The Day of the Duchess

by Sarah MacLean

  She shook her head, tears coming hard and fast. “No.”

  It wasn’t true, of course. They had both failed, and they had both succeeded. They were better for their losses, for their risks, for the world they had left behind and the new ones they had built.

  They had not failed.

  They had loved.

  Did love.

  He lifted his other hand, holding her face firmly in his grasp, speaking as though the whole world weren’t watching. “I thought that if I chased you long enough and far enough, and held you close enough, I could convince you that I had changed. That we could start anew. But I can’t do that and give you your freedom, which is all you’ve ever asked me for, and all I’ve ever refused you. Because I’ve been a bastard from the start. Never once deserving of you.”

  “No, Mal.”

  “Yes, love. I’m through chasing you. I shall have to be happy with finding you in the stars, at night.” He paused, and she gasped, realizing what he was about to do. “There will never be another for me. But it is not my choice that matters; it is yours. And if you do not want this, then I would rather you be free of it, as you’ve wished since the start. To begin anew. To choose your happiness somewhere else. With . . .” He paused, began again. “. . . with someone else. Someone you can trust. Someone you believe.”

  He’d stolen her breath; her tears were coming in earnest now, streaming down her cheeks, and she could not stop them any more than she could stop herself saying his name.

  I believe you.

  This is enough. You are.

  “We are yet married,” he whispered, and he kissed her, in front of her sisters and Parliament, amid cheers and shouts of disapproval that faded away into the caress, long and lingering and beautifully soft. And sad. Because it felt like a last kiss.

  It felt like good-bye.

  When it was over, he pressed his forehead to hers. “I only ever want you to be free, love. I only ever want you to be happy. I only ever want you to choose your path and know that I shall love you better for it,” he said, softly, as though he could release her, like a bird, into the sky. “I shall love you.”

  What was he doing?

  And then he did release her, turning away with utter conviction and raising his voice to the House of Lords. “My Lord Chancellor, I vote Content.”

  And, like that, they were divorced.

  Chapter 27

  Every Duchess Has Her Day

  Two hours later, Mal entered his parliamentary offices to discover his ex-wife encamped within.

  He stopped just inside the open door, handle in hand, and took her in, perched on the built-in seat at the window overlooking St. Paul’s, knees pulled up to her chest, still and beautiful in the light of the perfect October day.

  And here.

  Thank God, she was here.

  She did not look away from the city skyline when she spoke, her face in perfect, golden profile. “I imagine the members of the House of Lords are not thrilled with you today, Duke.”

  He closed the door and pressed his back to it, afraid that if he went any closer, she would disappear, and he would be alone again. She was no longer tied to him, after all. She could leave and never return.

  “Many of them are not, no.” Mal had spent the last two hours navigating the anger and disapproval of the eighty members of the aristocracy who had voted against the dissolution of his marriage. “They think we’ve disrespected the institution.”

  “The institution of marriage? Or the institution of Parliament?”

  “A little of both.”

  Her little exhale might have been a laugh. “Only a little? You were shamefully, improperly attired for the floor of the House of Lords, Your Grace.”

  “Interestingly, no one seemed interested in that bit.”

  “I suppose they were most concerned that you scaled the wall and kissed me.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “But you were my wife at the time, so I think they were more irritated that when the news got out, they’d all have to do something similar for their own spouses.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she said. “Such grand gestures too often end in divorce.”

  “Too often?” He would give anything for her to look at him. To turn and face him and tell him every bit of what she was thinking.

  And then she did look at him, capturing him. As she had ever done. “One hundred percent of the time.”

  It took all his strength not to go to her. He’d vowed to stop chasing her. Vowed to let her make her own choices. “Terrible odds.”

  She smiled then, small and perfect. “You’re a madman.”

  “You are not the first to have made that assessment today.”

  She turned away, lifting one hand to the window, tracing a circle in the glass there. She was silent for so long that he was not sure if she would speak again, and he realized he did not care if they lived here, forever, in silence, as long as they lived here, together.

  And then, “The sailors on the ship to Boston called me the Dove.” He inhaled sharply at the words, soft and lovely, hazy with memory. She smiled, wistful in the sunlight. “They liked me.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt,” he said, hating those men for having her at a time when he was so desperately seeking her.

  She shook her head. “Not like that. I was . . .” She trailed off, searching for the right finish. Then, “I was sad.”

  He could not have stopped moving toward her, not if he’d had the strength of ten men. But, miraculously, when he reached the window, he found a way to resist touching her, instead sitting in the chair next to her, wanting to claim her, knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing that if he did, she might stop, and willing to do anything to prevent that.

  She did not look away from the city beyond the window. “I was sad, and I barely slept, so I walked. The first few nights, they told me I couldn’t be on the deck, that it was too dangerous.”

  “It was an Atlantic crossing in February.” Even saying the words made him nervous. She could have taken horribly ill. Worse. He loathed the idea of her on that terrifying journey, tossed about by the sea, threatened by the elements. Alone.

  He should have been with her.

  She never should have been there to begin with.

