“Give Me an Heir and Disappear” Duke Said After the Wedding — And She Made Him Regret Every Word
The words still burned in Josephine’s ears 3 weeks later, as sharp as the moment Nicholas Greymont had spoken them. She stood before the guilt-edged mirror in her dressing room at Northmere Hall, watching her ladies maid fasten the last pearl button at her throat. The gown was exquisite, ice blue silk that complimented her dark hair and fair complexion.
Everything about her appearance screamed Duchess. Everything except the hollow look in her own eyes. Will that be all your grace? Josephine nodded, dismissing the girl with a smile that didn’t reach past her lips. The door clicked shut. Silence swallowed the room whole. She pressed her palm against the cool glass of the mirror, studying the woman reflected there.
Josephine Carrington, no Greymont now, daughter of Viccount Carrington, educated at the finest schools, accomplished in four languages, skilled at pianoforte and watercolors. She’d been raised to be exactly this, a duke’s wife. What she hadn’t been raised for was the particular cruelty of a husband who looked at her like she was a broodmare at auction. I need an heir.
You need your family’s status secured. We both understand what this is. He’d said that during their brief courtship. If three stilted conversations and one carriage ride could be called courtship. She told herself it was pragmatic, honest, even better than false declarations of affection.
But then came their wedding night. She’d been nervous naturally. She’d also been hopeful. Marriage could grow into affection, couldn’t it? Respect could deepen into something warmer. She’d seen it happen with her parents, with her older sister. Nicholas had entered her chambers with the distant politeness of a banker reviewing accounts.
He’d been gentle enough, clinical, efficient, and utterly devoid of tenderness. And when it was over, when she’d lain there trying to make sense of the strange emptiness that came after such intimacy, he’d risen from the bed and delivered his parting instructions like a general dismissing a subordinate. Give me an air and disappear.
That’s all I require from this arrangement. Then he’d left. She hadn’t seen him alone since. Josephine turned from the mirror, smoothing her skirts with hands that had learned not to tremble. Tonight was the Ashworth ball, her first major social appearance as Duchess of Northmir. Nicholas would be there playing the role of attentive husband for the gossip.
She would play the role of contented wife. They were both accomplished actors. The carriage ride to the Ashworth estate took 40 minutes. Nicholas sat across from her in the dim interior, his face half shadowed by lamplight from the streets. He was handsome in that cold classical way, strong jaw, straight nose, gray blue eyes that revealed nothing.
His dark hair was perfectly styled, his evening clothes immaculate. Lady Ashworth will likely introduce you to the patronesses of Almax, he said, breaking the silence. Be polite, but not effusive. They respect dignity, of course. Josephine kept her voice even, pleasant, empty. There may be questions about He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully.
About the suddenness of our marriage. Keep your answers brief. We married because it was mutually advantageous. Nothing more needs to be said. Nothing more. As if she were a business acquisition, as if she hadn’t lain awake every night since the wedding, wondering what she’d done to deserve such coldness.
I understand perfectly your grace. Something flickered across his face, annoyance perhaps at the formality, but he said nothing, and the rest of the journey passed in silence. The Ashworth ballroom glittered with a thousand candles reflected in crystal chandeliers. Josephine had attended dozens of such events before her marriage, but this was different.
Every eye turned toward them as they entered. Every whisper carried weight. the new Duchess of Northmre married within 6 weeks of meeting. Her family’s doing quite well from the connection. Josephine lifted her chin and smiled graciously at the staring faces. Her family was indeed doing well. Her father’s business ventures had been sound to begin with, but the ducal connection had opened doors previously closed.
Her younger brother would attend Oxford without question now. Her sister’s husband had been appointed to a coveted position in the home office. The Carringtons had gained much from this marriage, and she had gained a husband who wanted her to disappear. North Mir, my dear fellow, Lord Ashworth materialized from the crowd, red-faced and jovial.
And the new duchess, what a vision. My wife has been anxious to meet you properly, your grace. Lady Ashworth swept forward, all elaborate quaffure and sharp eyes. She assessed Josephine in 3 seconds flat. And whatever she saw must have satisfied her because she smiled. A real smile, not the brittle social variety. Your grace, what a pleasure.
I knew your mother, you know, lovely woman. You have her eyes. Thank you, Lady Ashworth. Josephine felt something unnot in her chest. Mother speaks fondly of you as well. Come, let me introduce you to some people who matter. Lady Ashworth linked arms with her, already steering her away from the men. Your husband can fend for himself. He’s been doing it quite successfully for years.
There was an odd note in that last comment, but Josephine didn’t have time to examine it. Within minutes, she was surrounded by influential women who asked pointed questions disguised as pleasantries. “How was she finding Northre Hall?” Josephine’s true answer, vast and empty, died on her lips. Instead, she smiled and said, “Quite beautiful, the gardens especially.
Was the Duke attentive to her comfort. He’s attentive to his air production schedule,” she thought bitterly. Aloud, she replied, “most considerate, my lady. Did she find married life agreeable?” “The honest words, I find it lonely beyond measure,” pressed against her teeth, begging for release. She swallowed them.
“It’s an adjustment, naturally, but I’m content. Lie after lie, delivered with a smile that felt like it was carved into her face. She was good at this, had been trained for exactly this. But beneath her composure, something cold and hard was crystallizing in her chest. If Nicholas wanted her to disappear fine, she would disappear into this role so thoroughly that he’d never be able to find the real her. Let him have his empty duchess.
Let him have his heir when it came. He’d get exactly what he demanded, and not one fraction more. Your grace. Josephine blinked, realizing she’d missed something. Lady Worthington, one of the Almax patronesses, was looking at her with concern. Forgive me. I was wool gathering. You were saying? I was asking if you ride.
Several of us are planning an outing to Richmond Park next week. Your husband is an excellent horseman, of course, but I wasn’t certain about your interests. I ride. Josephine’s mother had insisted all her daughters learn properly. I’d be delighted to join you. Wonderful. Lady Worthington’s smile warmed.
It will give us a chance to know you properly. A duke’s wife has considerable influence in society, you know. Used well, that influence can accomplish much good. Something in her tone suggested she was offering more than a riding invitation. Josephine filed that away to consider later. For now, she simply nodded and let herself be drawn deeper into the conversation.
Across the ballroom, Nicholas watched his wife charm a circle of the Ton’s most influential women. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected her to be competent. The Carringtons raised their daughters well. But Josephine was more than competent. She was magnetic. She laughed at something Lady Ashworth said, and the sound carried across the room like music. Several heads turned.
men’s heads,” he noted with an uncomfortable twist in his gut. “Your duchess is quite accomplished,” said a voice at his elbow. “Nicholas turned to find Marcus Thornbury, Earl of Westbrook, studying Josephine with appreciation that bordered on improper.” “She is.” Nicholas kept his tone neutral. “Beautiful, too.
You’re a fortunate man, Northmir.” There was something pointed in that comment. Marcus had been one of Nicholas’s close friends at Cambridge before before everything had gone wrong, before Catherine. I’m aware, Nicholas said shortly. Are you? Marcus took a sip of his champagne, still watching Josephine. Because from here it looks like you’re treating England’s newest duchess like a stranger you’re forced to acknowledge at parties.
Nicholas’s jaw tightened. My marriage is not your concern. No, I suppose it isn’t. Marcus finally looked at him, and his expression was surprisingly serious. But I remember what happened with Catherine Havford. I remember what she did to you, and I’d hate to see you punish an innocent woman for another woman’s sins. Every muscle in Nicholas’s body went rigid.
Lady Havford is not a topic I discuss. No, you never did. You just locked yourself away for 2 years, refused all society, and emerged as the ice duke everyone whispers about now. Marcus shook his head. Catherine was poison, Nicholas. She was cruel and calculating, and she played you brilliantly. But Miss Carrington, forgive me, her grace, isn’t Catherine.
Surely you can see that. Nicholas said nothing. He couldn’t explain to Marcus, couldn’t explain to anyone how Catherine’s betrayal had carved something essential out of him how he’d learned in the most humiliating way possible that allowing yourself to love someone gave them the power to destroy you.
He’d been 28, besoughted, planning to propose. He’d walked into the garden at a house party and found Catherine in the arms of his younger brother, whispering about how easily she’d manipulated that fool Nicholas into nearly proposing, how she’d targeted him specifically for his title and fortune, how she was really in love with Alexander, but needed to secure her future first.
Alexander had at least had the grace to look ashamed. Catherine had just laughed. The scandal had been contained barely. Catherine had married someone else within the year. Alexander had fled to the continent and died there in a stupid duel over another woman, and Nicholas had retreated to Northmre, vowing never to be foolish enough to confuse duty with sentiment again.
When the pressure for an heir had become impossible to ignore, he’d chosen Josephine with cold calculation, good family, good bloodlines, educated, attractive enough, no romantic history that might indicate she expected love. no reason to think she’d demand more than a comfortable life and a title. He’d thought he was being practical, honest, fair, even.
He hadn’t expected the way she’d looked at him on their wedding night, hopeful, nervous, open. He’d panicked. The words had come out harsher than he’d intended, designed to establish boundaries before she could develop expectations he couldn’t meet. Give me an air and disappear. He’d meant, don’t expect love from me. Don’t ask for more than I can give.
But watching her now, watching the careful way she held herself, the perfect smile that never quite reached her eyes, he wondered what she’d actually heard. “She’s lovely,” said another voice. Nicholas turned to find Lady Margot Sinclair had materialized beside him. “Beautiful, sharp featured Marggo, who’d been Catherine’s closest friend, who’d tried to console him after the disaster in ways that had been transparently self-serving.
