Page 80 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

She reached across the table to lay a hand over his. He glanced down at the contact, half unable to believe that she had done such a thing. Every time she reached out to him, he had to resist the urge to take and take and take.

“These are just the kinds of people who will think to benefit from a connection with us. You forget, we are a duke and duchess now. If there’s something shocking we have done, such as adopting William, then of course that’s sensationalist enough to spread. But once they understand how firmly the ton is on our side, and how much we like and approve of one another, they will begin to give other factors more weight. And they will be eager to befriend us for their own gain.”

The idea of allowing anyone who had insulted them—who befriended them merely for their own gain, who thought to use them with the same breath as they had offended them—irked him almost beyond belief. But he restrained himself from saying anything of the like.

Jessamine looked too happy for him to interfere with that happiness.

“Do as you would,” he said, wishing he had not over-indulged as much and that his head ached a little less. “I trust you.”

Her answering smile was almost enough to quieten the guilt in his chest.

He had failed Rebecca; he had failed everyone else in his life, but so long as he kept his distance, he would not fail her.

Jessamine threw herself into the preparation for the masquerade. Ten days passed like sparkling jewels. Andrew was at times both distant and attentive, but she chalked that up to his dislike of grand social events.

No doubt that went against his philosophy as a soldier.

Never mind. This was more important. She wanted to be accepted. Until coming here and marrying Andrew and being William’s mother—for all intents and purposes—she hadn’t known how much fitting in mattered to her.

It was important that the world came to accept her. They had accepted Rebecca, and Rebecca had entrusted the care of William to her.

More than that, she had been sent to a remote corner of Scotland because her father no longer wanted to deal with her, and although everyone had been kind, she had always been the odd one out. The stranger.

No more. This would be the best, most extravagant masquerade ball the world had ever seen, and everyone would be talking about the event for days to come.

In a fit of generous spirit, she even sent an invite to Baron Lorthey. Perhaps his biggest problem was his lack of acceptance, too. Perhaps all he needed was a little kindness, and he would come to view Andrew with⁠—

Well, perhaps not friendship.

But peace.

And so, when the day of the masquerade finally came around, she felt as though she had done everything right. Things with Andrew were good, and she had created the event of the Season. Everything was as it should be. She had invited all the gossips, everyone who would cast judgment over them, and she had even extended a peace offering to their only known enemy.

Rebecca would be proud.

She dressed with especial care that evening, her maid doing up the back of her black, lacy gown. A mask lay beside her. She was Hel, the Norse goddess of death. She could have gone as someone beautiful, but somehow—she’d lost a brother, her mother, a friend - but the child in the next room was proof that death could bring renewal as well. The goddess of death felt appropriate.

Andrew had not told her who he had chosen to go as. She looked forward to seeing him.

Her Andrew.

They had still not fully consummated the marriage, but what did that matter when they were so together? He read her some extracts from his newspaper in the mornings, and he shared in the caring of William. At night, she lay in his arms, and sometimes they slept, and sometimes they pleasured one another, and sometimes she woke to cold sheets and knew he’d had another nightmare.

One day, he would be free of even those.

Tying her mask around her head, she descended the stairs and through to the ballroom. Andrew had yet to descend, but she wanted to check on all her preparations.

The servants were ready, the footmen prepped with silver trays and glasses filled with lemonade and wine. Vibrant flowers from the hothouse gave the room a heady fragrance, and she had ordered vines to be tied around the pillars that framed the edges of the room, giving a bohemian touch. The doors to the balcony were thrown open, letting in a little air.

Everything was perfect. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

The air shifted behind her, and she felt rather than saw Andrew enter the room. Somehow, over the course of the past few weeks, she had become attuned to where he was. If he was in the same room as her, she knew. And if he was absent from the house, she knew that too.

She turned with a welcoming smile and found a man dressed humbly as a shepherd. But not just any shepherd; she gathered from the pouch of stones slung at his belt; he was dressed as David from the story of David and Goliath.

As he took her in, a line appeared between his brows.

“Hel,” she said in explanation. “The Norse goddess of death.”