XXVIII

Marcus walked beside Grace, each step slow and measured, leaning slightly on the cane to maintain the appearance Simon had crafted. The weight he felt wasn't from physical exhaustion, but from the tension that grew with each movement. Being so close to her, after so many years, tore him apart inside. The silence they shared grew heavy, filled with unspoken words. Marcus fought the urge to confess everything. How could he walk beside the woman he loved, feeling her so near, yet remain trapped in a lie?

The fresh air of the village surrounded him, but for Marcus, the landscape blurred in Grace's shadow. Every small gesture she made, the soft touch of her arm, the swish of her dress as they walked, and the subtle fragrance that enveloped him, transported him back to memories he had longed for over a decade. His breath grew heavy, not from physical exertion, but from the emotional storm consuming him. Meanwhile, she remained calm, unaware of the turmoil inside him.

"This square is where the market is held every morning. The vendors are all locals," Grace explained, breaking the silence with her warm and serene voice.

Marcus forced himself to focus on her words, pushing aside the thoughts tormenting him. His feet continued over the cobblestones, but his heart raced, caught between the desire to confess and the fear of losing her forever.

"I suppose this is how the villagers sustain themselves. I imagine many use bartering to get what they need," he commented, trying to sound casual, though each word cost him greatly.

Grace nodded, observing the surroundings with a smile that radiated confidence as she spoke about the place.

"How did you come to know this place? Why did you stay here?" Westlin dared to ask, noticing that this type of conversation could keep them both relaxed.

"I came here when I was six," she began, her tone nostalgic. "It was my mother who learned about this village because it was the birthplace of one of her maids," she added, looking at her companion. "And I haven't left because I don't care for the bustle of big cities. I prefer the peace and calm of small villages. Besides, the villagers treat me with so much kindness that I don't need a family."

"Since you arrived, you haven't left?" he pressed, eager to know more.

"Yes, I left to get married but returned when I was widowed," she explained, unaware of the pang of pain her words caused him.

Hearing of his own "death," Marcus felt a knot in his stomach. Knowing that Grace had to build her life around that lie tormented him. He gripped the cane tightly, trying to quell the anger bubbling inside him. Yet, he knew this wasn't the time to confront that reality. Silence settled between them, a silence that reflected how far apart they were, despite walking so close together.

"Was it hard for you to come back after everything that happened?" he asked, desperately seeking something to anchor him to the conversation and pull him away from the guilt consuming him.

Grace looked at him with a calm expression, but her eyes revealed the pain of someone who had been intimately acquainted with suffering.

"More than difficult, it was necessary. When my son was born, I knew when I saw him that he, too, deserved a good life, and here, we both have that. Since I returned with Robert in my arms, everyone has treated him with kindness, and no one has ever mentioned, not even once, that he is the son of a deceased marquess."

Grace's words hit Marcus hard. As he listened, he realized that despite everything, all she had ever wanted was to escape the misunderstandings surrounding her and create a warm world for Robert. Fortunately, she had found a good home. He, on the other hand, had lost his since she fled. But was that future fair for Robert?

"Don't you want your son to inherit the noble title that's his by birthright?" he asked, carefully measuring his words, knowing the answer would be crucial to him.

Grace shook her head softly, her voice firm but calm.

"No. I don't want my son to live in London. You fled that place; you know how cruel people can be there. I don't want Robert to go through that."

Marcus looked at her, understanding the weight of her words. Grace had seen firsthand the cruelty of London society and had done everything in her power to protect her son from that world. Marcus, however, knew that one day he would have to face Robert with the truth—the right that was his, not only as Grace's son but as his own.

"I understand your point of view," Westlin said, though inside, the battle between duty and desire continued to rage.

Silence returned between them, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable. They were both lost in their thoughts, aware of the decisions they had made in the past and those that still lay ahead.

Finally, Grace spoke again, her voice soft and sincere.

"I've shared a bit of my life with you, milord, so you can feel at ease during your stay here. In this village, you won't suffer the injustices you've experienced in other places."

Grace's words hit Marcus like a crushing reality. In contrast, he was lying to her, hiding who he truly was. The guilt was growing inside him, but he couldn't afford to let the truth come out, not yet. He wasn't ready to face the consequences of his actions. How much longer could he keep up the charade? Even he didn't know.

Just then, both of them noticed a shift in the atmosphere. Grace looked up and saw Mr. Hartwell approaching them quickly, with a determined stride. Dressed in his clerical robes, his face was a mix of confusion, discontent, and poorly disguised jealousy. Although he tried to smile, the tension in his expression was clear.

"Good morning, Mrs. Collier," he greeted, his voice attempting friendliness but laced with underlying resentment.

"Good morning, Mr. Hartwell," Grace replied politely, her tone much more relaxed than the vicar's.

Westlin, noticing the way the vicar looked at Grace, felt a stab of jealousy run through him. The man looked at her as if she belonged to him, and Marcus recalled what Aife had told him about the vicar's feelings for her. I won't let you take her from me, he thought, with a surprising intensity.

"A glorious morning for a walk, wouldn't you say?" Hartwell remarked, turning his gaze to Marcus, sizing him up.

"Indeed," Grace quickly interjected, sensing the tension building. "Mr. Hartwell, may I introduce Lord Haspirin? He's just arrived, and I'm showing him around the village."

At that moment, Westlin silently cursed Holloway for giving him such a ridiculous name.

Hartwell extended his hand to greet him, but Marcus, without letting go of Grace's arm, merely nodded in acknowledgment. He had no intention of giving the vicar the satisfaction of seeing him step away from her.

"Pleased to meet you, milord," the vicar said, his smile now more strained, clearly uncomfortable.

Despite his efforts to remain composed, Marcus wasn't going to let the vicar think that just because he had known Grace for longer, he had any claim over her. He wanted to make it clear that wasn't the case, and Hartwell quickly understood. However, instead of withdrawing, the vicar tried to regain control of the situation.

"Would you like me to join you on your walk?" Hartwell offered, trying to maintain a fa?ade of politeness, though his eyes betrayed his dissatisfaction.

A low growl escaped Marcus's throat, subtle enough that only Grace could hear. She, without losing her calm, gently squeezed his arm and responded kindly.

"No need, Mr. Hartwell. It's only a short walk, and I wouldn't want to keep you from your duties. Besides, I believe you have a service soon, don't you?"

Hartwell nodded, though he was clearly irritated by Grace's refusal to accept his company.

"That's right, Mrs. Collier. However, this afternoon, if you're free, I'd like to stop by for tea and discuss the classroom renovations. I think it would be a good time to talk about purchasing new desks."

The idea excited Grace, as she had been trying for months to improve the conditions at the local school.

"That sounds..." she began, but was interrupted by Marcus, who stepped forward.

"How many desks do you need?" he asked, his voice deep and unmistakably disdainful toward the vicar.

Hartwell, caught off guard by the interruption, tried to regain his composure.

"Fifteen, milord," he replied, somewhat puzzled.

"I'll see to it that they are delivered next week," Marcus declared firmly, before gently pulling Grace's arm to continue their walk.

The vicar stood there, watching as the mysterious Lord Haspirin walked away with Grace. Jealousy and frustration churned within him, but there was nothing he could do but stand by and watch as the woman he desired walked off on the arm of another man.