not have kissed her. Should not have pulled her into the alcove to tease her. Their engagement had given him—had given both of them—more freedom. He justified being there through that reasoning. She needed him. He stood as her protector. Who else but he could hold her when she so clearly needed to be held?

She cried into his shoulder, a handkerchief pressed over half her face. He let her, running one hand gently up and down her back in what he hoped was a soothing motion. He murmured nonsense words to her, assurances that everything would be all right, that she could cry as much as she wished, half in English, half in Irish, until her shoulders ceased shaking, and her body shuddered with one last sobbed breath.

Then he finally dared ask, “What happened, a stór? How did you come to this after such a radiant, beautiful moment?”

Still leaning against him, she shook her head. “Does it matter?”

Carefully, he eased back from her, hands coming up to hold her forearms. He gazed down into her eyes, studying the sadness within them. “Everything about you, your life, your heart, matters. Especially to me.”

He didn’t know where the words had come from, though he knew they were true, spoken from the deepest recesses of his heart. They were not married. She was not his responsibility. But he wanted to be her protector, the one who soothed her. He did not want her to think, for even a moment, that she did not matter.

“Ivy. Tell me true. What has happened?”

She swallowed and lowered her gaze to the level of his cravat. “I disappointed my family. Fanny, and likely William. I didn’t behave how I ought to behave. The way a lady ought to behave.”

His fingers tightened slightly, and her head tipped up in response. “What do you mean, the way a lady ought to behave? Did I miss something? Did you turn a handspring after your performance? Or perhaps you tripped the next lady to go up? Or were you saying slanderous things about the duchess?”

She made a soft sound that could have been a laugh, but he suspected her throat remained closed from her tears. “Teague. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then you don’t be ridiculous,” he returned with a gentle smile. “I cannot imagine for a moment you did a single thing that one could call unladylike.”

Her head shook in denial. “I was too emotional as I played. The piece wasn’t the right choice.”

“I have never been so moved as I was, watching you.” He touched her cheek, inwardly upset it was a gloved finger that skimmed along her jaw. “You brought tears to my mother’s eyes. We thought it beautiful.”

Her cheeks regained some color, and uncertainty replaced her sorrow. “Fanny said it was shameful, the way I played.”

“Fanny is a miserly woman and ought to be ashamed she hurt you,” he said immediately, without a touch of respect. “If kindness were coin, she’d be a pauper. How dare she say a word against you?”

“She is my brother’s wife?—”

“Then how dare he allow it?” he countered, more heat in his voice, though he tried to temper himself for her sake. “The more I learn of this woman, the less patience I have for her. She has done her best to chip away at the most beautiful parts of your soul to shape you into some cold, helpless creature meant for display rather than the joys of life. Do not let her do it anymore, Ivy.”

She stepped back from him, lowering her gaze. “William and Fanny have done so much for me. You do not understand all the sacrifices they have made. All the things put up with after my father died. They’ve done their duty by me and by my sisters. They have done so much for me.”

“That may be true. But have they loved you enough, Ivy?”

Her eyes raisedto his in surprise as his question seemed to hit her like a slap. No—like a revelation. A shocking one. She had never asked herself that question. It hadn’t seemed relevant, given all the things she owed her brother and sister-in-law. Fanny was always going on about how important it was to show her gratitude.

“I suppose they have loved me—and Betony and Juniper—in their own way.”

His gaze turned far too serious. “But was it enough? Was it what you needed?” He leaned closer, both his hands coming to take up one of hers. “Did you feel loved and cherished?”

It was a strange question for him to ask, perhaps, given he had offered for her without loving her himself. Ivy didn’t let herself dwell on that. Instead, she focused on his words. On what he was really asking.

They had treated her with fondness, at times. Most often, though, she had felt tolerated until she did something out of step with William or Fanny’s expectation. Then she had mostly felt like an annoyance.

Her eyes pricked with the threat of more tears. She looked up at Teague with shock. “No. I suppose I did not.”

