It Had to Be the Duke by Christi Caldwell

Chapter 10

Geoffrey absolutely despised the gardens of his London townhouse.

Standing on the threshold of the conservatory that led outside, he remained frozen there.

That hadn’t always been the case.

When they’d been children, they’d come playing hide-and-seek and other children’s games, and laughter had always filled these grounds.

Then, as they’d grown, and time had passed, they’d continued to come. During ton events his parents had hosted, he and Lydia had snuck away and made those lush gardens a different playground, with him pushing her upon a swing and then lying upon the grass and making love, because they’d always known she would be his and he would be hers, and there’d been no need to wait for a formal union to consummate that love.

Or rather, there’d been the dream and the hope until that last time with her here, when there’d been only darkness and misery.

Nay, it hadn’t been until that night, the night she’d ended all hope of a future together, that he’d come to hate this place.

Geoffrey sucked in a shaky breath and, for the first time in more years than he could even remember, he stepped outside. The fragrant scent of roses hung thick and heavy on the unseasonably warm spring air. That sweet smell, blending with the crisp scent of freshly turned earth, rushed to meet him.

He ventured deeper into the gardens, taking it all in. They were still as masterfully tended and kept, a task that had always fallen to the master gardener, who’d since retired and been replaced by his son.

Geoffrey continued meandering a path until he came to a stop that had brought him full circle back at the front.

That pretty trellis just off to the side of the entrance of the gardens…

You are making this impossible for me, you know.

Lydia’s whispered words echoed here, lingering still.

In the immediate days following her rejection, he’d come to this place. He’d wandered about, much the way he did now, taking it all in, remembering the moments of joy contained within these walled-in grounds and then torturing himself with those final moments with her here, when the laughter had been replaced by the break in her voice and the tears in her eyes as she’d ended it.

Geoffrey stared blankly at the stone wall.

“Please, do not look at me like that, Geoffrey.”

“Like what? Like you’re breaking my heart, Lydia? Because you are.”

The morning she’d walked down that church aisle and bound herself forever to a man whom Geoffrey had respected and admired and who’d been too damned nice to hate, Geoffrey had come to this place… and wept. He’d sobbed copious tears, pounding his fist upon the brick wall until the stones had shredded the flesh of his knuckles, and blood had seeped down his hand, a crimson sanguine stream that had slicked his palm and slid between his fingers. The pain of that had still been dull to the heart that hadn’t quit shattering since she’d walked out of his life.

Sometime later that day, after the sun had made its final descent, ceding its place in the sky to a fingernail moon, Geoffrey had gotten himself up, walked through the doors, and closed those panels behind him… and he’d never stepped foot inside again.

The woman he’d ended up marrying hadn’t bothered with those grounds, either.

They’d been shut away, lovingly tended by the staff paid to care for them and visited by no one else… until now.

Geoffrey stretched a hand out and traced his fingertips along the brick, the stone not quite as vibrant or red as it had been the last time he’d been here. Time had aged it, changed it slightly and yet not completely. Even as the sun would continue to chase away its vibrancy and brightness, it remained largely the same.

So, too, had he and Lydia.

Lydia, whom it had been easier not to think of, and yet, whose life had intersected with his once more.

Because that was the way, wasn’t it?

Even the universe knew what Geoffrey had also felt to his soul: He and Lydia were destined for each other. They might have aged. They might have lived entire lives apart and created entire families with other people, but ultimately, he and Lydia were fated to be together. Their lives were meant to intersect, regardless of anything that had passed or would pass.

Or at least he believed their lives and hearts were inextricably linked.

What of Lydia, though?

Did she feel that same sense of shared destiny between them?

He certainly knew that during these past two days together, she’d laughed as easily and as comfortably with him as she had all those years ago, and he’d felt that same lighthearted joy and amusement. He knew passion was still there, as she’d responded in his arms with a woman’s unabashed—and unashamed, and beautiful for it—desire.

But also, it had been just a couple of days, too. What if she, a widowed woman, was content with the freedom she now had? The thought slithered around his mind and settled there.

His stomach muscles gripped tightly.

For the truth remained that she’d chosen another road before. What if she saw a different fate for them? One in which they’d always wander different paths?

Geoffrey balled his hands hard. No. He couldn’t think of it. He wouldn’t. He’d failed to make her see before. He’d not fail again. Not this time.

He felt her before he heard her. But then, they’d always been so in tune with each other.