Lady Margot,” he nodded politely, taking a deliberate step back. She smiled, undeterred. “I heard you’d married such a surprise. I’d always thought, “Well, but she seems suitable enough, I suppose.” The dismissiveness in her tone set his teeth on edge. The Duchess of Northmir is more than suitable. “Oh, I meant no offense.” Marggo’s eyes glittered with something that might have been malice.
It’s just that she’s so young, inexperienced. Being a duchess requires a certain sophistication, don’t you think? Not everyone is prepared for the scrutiny. Before Nicholas could respond, Lord Ashworth called for the first waltz. Custom dictated he dance it with his wife. Nicholas excused himself and crossed the ballroom to where Josephine stood.
She saw him coming, and for just a moment something flickered in her eyes, something raw and wounded. Then it vanished behind that perfect smile. Your grace, she curtsied with flawless form. How unexpected. The barb was subtle but present. He deserved it. Will you dance with me? He extended his hand. She placed her gloved fingers in his palm with the enthusiasm of someone accepting a subpoena. Of course.
They took their positions as the music began. His hands settled at her waist, and he felt her stiffen slightly before forcing herself to relax. They moved through the steps in perfect synchronization. They danced once during their courtship, and she was as skilled as he remembered, but there was a wall between them thicker than the fabric of their clothes.
She looked somewhere past his left shoulder, her expression pleasantly blank, a stranger in his arms. “You’re managing the introductions well,” he said, attempting conversation. “Thank you. No elaboration. Lady Worthington seemed quite taken with you. How gratifying. Her tone was so perfectly neutral it bordered on insulent.
Nicholas felt irritation spark. Is something wrong? Finally her eyes met his. Dark brown, direct, and utterly cold. Not at all your grace. Everything is precisely as you arranged it to be. I’m here performing my duties as duchess. Isn’t that what you required? The music swirled around them. Other couples twirled past, laughing and chatting.
Nicholas felt like they were dancing in a vacuum, cut off from warmth or light. Josephine, I saw Lady Margot speaking with you, she interrupted, her voice still pleasant. She’s very beautiful. She’s irrelevant, of course. But something in her expression suggested she didn’t believe him. I’ve been told I should befriend her, that she’s influential in society.
She’s poison, Nicholas said flatly. Stay away from her. One dark eyebrow lifted slightly. Poison? That’s rather dramatic. He couldn’t explain without revealing Catherine without admitting to the spectacular failure of judgment that still made him wake sometimes in a cold sweat. Trust me on this trust. She repeated the word like it was foreign.
An interesting concept in our marriage, don’t you think? The waltz was ending. Nicholas tightened his grip on her waist slightly, an instinctive gesture to keep her from immediately pulling away. She went very still. Your grace. He realized what he’d done, an almost possessive claim, completely contrary to everything he’d told her.
He released her and stepped back. Forgive me. I thank you for the dance. She curtsied again, her face unreadable. The pleasure was mine. Then she turned and glided away, leaving him standing alone on the edge of the dance floor, feeling like he’d just lost something he hadn’t realized he was holding.
The remaining hours of the ball passed in a blur of introductions and small talk. Josephine danced with several gentlemen, all appropriate, all properly vetted by the hostesses. She laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. She admired gowns she found garish. She pretended her face didn’t ache from smiling, and she watched her husband from the corner of her eye.
Nicholas was popular, she realized. People, men and women both, gravitated toward him. They sought his opinion, his approval. He was reserved, certainly, but there was intelligence in his eyes and authority in his bearing that commanded respect. This was the Duke of Northmre, powerful, influential, untouchable.
This was the man who told her to disappear. He’s always been that way, you know. Josephine turned to find Lady Margot Sinclair had appeared beside her. Beautiful and blonde and smiling like a cat with cream. I beg your pardon. The Duke. Margot’s voice was honey over steel. Remote controlled. Ever since the Catherine Havford affair, he’s kept everyone at arms length.
Josephine’s heart gave an unpleasant lurch. She knew that name. Everyone did. Lady Catherine had been the season’s diamond 3 years ago. There had been some scandal involving broken engagement expectations, though the details had been suppressed by powerful families. “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with my husband’s private history,” Josephine said carefully. “Oh, we’re old friends.
Catherine was my dearest companion.” Margot’s smile sharpened. “It was tragic, really what happened. She was so in love with him, but his family pressured him terribly about duty. He broke her heart rather than disappoint his late father. Josephine doubted that was the true version of events, but she simply nodded politely.
How unfortunate for Lady Catherine. Yes, well, some men are capable of love. Others are only capable of obligation. Marggo’s eyes traveled deliberately to where Nicholas stood talking with a group of lords. I hope you went into this marriage with realistic expectations, your grace. It would be cruel to hope for more than he can give.
The words landed like poison darts, each one precise. But Josephine had been raised in a household where politics and social maneuvering were discussed over breakfast. She recognized manipulation when she heard it. How kind of you to concern yourself with my expectations, Lady Margot. Josephine kept her tone light, almost amused, though I confess I find unsolicited advice rather tiresome.
If you’ll excuse me. She walked away before Margot could respond, her heart pounding. So that was Lady Marggo Sinclair, beautiful, influential, and apparently convinced she had some claim on Nicholas’s past. Was Nicholas still in love with this Catherine person? Was that why he’d been so cold on their wedding night because he was imagining someone else? The thought made her feel ill.
By the time they returned to Northmere Hall in the early hours of morning, Josephine was exhausted in ways that had nothing to do with physical fatigue. She was emotionally hollowed out, carved empty by pretending. Nicholas walked her to her chambers, another piece of social theater for the benefit of servants who might gossip.
“You did well tonight,” he said at her door. Lady Ashworth spoke very highly of you. “How gratifying,” Josephine repeated her earlier response. She was too tired for creativity. He frowned slightly. Are you unwell? I’m perfectly well, your grace. She gripped her door handle. Simply tired. These social performances are exhausting, as I’m sure you’re aware.
Performances? He said the word slowly, as if tasting it. She met his eyes directly. What else would you call them? We’re both actors in a play, aren’t we? You play the attentive husband. I play the contented wife. and offstage we maintained the boundaries you established. Something flickered in his expression, surprise perhaps, or discomfort.
I didn’t mean please don’t. She was too tired for whatever justification he might offer. You were very clear about what you expected from this marriage. I’m simply fulfilling my role. Isn’t that what you wanted? She didn’t wait for his answer. She slipped into her chambers and closed the door between them, leaning against it until she heard his footsteps retreat down the corridor.
Only then did she allow the perfect duchess mask to crack. She pressed her hands against her face, breathing through the tightness in her chest, give me an air, and disappear. She would eventually, but first she was going to make Nicholas Greymont regret ever speaking those words. The next morning, Josephine sent notes to Lady Worththington and Lady Ashworth, accepting the Richmond Park invitation and proposing a charitable committee for educating young women from modest circumstances.
If she was going to be the Duchess of Northmir, she’d be a duchess who mattered, who did more than smile prettily at balls. She would build a life here that didn’t require Nicholas’s participation. She would become indispensable to society, and she would never ever let him see how deeply his words had cut. But first she had to survive breakfast.
The morning room at Northmere Hall was smaller than the formal dining room, filled with light from tall windows overlooking the gardens. Josephine had taken to eating breakfast there alone, arriving early before Nicholas came down from whatever wing of the house he occupied. This morning, however, he was already there when she entered.
He rose immediately, surprising her. Good morning. your grace,” she nodded, moving toward the sideboard where breakfast was laid out. “Her appetite had vanished, but she served herself toast and tea anyway. I wanted to apologize,” Nicholas said abruptly. “For last night I shouldn’t have,” He stopped, seeming unsure how to continue.
“Josephine sat at the far end of the table, as far from him as the space allowed. You have nothing to apologize for. You’ve been nothing but consistent.” Consistent? He repeated her word with the same odd tone he’d used for performances the night before. Is that how you see me? She took a sip of tea, using the time to compose her response.
I see you as a man who knows what he wants from this marriage and communicated it clearly. I respect that honesty, but you don’t respect me. The directness of the statement caught her off guard. She set down her teacup carefully. I barely know you, your grace. Respect requires familiarity. We’re married. Yes, we are. She met his eyes.
And in 3 weeks of marriage, you’ve spoken to me more in the last 5 minutes than in all the previous days combined. Forgive me if I find it difficult to develop deep feelings of respect under such circumstances. A muscle worked in his jaw. I’ve been busy. The estate is expertly managed by an excellent steward from what I’ve observed.
Josephine kept her tone pleasant, factual. You’re not busy, your grace. You’re avoidant. There’s a difference. Silence fell between them, thick and uncomfortable. Finally, Nicholas spoke, his voice tight. What do you want from me, Josephine? Everything. Nothing. An explanation for why he’d been so cruel. An apology that meant something.
A reason to believe this marriage might be more than a beautiful prison. But she couldn’t say any of that, wouldn’t? He’d made his position clear, and she still had enough pride left to refuse to beg. “I want exactly what you offered, your grace. A comfortable life, a secure position, children eventually,” she paused, then added with deliberate lightness, and the freedom to pursue my own interests when I’m not required for duchess duties.
“Surely that’s reasonable.” His eyes searched her face as if trying to find something beneath her words. She kept her expression neutral. Of course, he said finally. That’s reasonable. Excellent. She rose, leaving her breakfast mostly untouched. Then we understand each other perfectly. If you’ll excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to.
