Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Julius paced his room, wishing himself to Jericho.

What had that been all about, and why the deuce had he said all those things he didn't mean? He was supposed to be wooing her, not fighting her.

Someone who was a burden and a millstone around your neck.

By Jove.

How could she just say something like that so carelessly?

He collapsed in his chair with a groan, burying his head in his trembling hands.

When she had died, he had been so grief-stricken he'd been unresponsive for days.

He'd mourned her for eight blasted years.

That was why he hadn't remarried.

That was the plain truth.

He heard female voices outside in the courtyard, and he got up to look out of the window. There she was, her light blonde head and Mona's dark one, together, bent over a basket on the ground.

Lena's sweet, clear laughter drifted up to him through the window.

A memory struck him, of that same laughter, her in a simple blue dress, her eyes covered with a kerchief, her arms outstretched as she turned in circles in the middle of the meadow while a group of children danced around her, honey-gold hair blowing in the wind…

The sudden stab of longing piercing his chest made him gasp for breath. It was a very old, very familiar feeling.

He rubbed the spot on his chest.

Exactly when had he begun to love her?

When had he started to see her as more than the pale, characterless waif he'd always perceived her to be?

When had he become so entranced by her sweet charm?

He couldn't identify a specific moment. It had crept up on him like ivy tendrils crawling up the trunk of a tree, taking firm root and binding him with an iron grip he could never shake.

His mind wandered back to the spring after they'd been married. They'd been married in November, and he'd immediately travelled to London to be present at the opening of Parliament, leaving Catherine behind at Aldingbourne Hall. At the time, he was convinced that this arrangement suited them both. She was free to do as she pleased in the house, while he pursued his own interests in politics. He would not subject his young wife to boring political dinners and parties. No, she would be well off at Aldingbourne Hall, and he would not question her interests.

In retrospect, of course, he realised that he'd badly neglected his young bride.

Though not unusual, people in arranged marriages often led separate lives, in separate houses, and if they did share a house, it was in separate bedrooms.

He hadn't questioned it. He'd naturally assumed that they, too, would have this arrangement, and that Catherine would be amenable to it. It was the way of their class, after all.

It wasn't until much later that he'd realised how wrong he'd been.

He furrowed his brows, deep in thought.

That early spring, after Parliament had adjourned, he'd returned to Aldingbourne Hall suddenly without notifying Catherine of his impending return. It had been a difficult term. He was tired of all the debating and arguing, he was tired of London, of the crowded city, the dirt and the smog. He craved clean, fresh air, walks in the woods, and rusticating in his library without doing anything at all.

His carriage pulled up the sweeping drive of the house, and he'd climbed the steps to the porticoed entrance two at a time, until he reached the top where the butler greeted him.

"Her Grace is in the front garden," he informed him. "With some visitors."

He was annoyed. The last thing he wanted was to have to dance attendance on guests.

So he took his time, changed out of his travelling clothes, had a cup of tea, and then strolled out into the garden, hoping the guests had left by now.

Laughter greeted him.

It had taken him by surprise. Laughter in Aldingbourne Hall? Were the walls still standing?

There were children in the meadow, and judging from the way they were dressed, barefoot and in simple clothes, they were his tenants from the surrounding farms. The smallest one toddled about, and the eldest was a youth about Catherine's height…

…Who was blindfolded, turning around in circles, laughing helplessly.

She was like a butterfly fluttering in the meadow, and the children were like bees buzzing around her.

What a child she was, he thought. It wasn't the first time he'd thought that. To be honest, he'd thought it every time he saw her, especially after a long absence, when he was reminded again of her youthfulness, that she was really no more than a child bride. However this time, the thought wasn't dismissive.

It was one of amusement.

And for the first time, he saw that there was something charming about her.

He'd stepped out into the garden and the children had fallen away. Catherine had turned and turned, laughing, confused by the sudden silence, her arms outstretched, stumbling forwards until her fingers brushed his arm. Then she'd stopped instantly, and her fingers had crawled upwards, to his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks, his ears, and he'd held his breath as they moved over his face, brushing his lips, nose, his eyes as softly as butterflies' kisses.

She pulled her hands away and tore off the handkerchief.

She had smiled such a breathtakingly beautiful smile, brightening from the deepest depths of her being until it reached the surface, her lips arching up in a gentle curve.

"You are here," she had breathed.

For the first time in his life, he'd been at a complete loss. That's when those vines had begun to take root, and grow, ever so slowly, firmly, stealthily.

Of course, he'd been a complete dolt, incapable of admitting to himself that he was slowly falling in love with his wife.

Until it was too late.

It wasn't until after the funeral, when he'd found the diary, that he'd understood how deeply she had loved him.

He walked over to the dressing table, pulled open the bottom drawer, and took out a leather-bound diary.

The writing in it was round and childish.

She'd also written her version of that day in her diary. It had been the happiest day since she'd married him, she'd written.

Each day's entry was a love letter. First from a child, then from a young lady, finally from a wife. It was an outpouring of honest feelings that he had never again encountered from anyone. It had shaken him to the core, the realisation that he had discovered her love for him far too late. It was also about sadness and loneliness, borne with fortitude. That had cut him to the core .

He had carried the diary with him for years; it had given him some comfort at times when he'd felt particularly lonely. Later, he'd kept it on his bedside table. When he went to Vienna, he couldn't bear to leave it behind, so he'd taken it with him.

He knew the right thing to do was to give it to her.

It was hers, after all. It would help her remember.

His fingers flipped through the pages, wondering what he should do. After a while, he stood up and put the diary back in its place in the bureau.

Not just yet.