  If only he’d been less of a fool.

  “You sound like them.” She smiled. “I am not so fragile.”

  “No,” he agreed. “You’re beauty and steel.”

  She resumed her tale. “Mainly, they didn’t want me topside because I was a woman, and women are bad luck near the sails.”

  “I imagine you weren’t having any of that superstition.”

  She laughed then, low and soft, and he felt the sound in his gut. “I was not, in fact. I wanted to be in the air. I liked the numbing cold. And so, I persisted.”

  Pleasure thrummed through him at the words. Of course she had. Brave and strong, as always. “I also have no doubt about that.”

  “And I sang.”

  “The Dove.” The name the sailors bestowed.

  “They said it was because I only ever sang like mourning.”

  He closed his eyes, hating the words and the knowledge that came with them. Knowledge and memory and regret. He should have been there to hold her while she mourned. To love her through it.

  They should have loved each other through it.

  She went on. “When I landed in Boston . . . when I found Caleb—at the insistence of some of the sailors, who knew him, and knew he and I would make a good team.” He opened his eyes, and found her gaze locked on his, stunning and blue, glittering with knowledge and something else. Something like promise. “Would you like to know why I kept the name?”

  “Yes.” More than anything.

  “Because doves mate for life, and I knew there would never be another for me.”

  The words weakened him, sending him forward, toward her, desperate to be closer to her, and still, afraid to touch her. Afraid to rush her. His hands fisted—tight enough to
strain the muscles in his fingers. He could wait. He would wait a lifetime if he had to.

  She did not look away, seeming to draw strength from the truth. Freedom from it. “By the time we made the return trip, back to London, I was—happier. More confident. More powerful. And when I took to that deck—ignoring superstition once more—and sang, my songs were not quite so melancholy. Those sailors taught me their sea shanties, the saltier the better.”

  “I should like to hear those.” Truth. He wanted to lie in the grass at Highley and let the summer breeze wash over them and carry her lewd songs to the corners of the earth.

  “I know one about a lad from Glasgow that will make you blush.” She smiled wistfully and looked out the window. After a pause, she said, “They gave me a name on the return ship, as well.”

  “The Sparrow.”

  “They said I made them dream of the girls at home. But home isn’t all the sparrow represents.” She looked at him. “Young sailors often ink sparrows on their arms. For freedom.” His breath caught in his throat. “Freedom to go where you choose and be what you choose. Freedom to close one door and open a new one, and make your home where you land.” She paused. Then, softly, “Freedom to forget.”

  He waited, biting his tongue, refusing to speak, desperate for her to continue.

  Finally, she did. “Good Lord, Mal. Don’t you see? I didn’t choose the Sparrow over you. Or America, or Caleb, or anything else. I chose all of it because I didn’t have you. Because I didn’t think I would ever have you again.” He heard the tears in her voice when she added, “Because I didn’t think you would ever forgive me, so I tried to forget.” She sighed, long and trembling, as she battled the memory. “I tried so hard to forget all of it. And all I could remember was you. I told myself the Dove was the vestige of my past. And promised myself the Sparrow was the promise of my future.”

  She looked at him, then, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “When all the time, I was both.”

  He couldn’t hold back any longer. He reached for her, hauling her into his lap, into his arms. And she came, without hesitation. “Mal,” she whispered to his chest as he pulled her close, pressing kisses to her hair. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “For so much.”

  She was crying and he couldn’t bear it, tipping her face up to him, kissing over her cheeks, sipping at her tears as he whispered, “No, Angel. The sorrow is mine. The regret. I never told you how much I loved you. I never showed you how I ached to know you. I never even broke bread with your sisters—who I like more than I probably should, by the way.”

  She laughed through the tears at that. “They grow on a person.”

  He pulled back and met her gaze, serious. “There was so much I never said. So much I wish to say now. Forever.” He told her then, whispering all the things he wanted to tell her. How beautiful she was, how perfect, how he loved her. He kissed her in between the words, soft and sweet, brushing away her tears with lips and thumbs, covering her in kisses, until he found her lips again, soft and sweet and perfect.

  He lingered there, pressing long, sweet kisses to her lips between the vows that flooded him. “I love you,” he whispered like a prayer. A kiss. “I need you.” Another. “Stay.” Another, and another, and another, until Sera’s tears were gone and she was clinging to him, forcing the kisses to press harder, last longer, burn hotter.

  Before they could consume them, however, Sera stopped him, breathing heavily, pulling away—as far as he would let her go. “You divorced me.”

  He nodded. “I wanted—”

  She stopped his words with a kiss. “I know what you wanted. You wanted to give me my freedom. You wanted to give me my choice.”

  “And now, I want to get down on my knees and beg you to choose me.”

  She stared deep into his eyes and smiled, pure and honest, and sending joy and pleasure through him. “That is a beautiful, tempting offer. But I’m afraid I don’t wish to choose. I want it all.”

  “You can have the Sparrow, Sera. It’s yours now. Calhoun has the papers. All you need do is sign them.”

  She shook her head. “And what of you?”