“I thought as much,” he said as his expression softened, the usual teasing glint in his eyes nowhere to be seen. Instead, he seemed lit from within by a profound gentleness that made her heart twist. “You deserve so much more, Ivy. You deserve to be loved, to be valued and cherished for yourself, not for the way you behave in public. Not for whether you meet expectations set by someone else. For your own self.”

For so long, she had equated William and Fanny’s strict expectations and criticisms with love, believing that their guidance was for her benefit. She remembered countless moments of trying to mold herself into the image of perfection they demanded, each attempt leaving her feeling less like herself and more like a beautifully decorated porcelain doll, admired for its appearance but void of warmth.

She had questioned whether her father hadn’t prepared her enough for adulthood. Wondered if he had somehow failed her, yet she had never dared to give voice to the thought. Her father had loved her, cherished her, and nourished her curiosity and passions. He had encouraged her.

Somehow, Ivy had let William and Fanny’s disapproval hold more weight in her heart than her father’s love. Yet in the last several weeks at Clairvoir, in a home where loved ones teased and talked, encouraged one another and laughed together, she had felt confused. Utterly and completely confused that she never heard anyone give censure. Never seen the duchess wince at a word or action undertaken by her children, by their spouses. Indeed, the duke and his wife were quick to laugh. Quick to praise.

For the first time since her father’s death, Ivy had felt happier, more like herself. No one had turned away from her, either. Her cousins had sought out her company. People seemed to enjoy being around her. Juniper and Betony were acting with greater confidence.

She looked up at Teague, seeing the intensity of his stare as he waited, patiently, for her to speak. He never rushed her. Never discounted what she said. He teased and flirted and he listened. Intently. As though she mattered.

“Why do you like me?” she dared ask.

His brow wrinkled. “Now that’s quite the question.”

Where William and Fanny had often been quick to point out her flaws, Teague had celebrated her strengths. His laughter and shared moments of genuine joy felt like a balm to the wounds of her spirit, wounds she had not fully acknowledged until now. Teague’s concern for her happiness, his easy acceptance of her emotions, and his encouragement for her to express herself freely made her feel seen and valued.

“Do you have an answer for it?” She needed one. Desperately.

His gloved hand brushed her cheek again as he studied her closely. Measuring words, perhaps. Fitting the right ones in the right place. “The first time I saw you in that theater box, watching the play as though you wished you were part of it, I thought you charming. The joy and excitement on your face, merely to be a part of a crowd watching the story unfold, stirred my interest. When you were here, I thought myself the most fortunate man in all of Britain.” His lips curled upward in a smile. “There are whole lists of things I like about you, my darling. Every time I see you, every time you speak, there are more reasons for it. I think it will always be that way for me.”

His answer had exceeded anything she hoped for. She covered his gloved hand on her cheek with her own. “You like me for my own self.”

A slow nod confirmed her words. “I do.” His eyes softened, crinkling at the corners as he regarded her with a fond smile. “I always have. I always will.”

It was quite the promise.

“When we are wed, Ivy, our home will be a place where you are always free to say what you wish, play the piano how you wish, read what you wish. Your sisters, they will come with us and never know a moment’s unkindness. Juniper can read her novels and spout her opinions unchecked. Betony can smile and laugh without anyone quieting her.”

Her heart warmed as he spoke, and she leaned into the palm against her cheek. He meant every word he said. He would provide the sort of home she had grown up in, and he would give her the freedoms she longed to have.

A new realization settled in her heart. The place he wanted to give her would not be at all what he said, not unless he was there. It was Teague who would make wherever she was feel like home.

“It will be grand,” he said, everything about him seeming perfect to her in that moment. He looked as though he would say more, his lips slightly parted, hesitation in his eyes?—

The door opened slowly, giving them both plenty of time to lower their hands and step apart. Sterling entered, eyes on the ground as he bowed. “My lord, my lady. The entertainment is nearly at its close.”

Teague’s smile turned crooked. “Is it now? I suppose we had better return, then, to make our announcement. If you still wish for that, Ivy?”

She relaxed and nodded. “Indeed. I think it is past time for it.” She took his arm and he led her past Sterling, whose handkerchief she returned with a grateful smile.