Page 87 of His Duchess to Remember

She swallowed thickly. “I cannot stop you and, as you say, there is no one living in the Dower House. It… deserves to be occupied.”

“So, ye don’t mind?” he asked, his voice so soft and deep that it made her skin tingle as if there was a storm coming.

“I shall not argue,” she answered stiffly. “After all, Simon needs his father.”

And I need you, my husband. She had tried not to, but now that he was here, now that he was back, she could not deny that everything felt… right again. As if something that had been lost had finally been restored.

A dream come true.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It was strange how seamlessly Malcolm slotted back into life at Huntfield. Octavia had assumed it would be another difficult period of adjustment, but, after a few days, it was as if he had never left: he was there at breakfast, listening intently while Simon chattered away at him; he was there to teach Simon to ride; he was there in the gardens of an afternoon while Simon napped, taking a walk; he was there at the dining table of an evening, and in the drawing room after that, to read and have a glass of port or brandy.

Yet, he did not push Octavia to speak to him or even to be civil to him. Mostly, if they happened to be in the same room, they existed in a surprisingly comfortable silence. Then, once it got dark, Malcolm would make his way back across the lawns to the Dower House… and Octavia would watch him, wondering what he might do when he was over there.

“Where is the young master this afternoon?” Mr. Lincoln asked, as he set down some tea and a tart for Octavia.

She had taken herself to the library to read a novel that Frances had sent to her, enjoying some peace and quiet. “I believe he is in the woods with his father. They are fishing, or so I am told.”

The butler smiled, a knowing look on his face. “You must be pleased to have him back, Your Grace?”

It might have seemed like an impertinent question from someone else, but she and Mr. Lincoln had become such dear friends over the past five years that it was almost like talking to Evelyn or Frances or Joan.

“I am not… displeased,” Octavia replied. “Simon certainly seems happier. Perhaps, I should feel insulted by that, but I am not; I am just glad that he has his father again.”

The butler paused. “But are you pleased?”

“Simon is my joy, Mr. Lincoln. Whatever makes him happy makes me happy,” she said, more sternly.

The butler was not the only one who had tried to coax out her true feelings on the matter of Malcolm’s return. Millicent, too, kept asking not-so-subtle questions. Why, even the cook had asked if Octavia felt more content, now that her husband had returned.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Mr. Lincoln said, a note of apology in his voice. “There is a letter for you, just arrived.”

He took out the letter and placed it on the side table beside the tea things.

“Will that be everything, Your Grace?” he asked, but she was already reaching for the correspondence, too distracted by the handwriting to answer.

Considering she had been something of a hermit over the past five years, she had learned the handwriting of everyone who was likely to send her correspondence. This one was not so familiar, though she knew it.

“It is from Selina,” she said in pleasant surprise, opening it up.

“Selina, Your Grace?”

Octavia nodded. “Evelyn’s dear friend. Goodness, I have not heard from her in an age! She must have returned from her travels.”

The former diamond of the season, adored by every man she encountered, and almost-bride to Hugo, once upon a time, Selina was happily married now, to a gentleman who took her to the most wondrous places. Indeed, it was more common for Selina to be out of the country than in it, living her extraordinary life.

Inside the letter was an invitation to a ball in three days’ time at the couple’s country pile: a grand place that was at least a day’s carriage ride from Huntfield, nestled on the edge of the striking Dorset cliffs. A beautiful residence, but rather a long way away for a ball.

Then again, it was the end of summer, and everyone would be convening in London soon enough to escape the cold weather. And, knowing Selina, it would not be a ball to miss.

“It is an invitation,” Octavia said, tapping the edge of the letter against her lip, brimming with uncertainty.

“How wonderful.” The butler smiled. “Is it the last party of the summer?”

Octavia nodded. “Indeed, but… what do you think?”

“Think, Your Grace?”