“Not yet, you’re not.” Seleste came to stand next to her armed sister. “It seems to me that you’ve made her quite unhappy. Unhappy enough that she does not wish to see you.”
“He told her he loved her!” Sesily announced from her place far above, her tone the same one might use if one were discussing finding a rat in a drain somewhere on the estate.
All the other women grimaced. “You deserve another rock for that,” Seline pointed out. “And four more for the young women you’ve been dancing about while you tried to woo our sister back.”
“It’s no trouble, Duke!” Lady Lilith called down.
“Of course it is trouble! You’re only for market for so long!” Sesily said. “And now the two of you have been passed over by Haven.”
“Which isn’t exactly the worst thing in the world,” Seleste pointed out. “As he’s dreadful.”
“And about to get a rock to the head,” Seline added.
Malcolm gritted his teeth. “I love your sister,” he said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said it, though God knows why not, because it’s the truth. And I’m damned if I’m going to let you harridans keep me from telling her properly.”
“Ha! You do realize this means I win, do you not?” Sesily crowed from where she leaned over the tower wall. It occurred to Mal that she might have been leaning too far over the tower wall, as a matter of fact, but he found he could not find the energy or the inclination to tell her to be careful.
“We know, Sesily.”
“Ten pounds each!” she called down. “Sophie is going to be livid.”
“There was a wager?” Felicity asked.
“Of course! There are always wagers. You should see us in season!” Sesily paused, then turned to Lilith and Felicity. “You shall see us in season, soon enough! Our betting book rivals White’s! And it’s much more interesting.”
“I’m happy that you are all finding friendship and funds while keeping me from my wife, but I’m through with this now.” He looked to Seline. “I trust you won’t knock me unconscious on my way to fetch your sister.”
“I shan’t,” Seline allowed, “because if you use the word fetch with her, Duke, she’s going to knock you unconscious herself. She doesn’t want you, no matter how much blunt Sesily’s won.” Seleste’s words were cool and unemotional, and unsettling with the way they rained truth down around them. “You ruined everything years ago, when you refused to acknowledge she existed beyond you.”
He stilled at that. “I never refused that.”
“Oh?” called Sesily from far above. “We must have missed all the times you came to luncheon and tea.”
“And the time you asked our father for her hand,” Seleste said.
“And the times you made your courtship public,” Sesily added. “And here we were, thinking you were ashamed of your toy.”
Blood roared in his ears. “She was never my toy.” But Sera’s words echoed through him. You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me, either. You never have.
Christ. What had he done?
He looked to his wife’s sisters. “I only ever loved her.”
“But not all of her,” Seleste said.
“Not enough,” Seline added.
In another lifetime, Malcolm would have argued the point. He would have let his anger and frustration get the better of him. Instead, in that moment, he looked from one of her sisters to the next, and the next, and then said, firmly, “I love her. All of her. Duchess or Dove. With or without you harridans.”
Seline watched him for an uncomfortable length of time before tossing her stone to the ground. “By all means, then. Go convince her of it.”
Malcolm did not miss the meaning in the words, the clear disbelief that he would succeed at convincing his wife of anything of the sort.
And still, he’d taken to the saddle, and followed her at breakneck speed, his heart racing as he realized the direction in which she headed, desperate to get to her before she discovered—
She was off her horse and headed for the little circle of trees that marked the center of the northern edge of the property, and he was shouting her name on the wind, driving his own mount forward as she faced him, her shoulders stiffening, her spine straightening. She stilled, waiting for him, the summer breeze taking her skirts in long, languid movement even as she remained frozen in the lush green grass.
His horse thundered toward her, and she did not move, remaining in perfect pause, as though a thousand pounds of horseflesh weren’t bearing down upon her. Fear crashed through him as he pulled hard on the reins, the horse stopping mere feet from her as though she’d stayed it with mere force of will.
He was down from the saddle before the horse even stopped, not caring as his hat toppled from his head and he closed the distance between them, wanting to reach her and touch her and—dammit—love her.
He was a hound after a fox, and he fully expected her to go to ground.
Except she did not. Instead, she let him come for her. And it occurred that he might, in fact, be the fox.
Because when he reached her, his fingers reaching for her, curling around the back of her head, she tilted her face up to his, her own hand reaching. Her own fingers curling. And, God in heaven, his lips were on hers and she was his—all breath and touch and long, glorious kiss.
He could not stop it, not even when he knew that he should. Because he should. Because this was neither the time nor the place to kiss her—not when she’d run from him and he’d run to her and they needed nothing more than to talk.
It was time they had this out.
She pulled away, just enough to whisper his name, and that small, soft Mal, was enough to slay him and tempt him and bring him to her again. Just for a moment. Just until he’d tasted her and touched her. Just until he was made strong again by her presence.
It had been too long since he’d been strong.
And then she was pushing him away, color high on her cheeks, lips stung red with his kiss, and she was putting distance between them. She shook her head, and he opened his mouth to say the words—once, just once, alone with her. Here.
Sera did not give him a chance to have the first word. Nor did she intend for him to have the last. She lifted her chin. “What then, I was to have dropped to my knees and thanked you for condescending to offer me your love?”
He froze, his mouth open, words lost. He never seemed to have the right ones with her. Too often they were lies, and when they were truth—they were never enough.
“Or, what?” she prodded. “To profess my own feelings?”
“That would not have been unwelcome. And I might remind you that seconds ago, your kiss made a profession of its own.”
“Kisses have never been our failing.”
“What then?” he pushed her. Knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing he must. “What has been our failing?”
“What hasn’t?” She spread her arms wide. “Honesty? Trust?” The words were a cold burn, landing with proper sting. And still she came at him. “When did you invite them here?” His hesitation was enough for her to know the truth, and still she pushed him. “When, Malcolm?”
“The day you came to Parliament.”