The door opened, and Geoffrey looked up.

“Her ladyship, the Countess of Chombley,” his butler announced as though it were the most natural thing in the world for Geoffrey to take company with one of Society’s leading matrons alone, at night, in the gardens.

But of course, that was a luxury afforded Geoffrey as a duke. No one ever questioned him. Only Lydia had freely challenged him, and he’d missed it.

“Geoffrey,” Lydia called over the moment the servant had gone. She stepped forward with a hesitancy to her step that he didn’t ever recall from her. Tiptoed, more. And then she stopped. With the half moon hanging in the sky, just as it had all those years ago, the universe might as well have mocked them with their past and their pain. The pale glow of that orb cast a soft light, bathing Lydia’s cherished features. Within her fingers, she gripped the missive he’d sent, tightly enough that all the blood had left her knuckles, leaving them white. “Is… everything all right, Geoffrey?”

“Is everything all right?” he repeated wistfully. “Do you know, for a very long time, it hasn’t been, Lydia.”

“I know something of that.”

“Something?”

“A lot,” she amended.

He drew in a deep breath once more, and he, the charming rogue with a reputation that preceded him, found himself at sea, struggling to find the right words for the woman who mattered so very much to him. “Thank you for meeting me here.”

*

Lydia hovered there, uncertain.

He’d thank her for meeting him here. So very formal with those words of gratitude. As though they’d not once been best friends. As though they’d not been lovers.

But then, how easily you just want to dismiss the hurt you caused…

“Of course I’d meet you, Geoffrey,” Lydia finally said. “We are friends,” she added softly.

“Friends,” he murmured. Giving her a wistful once-over, Geoffrey, his hands clasped behind him, rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet in the same way he had as a boy.

His hadn’t been a question, and yet… “Yes. Friends.” Lydia bit the inside of her cheek. “Unless… we’re not anymore?”

“No, Lydia.” He slid closer, and his palm came up. Her eyes slipped briefly shut, but his hand sailed past her as he brushed at a spot on the brick wall behind her. Her heart fell at his words and at the absence of his touch.

She put her shaking hands behind her and folded them to hide their trembling, and in a bid for casualness, she leaned against the wall, taking support from that hard brick surface. “No?” She made herself ask that question she feared an answer to. “As in too many years”—and wrongs on her part toward this man—“now separate us?”

His high brow dipped. “Of course not,” he scoffed, and the wings of hope brought her heart rising and fluttering in her breast. “No, as in we’ve always been friends, and that hasn’t changed.” His brow slipped another fraction. “Unless it’s changed for… you.”

“No!” She spoke on a rush, abandoning her place at the wall and propelling herself toward him. “Never.” Her feelings had never changed for this man. Yes, she’d come to love her husband, but the passionate love she’d known for Geoffrey had remained there. She’d just kicked ash upon embers, but they’d never been banked. She lifted her eyes to his. “I am honored that you’d invite me to share this new journey you find yourself on with your children.” Her heart broke for the lonely existence he’d painted for her, one that would have been so much more filled had his former mistress not withheld from him the births of his sons and daughter.

“Your advice was… is appreciated,” Geoffrey said. “I was speaking with the wrong words and the wrong focus to the boy. Not because I don’t care about him. I do, even as just days ago he was unknown to me.” His gaze slid beyond her shoulder to the doorway. “But because I am so desperate to see him and my other children who’ve struggled not suffer anymore. Yet he has no reason to believe I care in an emotional way, and you helped me see that.” He moved his eyes back to Lydia’s. “We spoke.”

“And?” she asked, holding her breath, wanting this to at least unfold for him in a way that caused him the least amount of pain when his life had known so much of it.

A smile formed on his beautiful, hard lips. “And he is amenable. Our relationship is obviously still new, and there is hesitancy on his part, but there is also a willingness to move forward.”

Lydia clasped her hands at her heart. “Oh, Geoffrey, I am so happy.”

“It’s a small start. A slow one.” He grimaced. “And by everything Wesley has shared, the path to forgiveness with my other children will be a good deal harder to row.”

Erasing all the space between them, Lydia collected his hands and brought them close to her breast. She squeezed slightly. “But they will come ’round. In time.”

“I do believe that,” he said and then glanced down at their joined hands.

Lydia followed his stare to that bold touch on her part.

It had always been right and natural to touch him. There’d been no care or concern about propriety. Nay, everything between them had always been close.

