The Duke Married Her for Money and Planned to Keep His Distance—But Six Hours After Their Wedding, His “Gentle” Bride Fought Three Armed Highwaymen to Protect Him, and He Realized He Could No Longer Imagine a Life Without Her

 PART 6

Gareth made a sound that might have been laughter, if it had not been so close to panic.

The magistrate arrived with guards. Davin tried to accuse Varity of attacking him. The dead orange tree offered silent contradiction. So did the pistol. So did the valise containing forged papers, debt notes, and a letter from a man named Markham — who had indeed worked in Lord Crowley’s household.

Markham had altered the settlement after Lord Crowley signed it, expecting Davin to pay him when the mill rights became valuable. Davin, being Davin, had promised money he did not possess to men who disliked waiting.

The plan had been foolish, greedy, and nearly fatal. Most wicked plans were less elegant than people feared.

Gareth listened to the magistrate’s first account with a face like stone. Then he walked to Varity.

“Your father may not have known.”

“No. Markham did.”

“Yes. We will send word at once.”

Varity nodded. She looked steady — until Lady Ma reached her and touched her cheek.

“My dear,” Lady Ma said softly.

Varity’s mouth trembled once. That was all.

Gareth saw it, and understood something important. Varity did not need him to save her from every danger. She needed a place where she did not have to be brave alone afterward.

He could become that — if she allowed it. If he earned it.

Davin was taken away before noon. Mr. Lauren confessed fully by supper. Markham was arrested three days later in Lord Crowley’s library, after trying to climb out through a pantry window.

Lord Crowley sent six letters of apology, and one enormous crate of oranges — because he had heard about the orangery, and misunderstood which part required replacement.

Lady Ma arranged the oranges in bowls all over the house. Varity looked at them in the breakfast room.

“Is this support or invasion?”

“Both.”

Gareth said, “There are oranges in the umbrella stand.”

“My aunt expresses relief through citrus.”

“Should we be concerned?”

“Always.”

The danger receded. Marriage remained. That proved more difficult.

Danger had given them purpose. Forgery had given them tasks. Davin had given them a common enemy, which was convenient in a grim way. Without immediate threat, Gareth and Varity had to learn what to do with breakfast, silence, shared corridors, and the fact that both reached for the same inkstand while pretending not to notice.

They were polite for four days. It was awful.

On the fifth day, Varity entered Gareth’s study with a ledger, a basket of mending, and a determined expression.

“We cannot continue like this,” she said.

Gareth looked up. “Like what?”

“Like two nations avoiding war through napkin placement.”

“I thought we were improving.”

“You asked me whether I preferred marmalade in a tone suitable for treaty borders.”

“Marmalade is serious.”

“Not that serious.”

He set down his pen. “What do you propose?”

“Honesty. Again. Frequently, if possible.”

He leaned back. “Very well.”

She placed the basket on his desk. “I do not want a marriage of gratitude.”

The words struck him. “Nor do I.”

“Good. I also do not want a marriage where you treat me as a soldier in the morning and porcelain by supper.”

“I do not—”

She lifted one eyebrow. He exhaled.

“I am trying not to.”

“Better. I do not want a marriage where danger is the only time we speak plainly.”

“Agreed.”

“I do not know how to be married without commanding too much.”

“I do not know how to be married without preparing to leave, if command arrives.”

There it was. The wound under the wit.

Gareth stood slowly. “I will not command your obedience.”

“You will sometimes, by habit. Then correct me. I will continue.”

She looked at him. “You may regret that invitation.”

“I expect to.”

The dimple appeared.

He crossed the room, stopping an arm’s length away. “May I say something foolish?”

“Is it about marmalade?”

“No.”

“Then proceed.”

“When you stepped into the lane with that parasol, I was terrified.”

Her face softened. “Of the pistol?”

“Of you being hurt — before I understood you.”

She did not answer. He continued before courage failed.

“When you stood in the orangery, I was terrified again. Not because you were weak. Because you were brave where I could not reach you.”

“Gareth—”

“I am not asking you to become reachable at all times. I am telling you that loving someone brave is less comfortable than admiring them from a distance.”

Her lips parted.

Loving.

He had not meant to say it yet. But there it was, sitting between them like a lit candle near dry paper.

“Yes,” he said.

Varity looked down at the mending basket. “That complicates honesty, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Because I was about to say — I have become very fond of your worst expressions.”

“My worst expressions?”

“The one where you are displeased by correct advice. The one where you want to smile, but think a duke should not. The one where you are proud of me, and angry about it.”

“That last one is specific.”

“It appears often.”

He smiled. He did not stop this time. Varity’s eyes warmed.

“What?” she said. “That expression is not terrible.”

“Progress.”

“Moderate.”

He held out his hand. She looked at it. He waited.

When she placed her hand in his, he felt the trust in it more sharply than any kiss.

“Varity,” he said. “May I court my wife?”

Her fingers tightened. “That is a strange request.”

“Our beginning was strange. I would like to do some parts in better order.”

“Will there be cake?”

“Improved cake.”

“Then yes.”

He laughed, and she laughed with him. It was not loud. It did not solve every wound. But the room changed.

The courtship of the Duchess of Rookmir by her own husband became the household’s favorite emergency. Gareth sent flowers. Varity thanked him and rearranged them, because the colors fought. He invited her to ride. She accepted, then outran him on a mare everyone had called unmanageable. He ordered almond cake from London. She praised the effort, and admitted Mrs. Pennock’s seed cake was better. He wrote her a formal note asking if she would walk with him in the west garden. She returned it, corrected for grammar, and accepted.

Lady Ma declared it the most educational romance she had ever witnessed. Mrs. Pennock declared it hard on the flower budget.

Yet not every day was easy.

Some evenings, Varity woke from dreams of the pistol shot in the orangery. She did not cry out. She simply sat upright, breath tight, one hand searching for a hat pin that was not there.

The first time Gareth reached for her too quickly, she flinched.

He stopped at once.

“It is me,” he said softly. “Gareth.”

She nodded, awake and ashamed. “I know.”

“May I light the lamp?”

“Yes.”

He lit it. He did not touch her until she reached for him. Then he sat beside her, shoulder against shoulder, saying nothing foolish about safety being guaranteed.

He had learned better.