A Governess Should Never… Wager a Duke (The Governess Chronicles #4.5)

Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

“Poetry is a speaking picture… It at once refines the heart and elevates the soul.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

C harlotte complied, the bench dry beneath the morning sun.

In years past, they’d sat here many a time to witness the seasons shift – spring in lush green finery, summer in looser hues, autumn in a coat of copper. And winter with her bequeathment of lucent snow, roofs white and fields swaddled tight.

Winter brought the harsh bite of cold yet also the beauty of sprinkled stardust.

“Why are you here, Marcus?” she asked as he lowered himself to the bench also. “Should you not be packing?”

“I was searching for you, Charlotte.” He fidgeted with the band on his beaver hat, eyes cast low. “I worried you might come to harm in this snow. I couldn’t believe you’d walked out in such weather.”

“Me?” She frowned. “But I was searching for you. I was worried that…”

She narrowed her eyes, recalled Dinah’s batting lashes.

The little so-and-so.

Yet she could not be angry: the scene of Ambleside below was one of splendour and furthermore, Marcus was sat at her side.

Yet he abruptly stood. Breathed deep. “I must…”

“You must go?”

“No, no…” He paced in front of the bench, boots crunching the snow, footprints etched in all directions.

Back and forth.

Forth and back.

“Are you well, Marcus?”

He paused, breathed deep again. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Continued to pace. “I’m just going to say it,” he mumbled.

“Say what?”

Marcus straightened his shoulders. Paused. “I… Are you warm enough?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He pinched his brow. “I… How did you know I was here?”

“Dinah.”

“But she told me that… Ah.” He paced once more. “Well, I… You see, Charlotte, I–”

“Marcus.” She peeled off her worn gloves and crossed her arms. “Have you had too many glasses of Mrs Mossop’s mulled wine?”

“‘Don’t interrupt,’ as Wordsworth would say.” He threw his hat to the bench. Heaved another breath. “Charlotte, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, no. You just keep pacing back and forth.”

“I don’t mean…” He peered to the sky. “Oh, for hell’s sake, I’m just going to say it and be damned.” His fists clenched and unclenched. “I mean, Charlotte, I am not going anywhere without you . Not this Christmas. Not ever.”

“Wh…”

“I… I love you, Charlotte. I’ve always loved you. I know you were fond of the boy I was but he is gone, and I just hope…I hope the affection you feel for me as a friend may grow in time. I hope it’s not too late for me to find a better equilibrium. With life. With the estate. That you might help me do that and come to love me as I am. That you might give me that hope.”

Charlotte closed her eyes, tears pricking like nettles. Maybe she was still asleep? Dreaming? If so, it was a cruel dream.

“Say something, Charlotte,” he demanded. “Even if to put me out of my misery.”

She opened her eyes, words lost.

Marcus’ gaze was a meld of gold and green. And she was lost in them also.

His jaw gritted. “I wanted to give you the world eight years ago but all I had were the clothes on my back and a debt-ridden dukedom. I am still in debt, but now I will not give you up, Charlotte, unless…unless you tell me there is no hope.”

She rose to her feet. Brought her bare hand to his arm. The wool of his coat was cold, flecks of snow dotting it like pearls. It was no dream.

“Eight years ago,” she whispered, “I wanted naught but you.” She watched her hand travel to his cheek. “And eight years later, I still want naught but you.” A tear fell. “Of course, I love you, Marcus. I always have. I love the man, the duke, the boy, my friend. The man who makes my heart sing. And I always will.”

He looked a little taken aback for a moment but then smiled, eyes fierce yet vulnerable, and his throat bobbed. “Charlotte… Are you sure? I still fear I may… Hell, that I may let you down as I did when we were young. Fail you.”

“I love you, Marcus. In failure and success. In magnificent victory and ignominious catastrophe. For love is not love if it solely endures in triumph. In fact, it is the support through failure that makes it love. You could never fail me . Only yourself. And then I would seek to lift you up.”

“Char–”

She pulled him close and kissed him.

His lips were warm and she now knew his heart was the same; it had merely been wrapped in ice in an attempt to protect everyone, including himself.

Broad cold hands cupped her cheeks, the kiss fervent and forever.

He drew back, but only to touch her forehead with his own. “That boy loved the girl you were, but this man loves the woman you are yet more.”

“I feared you considered me no more than a friend,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “And I had the same fear.”

And then, right there, on the snow, he kneeled.

“M-Marcus?”

“Friends, yes, always, but also lovers and confidants. I want it all.” He clasped her hand, eyes steady and clear as he stared up at her. “Charlotte, will you marry me? Be my duchess? Let us not wait. For time is so fleet, I’ve learned.”

A duchess would doubtless conduct herself with decorum and restraint but at this moment, Charlotte was still a governess, so she flung herself into his arms, knees hitting the trampled snow.

“Yes, yes and yes,” she cried. “I love you so, Marcus. Always.”

He kissed her, fierce and tender, within the fells and lakes that had reared them, shaped them, words of love exchanged, breaths cold but hearts warm, the years they’d been apart melting like snow on the high fells come spring.

“I love you, my Charlotte,” Marcus whispered. “Past, present and… Eternity.”

The fells hushed, silent, waiting for Christmas Eve on the morrow, the last day of advent.

And no one was going anywhere.