She swept from the room before he could respond, and absolutely refused to acknowledge the hollow ache in her chest. Two could play at disappearing. The Richmond Park outing occurred. The following week, on a morning so perfect it felt almost mocking. Bright sunshine, gentle breeze, ideal temperature.
Nature at its most romantic, wasted on Josephine’s determinately pragmatic mood. She rode her mare Athena, a wedding gift from her father that was perhaps the only unqualified joy in her new life alongside Lady Worthington and Lady Ashworth. Several other women had joined the party along with a few gentlemen, including unfortunately Nicholas.
He rode his massive black stallion with easy competence, occasionally joining the gentleman’s conversation, but more often riding alone, his attention seemingly on the landscape. Josephine ignored him with the dedication of someone who’d been practicing. “Your seat is excellent, your grace,” Lady Worthington remarked as they caned along a treelined path.
“Not all London ladies ride with such confidence. My mother insisted we learn properly, Josephine said. She believed women should be competent in as many areas as possible. Limited skills lead to limited options. Lady Ashworth laughed. Your mother is a wise woman. I’ve always said the same to my daughters. A woman who can only accomplish needle work and sering is a woman at the mercy of whatever man controls her purse.
Spoken like a true reformer, Lady Worththington said with affection. Have you managed to convert the new duchess to your charitable schemes yet? Actually, Josephine said seeing her opening, I’ve been hoping to discuss exactly that. I’ve been considering establishing a fund for young women’s education, practical education, reading, writing, mathematics, skills that might help them find respectable employment or manage households of their own.
Both women turned to look at her with new interest. That’s ambitious, Lady Worththington said carefully, and potentially controversial. Many believe educating women beyond their station creates discontent. Many believed women shouldn’t ride a stride either, Josephine counted. Yet here we are, competent and undestroyed by the experience.
Lady Ashworth’s laugh rang out. I like her constants. She has spine. The question is resources, Lady Worthington said more seriously now. Such a project would require significant funding and social backing. Have you discussed this with Northmre? Josephine’s hands tightened slightly on her reigns. I plan to use my personal allowance for initial costs, and I was hoping some of you might be interested in serving as patronesses.
The Northmere name will attract donors, but your collective influence would ensure the project is taken seriously. It was a careful political move, offering them ownership rather than asking for charity. Josephine watched them consider it. I’m interested, Lady Ashworth said finally. My husband will grumble about radicalism, but he always does.
I’ll manage him. And I, Lady Worthington agreed. Though you should still discuss it with your husband, your grace. Husbands can be surprisingly obstructive when they feel excluded from their wives projects. Josephine smiled blandly. I’ll keep that in mind. They rode on discussing logistics and possibilities. Josephine felt something unfurl in her chest.
Purpose maybe, or simply relief, that she’d found something meaningful to occupy her time beyond counting the hours until Nicholas might condescend to notice her existence. She was so absorbed in the conversation that she didn’t notice the rabbit darting across the path until Athena shied violently. Josephine kept her seat barely, but the mayor half reared in panic.
Josephine reacted instinctively, loosening the res to let Athena settle rather than fighting her. The technique worked. Athena came down on all four hooves and danced sideways, but didn’t bolt. Wellandled, Lady Ashworth called, but before Josephine could respond, another horse crashed into the space beside her. Nicholas’s stallion and Nicholas himself reaching for Athena’s bridal with white knuckles and fierce dark eyes.
“Let go,” Josephine said sharply. “She’s fine. You nearly fell. I didn’t fall. I handled it. Let go of my horse.” She heard the edge in her own voice, the fury she’d been suppressing for weeks, suddenly finding an outlet. Nicholas released Athena’s bridal, but didn’t move away. His face had gone pale. You could have been hurt, but I wasn’t because I know how to ride.
She gathered her reigns, bringing Athena fully under control with firm, gentle hands. I don’t need rescuing your grace, especially not from a slightly spooked horse. Something crossed his face. Hurt, maybe. But Josephine was too angry to care. angry at his sudden concern for her physical well-being when he’d shown none for her emotional state.
Angry that he’d rushed to help her with a startled horse, but couldn’t be bothered to have a real conversation with her across the breakfast table. “Josephine, I believe Lady Worthington wanted to show me the view from the overlook,” she said, turning Athena away from him. “If you’ll excuse me,” she rode away without waiting for permission and tried to ignore the way her hands were shaking.
The rest of the outing passed without incident, but Josephine was aware of Nicholas’s presence with knifesharp precision. He kept riding near her group as if he thought she might tumble from the saddle at any moment. The hovering irritated her beyond reason. When they finally returned to the mounting point, and the servants began helping riders dismount, Nicholas was there before any groom could reach her. Allow me.
It wasn’t a request. He gripped her waist and lifted her down from Athena’s back with easy strength. For a moment they stood close enough that she could see gold flex in his gray blue eyes, close enough to smell sandalwood and something else distinctly him. Close enough to remember their wedding night and the clinical way he’d touched her.
Then Josephine stepped back sharply. “Thank you, your grace. We should talk,” he said quietly, about what happened. Nothing happened. A horse shied. I handled it. There’s nothing to discuss. She turned to stroke Athena’s neck, using the mare as a shield between them. You’re angry with me. The observation was so belated.
It would have been funny if it weren’t painful. Josephine looked at him over Athena’s withers. I’m not angry, your grace. I’m simply managing my expectations, as Lady Marggo suggested. His expression darkened. What did Margot say to you? nothing I didn’t already know. Josephine handed Athena’s reigns to a groom and smiled at Nicholas with icy politeness.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised Lady Ashworth I’d join her for tea this week to discuss the education project. I wouldn’t want to disappoint her by being late for our carriage. She walked away, feeling his gaze burning into her back. Let him stew. Let him wonder. Let him feel a fraction of the confusion and rejection she’d been drowning in for 3 weeks.
She was done being the only one drowning. That evening, Nicholas appeared at her chambers before dinner, an unprecedented event. Josephine was at her writing desk, composing letters to potential donors for her education fund, when the knock came. Enter. He stepped inside, and she noticed he left the door slightly a jar, propriety, even in private, or perhaps especially in private, to maintain the careful distance between them.
I owe you an apology, he said without preamble. Several, actually. Josephine set down her pen and folded her hands in her lap. I’m listening. He moved deeper into the room, but didn’t sit, standing instead, with rigid posture like a man facing execution. I’ve been unfair to you from the beginning.
I went into this marriage with certain assumptions, certain rules I thought would protect both of us. But I realize now that I never asked if you agreed to those rules. You were very clear about your expectations on our wedding night. Josephine said quietly. Give you an air and disappear. Those were your exact words. He flinched. Actually flinched.
I didn’t mean those words came out wrong, harsher than I intended. Did they? She studied his face, trying to read truth from evasion. What did you intend to say then? He ran a hand through his hair, disrupting its perfect style. I meant that I didn’t expect you to love me, that you shouldn’t feel obligated to pretend affection, that we could maintain separate lives while fulfilling our duties as Duke and Duchess.
And that’s different from telling me to disappear. How exactly? It’s he stopped, seeming to realize he had no good answer. You’re right. It’s not different. It was cruel, and I’m sorry. The apology landed between them, sincere, but insufficient. Josephine felt the words she’d been holding back for weeks, pressing against her teeth.
“Do you know what it’s like,” she said slowly, “to be intimate with someone who treats you like a task to be completed. To lie there afterward, wondering what’s wrong with you that your own husband can’t bear to look at you?” His face went white. Josephine, to spend weeks walking on eggshells, wondering if you’re supposed to disappear literally or just emotionally.
To watch your husband be warm and engaging with complete strangers at balls while he can barely manage five words over breakfast. I never meant to make you feel invisible. The word came out sharp, cutting, unwanted, like you’d purchased a brood mare rather than married a person. Stop. His voice was rough. Please. I know I’ve hurt you.
I know I’ve been I’ve been monstrous, but you have to understand. Understand what? That you were in love with someone else? That I’m some sort of punishment you’re enduring for duty’s sake? He stared at her. How did you Lady Margot was very informative about Catherine Havford? A litany of curses escaped him, creative and comprehensive.
Whatever Margot told you was poison. She’s Catherine’s friend, and she’s been trying to cause trouble for years. So, you weren’t in love with Catherine? I thought I was. I was wrong. His jaw was tight. She was using me for my title. I found out in the most humiliating way possible, and yes, I’ve been careful since then about allowing anyone close.
The admission hung in the air. Josephine tried to sort her feelings, anger, sympathy, frustration, something that might have been understanding if she let it grow. I’m sorry that happened to you, she said finally. Truly, betrayal is it’s devastating, but Nicholas, I’m not Catherine, and punishing me for her sins is I know.
He moved closer, stopping just short of touching distance. I know you’re not her. You’re nothing like her. You’re intelligent and competent, and you managed that horse today with more skill than half the men in the party. You charmed the most influential women in London at your first major ball. You’re planning a charitable project that could actually make a difference rather than just being fashionable charity work.
The compliments caught her off guard. She’d thought he hadn’t noticed any of those things. “You’ve been watching,” she said. “Of course I’ve been watching.” Something in his voice cracked slightly. “You’re my wife, and you’re remarkable, and I’ve been treating you like like you said, like you were someone I needed to guard against rather than someone I was lucky to have.” Josephine’s throat felt tight.