Her cheeks warming, Lydia made to draw her fingers back, but Geoffrey tightened his grip. “I wanted to speak with you about Wesley.” He held her gaze once more. “But that isn’t why I asked you here.”

Lydia furrowed her brow. “It isn’t?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Oh.” She dampened her mouth. His gaze and his tone proved impossible to decipher.

This time, he let her hands go, and her fingers curved, arching, stretching toward him in a reflexive need, which he didn’t see. Which he couldn’t see, as he’d already moved away from her, wandering off, and she stared at him as he went.

“It seemed important to meet you here, Lydia,” he murmured as he continued that contemplative little stroll of these grounds she so despised.

She hugged her arms close. “They’re as beautifully tended as they always were,” she remarked, because she had to say something, and then her lips promptly pulled at the ridiculousness of those words.

At that, he paused and glanced back. He gave her an odd look.

And God help her, she was deserving of it.

“I hate it here,” she blurted, and he went motionless. “I didn’t always.” A pained half sob spilled from her lips. “In fact, I once loved this place. All the times we would sneak away here and the laughter, and then… and then…”

“The night you ended it,” he murmured when, coward that she was, she couldn’t make herself complete the remainder of that sin.

Lydia managed a shuddering nod. “The night I ended it,” she whispered. “This place was filled with sadness and sorrow and… regret. There is still much of that, too.” It was a shocking realization to come to, even all these years later, when she’d known happiness and love with her previous marriage.

Geoffrey plucked a rose free, and she stared, stricken, at that white bloom between his fingers.

“That’s why I called you here,” he explained.

Entranced by the sight of him, with that bloom between his fingers in a saddening echo of long ago, it was a moment before his words penetrated. Lydia blinked slowly. “You called me here because of the sadness here?” She shook her head, confused. “I don’t…” Understand.

Raising that flower to his nose, he inhaled deep. Once he’d exhaled slowly and completely, he spoke. “The last time I visited this place was the day you wed Chombley. I came here, and I railed, and I wept.”

Oh, God. She couldn’t bear this. Her heart cracked open all over again. “G-Geoffrey,” she whispered, her voice breaking, and she raised a fist to her mouth.

“Mmm-mm,” he said with a ducal sternness and a shake of his head. “That’s not what this is about. I’ve not invited you here to resurrect old pains and hurts, but rather, to heal. I asked you to come here because I want to convert this place, Lydia, into what it once was, a place filled with love and laughter with you.” Reaching inside his jacket, he withdrew a flat, faded flower.

Lydia looked the item over before it hit her. She gasped.

“I kept it, and pressed it, and saved it. I also did research on the yellow rose, Lydia. Do you know what I learned?” he asked in solemn tones.

Weakly, she shook her head, words failing.

Geoffrey twirled the fresh bud between his fingers, staring at it contemplatively. “I learned it symbolizes happiness… friendship.” He looked up, and with their eyes locked, he extended that lush rose. “New beginnings.” He opened his left palm, the one holding the ancient flower, and it fluttered to the ground, landing on the earth between them.

Her heart jumped, and she went absolutely still. “What are you saying?” Her voice emerged breathy and barely there to her own ears.

He moved his eyes over her face, his gaze like the most tender of caresses. “I’m saying I want to replace that one agonizing moment here with joyous ones.” Geoffrey took a step closer. “I’m saying I want a future together with you, at last. Of course, you are settled in your life and likely not needing or wanting a husband. All I would have to offer would be my love and a promise to make you happy for—”

Sobbing, Lydia threw herself at his chest, and Geoffrey immediately caught her to him, folding his strong, powerful arms about her.

Catching his cheeks between her fingers, she drew him down so she might see his beloved face more clearly through the tears filling her eyes. “I love you,” she rasped. “I have always loved you. Letting you go was the h-hardest, the most painful—”

“Shh,” he murmured, touching a fingertip to her lips. “Don’t let the past and sorrow in.”

He held the rose between his fingers out to her, and she automatically reached out to catch that offering. “New beginnings, Lydia. Let this moment and these grounds be our new beginning.”

A giddy light suffused her breast, and she laughed. “Y-yes. I want that.” She wanted that so very much. Another happy sob escaped her, and Geoffrey tenderly brushed her tears away. “It had to be you, Geoffrey. It always was you.”

He smiled. “No, Lydia. It was always us.”

Us.

Together, at last.

With a smile, Lydia lifted her mouth and gave herself fully to his kiss and their future—together.