  “You don’t need papers to own me. I belong to you outright.” He kissed her again, long and lingering, until her lips were parted and clinging to his. “You have me. Here. Now. Forever. However you wish.”

  “You make it very difficult for a girl to chase you.”

  The words—their implication—thrummed through him. “You wish to chase me?”

  “If you don’t mind very much, Duke.”

  “Not at all, Duchess.”

  She pulled back instantly, tutting false disapproval. “Former duchess. Now, a mere lady. And even that is a questionable moniker.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You see, I am a divorcee now. And I own a tavern.”

  “Ah,” he said, going after her, nipping at her jaw as she wrapped her arms about his neck. “That does sound terribly scandalous.”

  “Oh, absolutely. Why, just this morning I scandalized the House of Lords.”

  “What a coincidence, I did, as well.”

  She grinned. “You’d be shocked what divorce does to a fine, upstanding person.”

  “I’m sure I would be,” he teased, loving the smile on her lips. “Why don’t you show me right now?”

  “In due time. But first, I should tell you that I’ve been doing some reading since you left me.”

  “You left me first,” he said.

  “Yes, but you destroyed my tavern and then left me.”

  “I had to convince eighty members of Parliament to side with a duchess in divorce proceedings. That is not the easiest of tasks. The number of chits that I’ve doled out is staggering.”

  She laughed. “And we shall discuss all that at length later. But first, I wish to tell you what I’ve learned.”

  As she remained in his arms, she could read the minutes of last season’s parliamentary session for all he cared. “Do, please.”

  “I have been torturing myself by reading about the Pleiades.” And, like that, he was riveted. Her fingers played at his hair as she went on. “You see, Merope is the only one of the Seven Sisters who cannot be seen without a telescope. Did you know that?”

  His heart began to pound. “I did.”

  “Of course you did. And first, I should like very much to get a telescope and have a look at her.” He’d buy her a telescope that day. He’d build her a damn observatory. “They say she is hiding her face in shame because all her sisters married gods and she loved a mortal.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “I think they’re wrong. I think she is turned away because she looks in the wrong direction for her happiness. I think she is searching the sky, waiting for it to find her. And . . .” She paused, the words catching. “. . . if only she turned around, she would see that Orion has been there, waiting to make her happy, all along.”

  He nodded, the words thick in his throat. “He only wants her happiness.”

  Her blue gaze found his. Held it. “And her love, I hope.”

  “Christ, yes. Her love.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. “I should tell you that I am here for more than that.”

  Anything. He’d give her anything.

  She climbed off his lap and he mourned the movement, until she was standing before him, and he realized what she was wearing. His robes. How had he not noticed it before? And how was it that now that he had, he was certain he’d never seen anything so stunning in his life?

  “I didn’t want to go home to find something to wear.”

  “I recall you wearing a perfectly respectable gown earlier,” he said, tilting his head. What was she up to?

  A shy little smile played over her lips as she fingered the fastening to the robes. “Yes, but I thought red would be more appropriate.”

  And, like that, Mal was desperate for her, turning to face her, reaching for her, taking her by the waist and pulling her close, between his legs, and stealing her lips once more as he s
ought the opening of the robes. And then, growling, “I am reminded that I’m very angry that you told another woman about my love for red. You shall have to apologize for that, later.”

  She gasped at the words. Or perhaps it was the feel of his hands, stroking over the velvet of her robes, pulling her to him. “I am sorry,” she whispered. Her hands came to his jaw and she tilted his face up to hers, kissing him. He took his reward, punctuating it with a long, slow slide over the soft velvet of his robes. “Does it help that I want to be the only woman who ever wears red for you again?”

  His breath caught. “It does.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “I want to be the only woman. Forever.”

  The words roared in his ears. “Forever how?”

  “Forever, as a partner. Forever, as equals.” She paused. “Forever, in love. Forever, married.”

  He couldn’t stop himself. “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” she said with a little laugh. “I was this morning, but then you divorced me before I could tell you so. But . . . it all works out well. If you’ll have me.”

  He laughed, too, unable to stop himself. The idea that he might not have her was ludicrous. “I shall, I think.”

  She smiled, there and gone before he could bask in the warmth of it. “You are certain? You won’t . . . we shan’t . . .” She took a deep breath and released it, and he heard the tears in the sound. “You shan’t have an heir.”

  He put his hands to her face then. “I shall have you. I shall love you. And I shall grow old in your arms.”

  She closed her eyes and a tear escaped. Mal chased it with his thumb. They kissed, slow and perfect, and he willed her to believe him. To understand that he was nothing without her, and she was everything he would ever desire.

  She must have believed it, because when it was over, she backed away from him, fingers coming to the fastening of the red velvet robe. She loosened the tie, and the velvet pooled around her feet, stealing his breath.

  She was naked beneath.

  She was naked, and instantly in his arms.

  He pulled her onto his lap, without hesitation, loving the way she straddled him, loving the feel of her skin and the sound of her sigh of pleasure. Loving her. “Lady Seraphina, you scandalize this place.”