This was what she’d wanted. Acknowledgement, apology, some sign that he saw her as a person, but it also terrified her because if she let herself hope and he crushed that hope again, she wasn’t sure she’d survive it. What do you want, Nicholas? She threw his earlier question back at him. I want He stopped, seeming to grapple with something. I want to start over.
Not the marriage. We can’t undo that. But the way we are with each other, I want a chance to know you, to let you know me, to build something better than what I created with my damn defensive walls. And if I say no, she had to ask. Had to know if this was genuine or just guilt, then I’ll respect that.
You asked for freedom to pursue your own interests, and you’ll have it. I won’t stand in the way of your education project or anything else you want to do. But I hope, he paused. I hope you’ll give me a chance to prove I can be more than the man who said those unforgivable words on our wedding night. Josephine looked at him, really looked.
She saw weariness in the lines around his eyes, saw genuine regret in the set of his mouth, saw something that might have been fear beneath his ducal composure. He was offering her a door that had been locked shut. The question was whether she was brave enough to walk through it. “I need time,” she said finally. I can’t just flip a switch and trust you. Not after.
I understand. He took a step back, giving her space. Take whatever time you need. But Josephine, I meant what I said. You’re remarkable, and I’ve been a fool not to see it from the beginning. He left then, pulling the door closed quietly behind him. Josephine sat frozen at her desk, staring at the letters she’d been writing.
Her hands were shaking again, but this time not from anger. This time from something far more dangerous. Hope. The next 3 weeks unfolded in strange, careful increments. Nicholas didn’t push, but his presence became more constant. He started taking breakfast with her every morning, not forcing conversation, but available if she wanted to talk.
He asked about her education project and actually listened to her answers, even offering suggestions about potential donors. He rode with her twice more, keeping a respectful distance, but no longer hovering like she was made of porcelain. He attended two more balls and danced with her each time, and the dances felt less like performing and more like something.
She wasn’t sure what yet, but he didn’t come to her chambers again at night. Josephine told herself she was relieved. She wasn’t ready for that kind of intimacy. Not when she was still sorting through her feelings about him. But there was a small, stubborn part of her that wondered if he’d lost interest now that she wasn’t playing the compliant wife.
If this was just another performance, she hated that she couldn’t stop questioning his motives. The education fund was progressing well. Lady Worthington and Lady Ashworth had proven invaluable allies, bringing other influential women into the project. Josephine spent her afternoons in meetings and her evenings writing correspondents, and for the first time since her wedding, she felt like she had purpose beyond producing an air.
She was so absorbed in the project that she almost missed the signs. The first hint came at a musical hosted by Lady Thornbury. Josephine was admiring a painting in the gallery when Lady Margot appeared beside her like a beautiful spider. How lovely you look tonight, your grace. marriage clearly agrees with you.
Josephine kept her expression neutral. Thank you, Lady Margot. I hear your little charity project is gaining attention. How ambitious. Marggo’s smile was razored. Of course, some people are saying it’s rather unseammly for a Duke’s wife to be so involved in practical matters, as if you came from trade yourself. The insult was clear, but deniable.
Josephine turned to face her directly. Some people gossip because they have nothing better to do. I prefer to actually accomplish something useful. Useful? Margot examined her gloves. Is that what you call it? I suppose when one’s marriage is more business arrangement than love match, one must find purpose elsewhere.
My marriage is none of your concern. Oh, but it is, darling, Margot’s eyes glittered. You see, I care about Nicholas. always have, and I hate seeing him trapped in a marriage to someone so illsuited, someone he was forced to choose out of duty rather than desire. Forced? Josephine kept her voice even, despite the way her heart was hammering.
Well, naturally, after the scandal with Alexander, his brother, you know, the family was desperate to restore the ducal line. Any appropriate woman would have done really. You just happened to be available and unattached. Margot leaned closer. He doesn’t love you. You realize he’s not capable of it anymore.
Not after Catherine destroyed that part of him. The words were designed to wound, and they did. But Josephine had been raised to never show weakness to predators. She smiled slightly. You seem remarkably invested in my husband’s emotional capacity, Lady Margot. One might almost think you were jealous. Marggo’s expression hardened. Jealous of what? a cold marriage to a man who treats you like a duty of the fact that I’m his duchess and you’re not.
Josephine let the truth sit between them. Whatever you think you know about Nicholas, whatever designs you have regarding him, they’re irrelevant. I’m his wife. You’re simply someone who wishes she were. She walked away before Margot could respond, but her hands were shaking by the time she found a private corner.
She pressed them against her skirts, trying to slow her racing heart. Was Margot right? Was she just a convenient choice? Had Nicholas’s recent attention been guilt rather than genuine interest. Josephine. She turned to find Nicholas approaching, concern evident in his expression. I saw Margot talking to you. What did she say? Nothing important.
Josephine forced herself to meet his eyes. Just the usual social venom. She’s dangerous, Nicholas said quietly. She was there when, with Catherine, she helped cover it up. Helped Catherine maintain her reputation while mine was shredded. She’s been trying to insinuate herself into my life ever since, as if we have some special bond forged in humiliation.
Did you want her? The question escaped before Josephine could stop it. What? No. Oh, no. He looked genuinely appalled. Margot is beautiful and cruel, and I’d trust her about as far as I could throw a horse. Why would you think? She seems to think she has some claim on you, some special understanding. Nicholas’s jaw tightened.
The only thing Margot understands is manipulation. Whatever she said to you, it was designed to hurt. She can’t stand that I chose someone she can’t control. Did you choose me? Josephine heard the vulnerability in her own voice and hated it. Or was I just convenient, available, good enough to fulfill a duty, understanding dawned in his eyes? She told you that.
Was she wrong? He stepped closer. Close enough that she could see the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples. She was wrong. I chose you because yes, you were appropriate. Yes, your family was suitable. But I could have chosen any number of appropriate women from suitable families. I chose you because when we spoke that first time at the Devonshire ball, you told me you thought Shakespeare’s comedies were better than his tragedies, because hope was more courageous than despair.
” Josephine blinked. She’d forgotten that conversation. It had been so brief, so seemingly inconsequential. “You remembered that?” “I remembered that you had opinions, real ones, that you weren’t performing for me. You were just being honest.” His voice softened. I chose you because even in three short conversations I could see you were intelligent and genuine and I was terrified of exactly that.
Terrified of wanting more than duty of risking. He stopped jaw working of ending up like I did with Catherine. So I sabotaged it from the start. I built walls before you could knock them down. And I’m sorryer for that than I can properly express. The sincerity in his voice made her throat tight. She wanted to believe him.
More than anything, she wanted to believe him. But Margot’s words still echoed. He’s not capable of love anymore. “I don’t know if I can trust this,” Josephine whispered. “I don’t know if I can trust you not to hurt me again.” “I know,” he lifted his hand as if to touch her face, then stopped, letting it fall.
“All I can do is prove it day by day, action by action, until you believe me.” Before she could respond, Lady Thornbury appeared, announcing the musical performance was about to begin. The moment shattered. Nicholas offered his arm and Josephine took it. Hyper aware of the warmth of him through layers of fabric. They sat through a soprano’s performance of Italian areas, and Josephine couldn’t have said what any of them were about.
All she could think about was the man beside her and the question that wouldn’t leave her alone. Could people really change? or was she setting herself up for another devastating disappointment? The answer came three days later in the most unexpected way. Josephine was in the library at Northmere Hall, a massive roomlined floor toseeiling with books, most of which she suspected Nicholas had never read.
She was researching historical models for women’s education when she heard raised voices from the hallway. Absolutely not appropriate for the Duchess to be conducting herself in such a manner. That was Nicholas’s voice. tight with anger. “Your grace, I merely thought you should be aware of malicious gossip, of lies designed to undermine my wife’s character.
” Josephine set down her book and moved toward the door, curiosity overriding propriety. “The accusations are quite specific, your grace. Lady Margot claims she witnessed I don’t care what Lady Margot claims. She’s a liar who’s been trying to cause problems since my wedding. If she’s spreading rumors about the Duchess, I want her name struck from every guest list.
Make it clear to the staff that she’s not welcome at Northmar ever. There was a shocked pause. Your grace, Lady Margot is poison, and I should have excised her from my social circle years ago. See that it’s done. Footsteps retreated. Josephine moved back from the door just as Nicholas entered the library, his expression thunderous. He stopped when he saw her.
You heard? I heard you defending me. She studied his face. What accusations? He hesitated, then sighed. Margo’s been spreading rumors that you’ve been conducting affairs with the gentlemen who’ve donated to your education fund, that you’re using the project as a cover for inappropriate liaison. White hot fury flooded through her.
That’s that’s insane. Every meeting has been chaperoned. The correspondence has been, “I know everyone with any sense knows, but Margot’s counting on people who like salacious gossip more than truth.” His hands flexed into fists. “I’ve instructed my secretary to send letters to everyone involved in your project, making clear that I fully support your work and that anyone who repeats these lies will answer to me personally.
” Josephine felt something crack in her chest, the last defensive wall she’d been maintaining, because this wasn’t words. This was action, public, irreversible action that put his reputation behind hers. You’re choosing me, she said quietly. Over your comfort, over your privacy. You’re making it public. Of course I am.
He looked at her like the answer should be obvious. You’re my wife. More than that, you’re doing genuinely important work. I’ll be damned if I let Margot destroy that because she’s bitter and cruel. She’ll retaliate. She’ll let her try. His voice was still I should have done this years ago after Catherine.
I should have made it clear that the Havford circle wasn’t welcome in my life. I was too concerned with avoiding scandal, with maintaining dignity. But dignity means nothing if I’m using it to hide behind while someone hurts you. Josephine couldn’t breathe properly. This was this was everything she’d wanted. Not pretty words or polite apologies, but actual change, actual choice.
Nicholas, I meant what I said, he continued, moving closer, about wanting to build something better. I can’t undo the past 3 weeks. Can’t unsay those damned words from our wedding night. But I can show you, starting now, that you matter more than my pride, more than my comfort, more than any walls I thought I needed. She closed the distance between them and did something she’d never done before.
Reached up and touched his face, just her fingertips against his jaw. Feeling the roughness of afternoon stubble, he went very still. Josephine, “Thank you,” she whispered. “For defending me, for believing me, for for seeing me.” His hand came up to cover hers, pressing her palm more firmly against his cheek.
“I see you. I’m sorry it took me so long, but I see you now. They stood like that for a long moment, something fragile and new growing in the space between them. Then Nicholas turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to her palm. Gentle, reverent, nothing like their wedding night.
When he looked at her again, his eyes were bright. May I take you to dinner tonight? Not here. Somewhere in London, somewhere public where everyone can see me escort my brilliant wife and know exactly how proud I am of her. Her heart stuttered. Is this wise with the rumors? The rumors are lies. The best way to fight lies is with visible truth.
His thumb stroked across her knuckles. Unless you’re not ready. I won’t push. She thought about all the careful distance she’d maintained. Thought about the walls she’d built to protect herself. thought about the risk of letting them down. Then she thought about the man in front of her who just publicly chosen her over his comfortable detachment, who was looking at her like she mattered, like she was worth the risk. I’d like that, she said very much.
His smile transformed his face, genuine, unguarded, beautiful. Good. I’ll arrange everything. He left to make preparations, and Josephine sank into one of the library chairs, her legs suddenly unsteady. Something fundamental had shifted between them. The question was whether it would hold or whether this was just another temporary reprieve before disappointment.
She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart race. Please, she thought, please let this be real. The dinner was at Guilon’s Hotel, one of London’s most fashionable establishments. Nicholas had reserved a private dining room, but he’d deliberately chosen one with glass doors that opened onto the main restaurant, visible to anyone who cared to look, and people were definitely looking.
Josephine wore a gown of deep emerald silk that brought out the warmth in her dark hair. Nicholas had sent flowers to her chambers before they left, white roses with a note that simply said, “These reminded me of you. Elegant and real.” She’d cried over that note, just a little.
Now, sitting across from him in the candle lit dining room, she felt nervous in a way she hadn’t since she was 17 and attending her first real ball. “You look terrified,” Nicholas observed, amusement softening his voice. “I’m not terrified. I’m just” She paused, searching for honesty. “I’m afraid this is a dream, that I’ll wake up and you’ll be the stranger from our wedding night again.
” his expressions sobered. I can’t promise I’ll never make mistakes. I’m sure I’ll say something wrong or disappoint you in ways I can’t anticipate, but Josephine, I swear I will never deliberately hurt you again, and I will never tell you to disappear. The words settled over her like a vow. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
They ordered, and then Nicholas did something unexpected. He asked her about her childhood. not polite social questions, but real curiosity. What had she been like as a girl? What books had she loved? What had she dreamed about? Josephine found herself talking about growing up with two sisters, about her mother’s insistence that all of them learn to think as well as embroider.
About sneaking into her father’s library to read philosophy texts she was supposed to be too young for. About wanting to matter, to do something beyond just being ornamental. Is that why the education fund matters so much? Nicholas asked. Because you understand what it’s like to want more than you’re supposed to want. Yes, she met his eyes.
I was lucky. I had parents who encouraged education, but so many girls don’t. They’re told their only value is in being pretty and obedient and producing heirs for She stopped realizing what she’d said. Nicholas’s mouth quirked. For men like me. I didn’t mean you did. And you’re right, he set down his wine glass.
I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how I made you feel on our wedding night, and I realized I’ve spent my whole life in a system that treats women like transactions, like the only thing that matters is bloodline and duty. And I never questioned it until I saw the look on your face when I said those words. What look? Like I’d broken something in you.
His voice was raw, like I’d taken someone hopeful and bright and crushed her into something small and afraid. And I hated myself for it. Josephine’s throat felt tight. I wasn’t afraid. I was angry. “Good.” He leaned forward slightly. “Be angry. You have every right. But Josephine, I want the chance to make you something other than angry. I want to make you happy, or at least content.
Is that possible?” She thought about it, really thought, about the weeks of pain and loneliness, about his recent efforts, his public defense this dinner, about the man he seemed to be becoming versus the man he’d been. I think, she said slowly, that it might be, if you keep choosing me, not just once, but consistently, if you let me be a real partner instead of just a duchess who produces heirs and stays out of your way. I want that.
” His hand moved across the table, palm up, an invitation. I want you as a partner, as a friend, as eventually if you’ll allow it, something more. She placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the strength of his fingers closing around hers. I want that, too. But Nicholas, you have to understand, I can’t be hurt like that again.
If you change your mind, if this is temporary, it’s not temporary. His grip tightened. I’m not good at this, at being open, at letting people in. But I’m willing to learn if you’re willing to be patient with me. And I’m not good at trusting easily. Not anymore. But I’m willing to try if you prove I can.
They sat like that, hands linked across the table, while around them the restaurant hummed with conversation and laughter. It felt like making a promise, not the vows they’d exchanged in church, which had been all duty and obligation. This felt like choosing each other with full knowledge of the risk. The rest of the dinner passed in easier conversation.
Nicholas told her about his brother Alexander. Not the scandal, but the boy he’d been before everything went wrong. How they’d been close once. How Alexander’s death in that stupid duel had gutted him almost as badly as Catherine’s betrayal. “I think that’s why I was so cold with you,” he admitted over dessert.
“I’d lost my brother to his inability to control his heart. I’d been humiliated by a woman I’d loved. And I thought if I just kept everything transactional, if I never let myself feel anything, I’d be safe. But you weren’t safe, Josephine said quietly. You were just alone. Yes. His eyes met hers. I was alone. And then I married you.
And I was still alone because I’d built walls to keep you out. And I’m tired of being alone, Josephine. I’m tired of pretending not to care. So stop pretending,” she squeezed his hand. “Stop performing. Just be real with me. Even if it’s messy, even if it’s hard. I don’t know how to be anything but controlled. Then learn.” She smiled slightly.
I’ll teach you if you teach me how to trust again. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles with deliberate gentleness. Deal. They left the restaurant to a chorus of whispers and stares. Nicholas kept her hand tucked into his arm, his posture protective but not possessive. Several people approached to congratulate them on the marriage, and Nicholas introduced her with genuine pride in his voice.
This was the public declaration she’d needed, not empty words in private, but visible commitment where it mattered. In the carriage ride home, Nicholas sat beside her instead of across from her, not touching beyond where their shoulders brushed with the movement of the vehicle, but close, present. Thank you, Josephine said quietly.
For tonight, for all of it. I should be thanking you. His voice was low, intimate in the darkness. For giving me another chance, for not giving up on this marriage when you had every right to. I nearly did. The admission escaped before she could censor it. After the first week, I thought about going back to my parents, asking them to help me get an anulment.
She felt him tense beside her. What stopped you? Pride, mostly. She laughed softly. I didn’t want to be the girl who couldn’t make her marriage work. And I don’t know. Some stubborn part of me wanted to prove I could build a life here, even if you weren’t part of it. I’m glad you stayed. His hand found hers in the darkness. Even though I gave you every reason not to.
They rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence, fingers interlaced, both of them thinking about the future they were beginning to build. When they reached Northre Hall, Nicholas walked her to her chambers again. But this time he hesitated at the door. “May I kiss you?” he asked. “A real kiss? Not not like before.
Like I actually care about you.” Josephine’s heart hammered. Yes. He cuppuffed her face in both hands, thumbs stroking her cheekbones, and bent slowly to give her time to change her mind. When his lips met hers, it was nothing like their wedding night. This was soft and questioning, a conversation rather than a conquest.
She made a small sound and pressed closer, her hands coming up to grip his coat. The kiss deepened, but stayed tender, full of promise rather than demand. When the kiss ended, leaving them both unsteady, Nicholas kept her close, his thumb stroking her jaw. “I want to do this right,” he whispered. “I want to court you properly, even though we’re already married.” “I’d like that.
” She was trembling slightly. “But Nicholas, I’m not ready for for the other part yet. I know we need an heir eventually, but we have time.” He kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. I’m not going to rush you. When we’re together like that again, I want you to want it. To want me, not just to fulfill an obligation. Relief flooded through her.
Thank you. Go to bed, Josephine. Dream about something better than the disaster I’ve made of things so far. She smiled against his cheek. I’ll try. He left. And she entered her chambers in a daysaze, pressing her fingers to her lips. They tingled from the kiss, from the gentleness of it. Maybe, she thought, maybe this could actually work.
The next morning brought catastrophe. Josephine was at breakfast alone again, as Nicholas had mentioned he had early estate business, when her maid appeared, white-faced and clutching a scandal sheet. Your grace, I’m so sorry, but you need to see this. Josephine took the paper, and the world tilted.
Duchess of Deception. New evidence suggests Northmre’s wife not so pure. The article was vicious. It claimed that Josephine had been conducting an affair with Lord Hartwick, one of the donors to her education fund, that they’d been seen in compromising positions during meetings, that Nicholas had married her without realizing she was already ruined.
Every word was a lie. But the scandal sheet had witness accounts and documented evidence that sounded horrifyingly convincing. Lady Margo, Josephine breathed. This has to be Margo. But proving it was another matter entirely. The damage was done. Within hours, half of London would have read this. And even though Nicholas had defended her yesterday, even though he’d publicly supported her, would he believe her now? Or would this trigger all his fears about Catherine, about betrayal, about women who lied? She was still sitting
there numb with shock when Nicholas stroed into the breakfast room. One look at his face told her he’d already seen it. Nicholas, is any of it true? His voice was flat, emotionless. Her heart cracked. No, none of it. I’ve never, Nicholas, you know I haven’t. Do I? He picked up the scandal sheet, scanning it.
It says there are witnesses, multiple sources, paid liars or people Margot convinced. Josephine stood desperate. You know what she’s like. You said yourself she’s been trying to cause trouble. I defended you. His knuckles were white where he gripped the paper. Yesterday I publicly defended you. I cut Marggo from my social circle.
I took you to dinner where everyone could see. And now this. So you think I’m lying? Anger sparked through her fear. You think I’d risk everything for an affair I’m not even having? I don’t know what to think. He threw the paper down. Lord Hartwick is mentioned specifically. Have you been meeting with him? Yes, about donations with chaperones present.
You can ask Lady Worthington. She was there for half the meetings and the other half. I had my maid present always. Nicholas, I have never been alone with any man except you since our wedding. I swear it. He stared at her and she could see the war happening behind his eyes. Belief versus suspicion, trust versus self-p protection.
Everything they’d built last night versus years of conditioning to expect betrayal. I want to believe you, he said finally. So badly, Josephine, I want to believe you. But Catherine, I’m not Catherine. The words came out as a shout. I’m not her, and I’m tired of paying for her sins. You want proof? Fine. Interview every servant who’s accompanied me.
Question Lady Worthington. Investigate Lord Hartwick’s schedule. Do whatever you need to do. But don’t you dare stand there and doubt me without evidence just because you’re afraid. Something flickered in his expression. Afraid? Of trusting me? Of believing that maybe, just maybe, not every woman is going to betray you.
Her voice cracked. I’ve spent 6 weeks trying to earn your respect, your regard, and last night I thought we’d actually made progress, but one scandal sheet, one piece of printed lies, and you’re ready to believe I’m a liar and a cheat. That’s not fair. None of this is fair. Tears were threatening now, and she refused to let them fall.
You want fair? Fair would have been you treating me like a person from the beginning. Fair would have been you not telling me to disappear on our wedding night. Fair would have been you trusting me now after everything instead of immediately assuming I’m guilty. I’m not assuming. Yes, you are. You asked me if it was true. Not who’s behind this.
Not how do we fight this? You asked if it was true. As if there was a chance I’d betray you 6 weeks into a marriage where I’ve been desperately trying to make you care about me. The words hung between them, raw and devastating. Nicholas’s face had gone pale. Josephine, get out. She turned away from him, unable to look at him anymore.
I’ll provide whatever evidence you need to prove my innocence. But right now, I need you to leave before I say something I can’t take back. We need to talk about this. There’s nothing to talk about. You either believe me or you don’t, and you clearly don’t. Her voice was flat, all the emotion locked down. So go conduct your investigation and when you’ve decided whether your wife is a liar, you can let me know.
She heard him take a step toward her, then stop, heard his frustrated exhale, then footsteps retreating. The door closed. Josephine collapsed into her chair and finally let the tears come. The investigation took 2 days. two days during which Josephine remained in her chambers, refusing all visitors except Lady Worthington and Lady Ashworth, who came immediately upon hearing the news.
“It’s absolute rubbish,” Lady Worthington declared, pacing Josephine’s sitting room. “I was present for most of your meetings with Hartwick. There was never anything improper. He’s 60 years old and married to a woman he adors.” “Margot must have bribed witnesses,” Lady Ashworth said grimly. It’s exactly the sort of thing she’d do.
She’s been after North Mir for years, and she can’t stand that he married someone else. He doesn’t believe me, Josephine’s voice was hollow. Or at least he didn’t immediately. And that’s I can’t get past that. Men are idiots when it comes to trust, Lady Worthington said bluntly. They’ve been raised to see betrayal everywhere.
But Northmir is not stupid. He’ll come around. Will he? Josephine looked at them both. or will this always be between us? The suspicion, the doubt. Every time something goes wrong, will he wonder if I’m lying? Neither woman had an answer for that. On the third morning, Nicholas appeared at her door. Josephine’s maid announced him, and Josephine almost refused to see him, but cowardice wasn’t in her nature. Let him in.
He entered looking haggarded. His hair was disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “Good,” Josephine thought viciously. “He should suffer.” “I owe you an apology,” he said without preamble. “A massive one. I was wrong.” “About about doubting you, about not immediately believing you, about letting my past with Catherine cloud my judgment.
” He moved closer, stopping when she held up a hand. “I’ve spent two days investigating. Every servant confirms you were never alone with Hartwick. Lady Worthington provided detailed accounts of the meetings. Hartwick himself was horrified and provided his own evidence. He was with his wife during two of the times the scandal sheet claimed you were together.
And Josephine kept her voice cold. And I found the witnesses Margot bribed. She paid them to lie quite generously, actually. They’ve confessed everything in exchange for immunity from prosecution. How convenient. So now you believe me, Josephine? No. She stood her whole body rigid with fury. You don’t get to apologize and have this be over.
You doubted me. After everything we said at dinner, after that kiss, after you promised you’d choose me, the first test came and you failed spectacularly. I know. His voice was raw. I know I failed. I know I hurt you again worse than before because this time you’d started to trust me. I know that apologies are inadequate, but Josephine, please let me try to make this right.
How? She laughed bitterly. How do you make this right? You can’t undoubt me. You can’t take back that moment when you asked if it was true. When you looked at me like I might be lying. You’re right. I can’t. He ran both hands through his hair. All I can do is tell you what I’ve realized in the past 2 days. I’m broken.
Josephine Catherine broke something in me and I’ve been trying to function with these jagged edges ever since. And when I saw that scandal sheet, I didn’t react rationally. I reacted from the wound. So, I’m supposed to just accept that you’ll keep reacting from the wound, that every time someone accuses me of something, you’ll doubt me first and believe me later? No.
His voice was fierce. No, because I’m going to fix it. I’m going to work on healing that wound instead of letting it control me. I’m going to choose to trust you even when it’s hard, even when my instinct is to protect myself. Words, Nicholas, all of this is just words. Then let me show you. He took a step closer.
I’ve had the scandal sheet sued for liel. I’ve publicly stated that the accusations were fabricated lies designed to harm you. I’ve cut off social and business ties with everyone who repeated the rumors. and I’ve challenged Marot directly. She’ll be ruined in society by the end of the week. Josephine felt some of the anger ease slightly.
You challenged Margo? I went to her townhouse yesterday. Told her exactly what I knew. Made it clear that if she ever came near you again, I’d destroy her so thoroughly she’d have to flee the country. His jaw was tight. She tried to claim she was protecting me from a fortune hunter. I told her, “You didn’t need my fortune.
your family is perfectly solvent and that the only person I needed protecting from was her. That was action, not words. That was choosing her publicly and irreversibly. But it still didn’t erase the doubt. The moment when he believed she might betray him. I don’t know if I can forget how you looked at me, Josephine whispered.
When you asked if it was true, like I was capable of that. I was terrified. The admission seemed torn from him. terrified that I’d let myself care about you and you’d destroy me like Catherine did. Terrified that every good moment we’d had was just theater before the inevitable betrayal.
And I let that fear make me cruel. Make me stupid. I’m terrified, too, she shot back, terrified of staying in a marriage where my husband will always doubt me, where I’ll have to prove my loyalty over and over because you can’t overcome your past. They stared at each other across the room, both breathing hard, both wounded and frightened and furious.
“What do you want from me?” Nicholas asked finally. “Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it. I’ll gravel. I’ll give you complete financial independence. I’ll sign papers saying you can leave me if I ever doubt you again. Just tell me how to fix this.” Josephine closed her eyes. What did she want? She wanted the man from dinner three nights ago, the one who’d kissed her gently and promised to court her.
She wanted to trust that he’d choose her when it mattered. But she also wanted to protect herself from more pain. “I want time,” she said finally. “I want you to prove not with words, but with sustained action over weeks and months that you can trust me, that you won’t crumble the next time someone tries to come between us. And until then, until then, we’re civil.
We’re appropriate. We fulfill our duties as Duke and Duchess. But I’m not I can’t be vulnerable with you right now, Nicholas. Not when you might use it against me the next time you’re afraid. She saw him flinch. Saw the way her words landed like blows. Good. He should feel this. I understand, he said quietly.
And Josephine, I will prove it. However long it takes, I’ll prove that you can trust me, even if I have to spend the rest of my life doing it.” He left without trying to touch her, without pushing for more than she’d offered. And Josephine sat down heavily, wondering if they had just sealed their fate or created a path forward.
The weeks that followed were strange and strained. Nicholas kept his word. He was civil, appropriate, and visibly supportive in public. The scandal died down after his aggressive response and society moved on to fresher gossip. But privately there was a canyon between them. They took meals together sometimes making polite conversation about estate business and her education project.
He asked about her work and listened to her answers. He never pushed for more intimacy, physical or emotional. He was proving himself through patience. And slowly, painfully slowly, Josephine began to believe him again. The turning point came six weeks after the scandal at a charitable musical Josephine had organized to raise additional funds for the education project.
Everything had been going perfectly. The musicians were talented, the guests generous with donations, the atmosphere warm and convivial. Josephine stood near the refreshment table accepting congratulations from various supporters when a latecomer arrived, Catherine Havford. Josephine recognized her immediately from descriptions, blonde, beautiful, with eyes like chips of blue ice.
She swept into the room as if she owned it, immediately drawing attention. “Your grace,” Catherine said, approaching with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “How lovely to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about Northmre’s new duchess. Josephine felt every muscle tense. This was the woman who’d broken Nicholas, the one he’d loved, and who’ destroyed that love.
Lady Catherine. Josephine kept her voice pleasant. How unexpected to see you here. Oh, I wouldn’t miss it. Educational charity is so important, don’t you think? Catherine’s eyes scanned the room, landing on Nicholas across the space, and it gives me a chance to catch up with old friends. The threat was subtle but unmistakable.
Josephine understood immediately. Catherine was here to cause trouble, to test Nicholas’s loyalties, maybe to try to win him back. Josephine had a choice. She could make a scene, have Katherine removed. She could retreat and let Nicholas handle it, or she could stand her ground and make it clear that she wasn’t intimidated.
I’m afraid the guest list was finalized weeks ago, Josephine said calmly. I don’t recall your name on it. Oh, I came with Lord Ashworth’s party. He’s an old family friend. That was technically allowed. Guests could bring companions, but Josephine suspected Catherine had manipulated the invitation specifically to create this confrontation.
Across the room, Nicholas had noticed Catherine’s arrival. Josephine watched his face go rigid, watched him start to move toward them with clear intention. This was it, the real test. Would he choose diplomacy and allow Catherine to stay, keeping everything polite and controlled, or would he choose Josephine, even if it meant creating a scene? Nicholas reached them in seconds.
He positioned himself slightly in front of Josephine, a physical barrier between her and Catherine. “Lady Catherine,” he said, his voice arctic. “You need to leave.” Catherine’s smile faltered. “Nicholas, darling, I just know.” The single word cut like a blade. You don’t get to darling me. You don’t get to speak to my wife.
You don’t get to be here at all. Leave now. I have every right. You have no rights regarding me or my household. Nicholas’s voice carried enough that nearby conversation stopped. You betrayed me in the crulest way possible. You used me and discarded me and laughed about it. And if you think I’ll ever allow you near my wife, you’re delusional.
The room had gone silent. Everyone was watching now. Catherine’s face flushed with humiliation. You’re making a scene over nothing. I simply came to support a charitable. You came to cause trouble. Nicholas’s voice was deadly calm now. The same way you always do. But here’s what’s different now.
I have someone worth protecting, someone genuine and good and nothing like you, and I will not allow you to poison that. He turned to Lord Ashworth, who’d appeared at the edge of the crowd, looking mortified. “My lord, I believe your companion needs to depart immediately.” Lord Ashworth, reading the room, nodded quickly. “Of course, your grace, Lady Catherine, allow me to escort you out.
” Catherine looked at Josephine then, real hatred in her eyes. “Enjoy it while it lasts, your grace. He’ll betray you eventually. He can’t help himself. It’s in his nature.” “No,” Josephine said clearly. “That’s in your nature. Projection is such a telling trait, don’t you think? Catherine’s mouth opened, then closed.
She had no response to that. Lord Ashworth took her arm and firmly guided her out of the room. The whispers started immediately, but they were supportive rather than scandalous. People approved of Nicholas’s defense. Several women even applauded quietly. Nicholas turned to Josephine, and she saw raw emotion in his eyes. I’m sorry.
I should have checked the guest list more carefully. I should have. You defended me. Her voice was unsteady. Publicly? Absolutely. You chose me over avoiding a scene, over maintaining dignity. You chose me. Of course I did. His hand found hers, squeezing gently. I’ll always choose you. That’s what I’ve been trying to prove.
And in that moment, something inside Josephine unlocked. All the walls she’d built since the scandal, all the careful distance, it crumbled. I believe you, she whispered. Finally, I believe you. His eyes widened. Josephine, not here. She glanced around at the watching crowd. But later, tonight. Come to my chambers tonight, and let’s let’s try again properly this time.
Joy transformed his face, making him look younger, less burdened. “Are you sure?” “I’m sure,” she squeezed his hand back. “You’ve proven it, Nicholas, over and over. It’s time I started trusting that.” The rest of the musical passed in a days. Josephine moved through the social requirements automatically, her mind already racing ahead to the evening, to finally finally letting herself be vulnerable with the man who’d proven he’d protect that vulnerability.
When the last guest had departed and the servants were clearing away, Nicholas caught her hand in the hallway. “I need to say something before tonight,” he said urgently. “I need you to understand. I’m not expecting anything. If you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you want to just sit in the same room, that’s enough.
I don’t need” She stopped his words with a kiss. Soft at first, then deeper, pouring weeks of frustrated longing into it. When they broke apart, Nicholas was breathing hard. What was that for? For being patient? For not pushing? For letting me set the pace even when it must have been frustrating? She smiled up at him.
But Nicholas, I don’t want to just talk tonight. I want I want my husband, the real one, not the stranger from our wedding night. Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed quickly by heat. Josephine, come to me in an hour, she said. Give me time to prepare and then then we’ll start our marriage properly. She left him standing in the hallway, his expression caught between disbelief and hope.
An hour later there was a soft knock on her chamber door. Josephine had bathed and changed into a night gown that was elegant rather than seductive, ivory silk with lace at the collar. She’d left her hair down the way her mother had told her men preferred. She’d dismissed her maid and lit candles, creating soft light instead of darkness.
She wanted to see him this time. Wanted him to see her. “Come in,” she called. Nicholas entered, and the look on his face when he saw her made her breath catch. It was reverent, aed, like she was something precious he was afraid to break. “You look beautiful,” he said quietly. “Thank you.” Her voice was steadier than she felt.
“Come here, please.” He crossed to her, stopping just within touching distance. “Josephine, I need you to know. I remember how I was before, how clinical and cold. I want to do better, but I’m not. I’ve never been good at tenderness, at romance. I don’t know if I can be what you deserve. She reached up and cupped his face in both hands.
Just be honest. Be present. See me as a person instead of an obligation. That’s all I need. I see you. His voice was rough. I do, Josephine. I see you so clearly it hurts. You’re brilliant and brave, and you’ve survived my cruelty with more grace than I deserved. You’ve built something meaningful with your charity work.
You’ve won over the most jaded women in London. And somehow you’re willing to give me another chance. “Stop talking,” she whispered. “And kiss me,” he did slowly, thoroughly, like they had all the time in the world. His hands moved to her waist, then up her back, tentative until she made a soft sound of approval, then bolder, more confident.
They moved to the bed a tangle of careful touches and whispered reassurances. Nicholas kept stopping to make sure she was comfortable, that she wanted to continue. It was nothing like their wedding night. This was a conversation, a dance, a meeting of equals. When they finally came together, Josephine gasped at the intimacy of it, not just physical, but emotional.
Nicholas’s eyes stayed locked on hers, seeing her, really seeing her. Josephine,” he breathed. “Sweet mercy, Josephine.” Afterward, they lay tangled together in the candle light, both breathing hard. “That was” Nicholas stopped, seeming unable to find words. “Different,” Josephine supplied. “Better, real, yes.
” He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m sorry our first time wasn’t like this, that I made it cold and transactional. I’m sorry too, but we can’t change the past, only build something better going forward. He was quiet for a moment. Then I want to tell you about Catherine, about what really happened.
You deserve to know the whole story. Josephine listened as Nicholas recounted the affair, his genuine love, Catherine’s calculated betrayal, the humiliation of discovering it in front of witnesses. The way his own brother had been complicit, the scandal that had nearly destroyed the ducal reputation. I thought I was protecting myself by keeping you at a distance, he finished.
But all I did was hurt us both and nearly destroy something that could have been good from the start. We’re here now, Josephine said softly. That’s what matters. They talked long into the night, sharing histories and fears and hopes, building the foundation they should have built before their wedding. When Josephine finally drifted off to sleep, it was with Nicholas’s arms around her and his steady heartbeat against her cheek.
For the first time since her wedding, she felt like she was home. The next 3 months unfolded like a dream Josephine was afraid to wake from. Nicholas courted her properly despite their being married. He sent flowers with notes that made her smile. He took her riding in Hyde Park where everyone could see them.
He attended every meeting of her education fund committee and contributed substantial donations. More importantly, he talked to her, really talked, about his fears and failures, about his hopes for their future, about the child he someday wanted them to have, not as an obligation, but as a shared joy. The education fund was thriving.
They’d secured a building and hired teachers. The first group of students, 20 young women from modest circumstances, had begun their lessons. Josephine visited three times a week, teaching some classes herself. Nicholas came with her once, watching as she taught mathematics to a group of teenage girls who hung on her every word.
“They adore you,” he said afterward as they rode home together. “They want to learn. I’m just providing the opportunity.” But Josephine was glowing with pride. “You’re changing lives.” Nicholas’s voice was serious. “Those girls will have options they never would have had otherwise. They’ll be able to support themselves, make real choices about their futures.
That’s not just providing opportunity. That’s revolutionary. Josephine laughed, hardly revolutionary, just practical. Revolutionary, he repeated firmly. And I’m in awe of you, she leaned against his shoulder in the carriage, feeling content in a way she’d never imagined possible in those early, dark weeks of marriage.
But happiness, Josephine was learning, made you vulnerable. made you afraid to lose what you’d gained. The fear became reality on a Tuesday afternoon in late spring. Josephine had been feeling unwell for a week. Nothing serious, just exhaustion and occasional nausea. She dismissed it as overwork from the education project.
But when the symptoms persisted, her lady’s maid had looked at her with knowing eyes and suggested she send for a physician. Dr. Morrison arrived that afternoon. He was the Greymont family physician, discreet and experienced. After a brief examination and some pointed questions, he smiled. Congratulations, your grace.
I’d estimate you’re about 7 weeks along. The room tilted. I’m what? With child. You’re pregnant, your grace. Quite healthily, from what I can determine. You should expect the baby around Christmas. Josephine sat frozen as the physician gave instructions about diet and rest. When he finally left, she remained in her chair, staring at nothing.
Pregnant, she was going to have Nicholas’s child. The thing he’d demanded on their wedding night, give me an air, was finally happening, and all she could think about was whether he’d see this as a duty fulfilled or a joy shared. She was still sitting there an hour later when Nicholas appeared at her door. Josephine, the servant said, Dr.
Morrison was here. Are you unwell? He crossed to her, concern etched on his face. What’s wrong? I’m pregnant. The words came out flat. He stopped midstep, his expression transforming through several emotions too quickly to pass. You’re we’re having a baby around Christmas. She forced herself to look at him, searching for the truth beneath whatever reaction he showed.
I know that’s what you wanted, the heir, the duty fulfilled. So congratulations, your grace. You’ll have what you demanded. His face went pale. Don’t Don’t do that. Do what? Make this about about those words I said on our wedding night. Make this about obligation. He knelt in front of her chair, taking her cold hands in his warm ones.
Josephine, I want this child because I want a future with you. Because the thought of a little person who’s part you and part me feels like like a gift, not a duty. How do I know that’s true? The fear escaped before she could stop it. How do I know you’re not just relieved to check this off your list? Because I love you.
The words hung in the air between them, stunning and huge. Josephine’s breath caught. What? I love you. Nicholas’s voice was rough with emotion. I’ve been trying to find the right time to say it, the perfect moment. But there’s no perfect moment. There’s just truth. And the truth is, I fell in love with you somewhere between you telling me off in the library and watching you teach mathematics to a group of girls who think you hung the moon.
I love your intelligence and your courage and your stubborn refusal to let me break you. Tears were streaming down her face now. You love me desperately so much it terrifies me. And this baby, Josephine, this baby isn’t an obligation. It’s proof that we survived the disaster I made and built something real, something worth continuing. She pulled her hands free to cup his face.
I love you, too. I think I have for weeks, but I was too afraid to say it. Too afraid you’d use it against you, hurt you with it. He turned his head to kiss her palm. I won’t. I swear on everything I am. I’ll never weaponize your feelings. I’ll protect them. Treasure them. Promise. Promise. He kissed her. Then, soft and sweet and full of joy.
We’re having a baby. We’re having a baby, she repeated, and suddenly it felt real. Wonderful. Right. They stayed like that for a long time, foreheads pressed together, hands intertwined, imagining the future they were building together. The pregnancy was both harder and easier than Josephine expected.
The physical symptoms were manageable. Some nausea, profound exhaustion, a tendency to cry at the smallest provocation, but the emotional weight of it, the constant awareness that she was creating a life was overwhelming in the best possible way. Nicholas was devoted to the point of comedy. He insisted she rest constantly.
He carried her upstairs even when she protested she was perfectly capable of walking. He read every book on childirth and infant care he could find, then proceeded to drive her mad with medical advice. “You’re being ridiculous,” Josephine said one evening as he fussed over whether her chair had enough cushions. “I’m pregnant, not made of porcelain. You’re carrying my child.
” “Our child? That makes you precious beyond measure.” He arranged another pillow behind her back. “Humor me.” She rolled her eyes, but smiled. This was the man she’d married. Devoted, protective, tender in ways that still surprised her. The education fund continued to thrive, though Josephine had to reduce her teaching hours as the pregnancy advanced.
Nicholas had stepped in to help with administrative work, bringing his considerable business acumen to fundraising and logistics. Watching him interact with the students was a revelation. He was patient and encouraging, treating each girl with the same respect he’d show a duchess. The girls adored him, especially when he funded scholarships for the most promising students to continue their education.
“You’re good at this,” Josephine said one afternoon after a particularly successful class visit. “At what? Being part of something meaningful, using your influence for genuine good instead of just maintaining status.” He pulled her close, resting a hand on her rounded belly. You taught me that. You showed me what it looks like to care about more than duty and appearances.
The baby kicked against his palm, and Nicholas’s face lit up with wonder. Did you feel that? I feel it all the time. Josephine laughed. Our child is already restless like you, or stubborn like you? Perhaps both. She covered his hand with hers. Nicholas, I need to tell you something. His expression turned serious. What is it? I’m happy.
The words came out simple, profound, genuinely, deeply happy. And I’m not afraid anymore. Afraid of what? Of losing this. Of you changing your mind, of waking up and finding out this was temporary. She met his eyes. You’ve proven yourself over and over. And I trust you now completely. His eyes grew bright. Josephine, I know you were broken when we met.
And I know part of you is still healing from what Catherine did, but you’re not that man anymore. You’re someone who chooses love over fear, who risks pain for connection, who stands up for the people he cares about even when it’s hard. You made me that man, Nicholas said quietly, by refusing to disappear, by demanding I be better, by giving me a reason to heal.
They kissed slow and tender, and Josephine felt the baby move between them, their future already making its presence known. Christmas arrived cold and bright. Josephine had been confined to bed for the past week, her time drawing near. Nicholas had barely left her side, sleeping in a chair beside her bed when exhaustion finally claimed him.
“You should rest in your own chambers,” Josephine said for the hundth time. You’ll be useless when the baby actually comes if you’re already exhausted. I’m not leaving you. His tone brooked no argument. The pain started on Christmas Eve, mild at first, then building in intensity. The midwife arrived as darkness fell, efficient and calm.
Nicholas stayed, despite the midwife’s suggestion he wait. “This is my wife,” he said firmly. “My child, I’m staying.” The hours that followed tested Josephine’s strength in ways she’d never imagined. The pain was enormous, all-consuming, but Nicholas was there through all of it, holding her hand, whispering encouragement, promising her it would be over soon.
And then, just after midnight on Christmas Day, a baby’s cry filled the room. “Hey, son, your grace,” the midwife announced, placing the squirming red-faced infant in Josephine’s arms. “A healthy son.” Josephine looked down at the baby, their baby, and felt something fundamental shift in her universe. This tiny person with Nicholas’s nose and her dark hair was theirs. Real, perfect.
He’s beautiful, she whispered. Nicholas was crying, she realized, tears streaming down his face as he stared at his son. He’s perfect. You’re perfect. I can’t believe. Believe it. She shifted the baby so Nicholas could see better. This is our son. May I? Nicholas’s voice was tentative. Of course, she helped transfer the baby to Nicholas’s arms, watching as her husband cradled their child with infinite gentleness.
“Hello,” Nicholas whispered to the baby. “Hello, little one. I’m your father. And I promise you, I promise you’ll never doubt that you’re wanted, that you’re loved, that you’re the best thing I’ve ever done.” The baby yawned, unimpressed by the declaration. Josephine laughed through her own tears. What should we name him?” she asked.
Nicholas looked at her, then back at the baby. Alexander, after my brother, because I want him to be everything Alexander could have been if he’d lived, kind and brave and true. Alexander Greymont, Josephine tested the name. It’s perfect. They sat together in the candle lit room, their son between them, and Josephine thought about how far they’d come.
From that disastrous wedding night to this moment of shared joy, from hurt and mistrust to love and partnership. I’m sorry, Nicholas said quietly. That I ever told you to disappear. That I ever made you feel unwanted. I know, Josephine squeezed his hand. And I forgive you. Truly, you’ve made me a better man, a man worthy of being this child’s father.
We made each other better. She leaned her head on his shoulder, exhausted but content. That’s what love does. Little Alexander made a small sound, and they both looked down at him with helpless adoration. “Merry Christmas,” Nicholas whispered. “Merry Christmas,” Josephine echoed. And for the first time since her wedding day, she felt like she was exactly where she belonged.
6 months later, Josephine stood in the Northmere Gardens, watching Nicholas push Alexander’s pram along the gravel paths. Their son was awake and gurgling happily, waving tiny fists at passing butterflies. The education fund now had three locations across London. Over a 100 girls were receiving instruction, with more applying every week.
Josephine had hired a director to manage daily operations, allowing her to focus on being a mother while still maintaining oversight. She’d never been happier. There you are. Nicholas approached with the pram. Alexander wanted to show his mother the roses. Did he? Josephine smiled, bending to stroke her son’s cheek. What a cultured young gentleman. He gets that from you.
Nicholas wrapped an arm around her waist. The appreciation for beauty and growth. And from you he gets stubbornness and a tendency to wake up at impossible hours. That’s fair. He kissed her temple. Worth it though. Definitely worth it. They stood together in the sunlight, their son between them, and Josephine thought about the title that had started this all.
Give me an heir and disappear. She’d given him an heir. But she’d never disappeared. Instead, she’d fought to be seen to be valued to matter. And in the end, she’d won something better than compliance. She’d won love. “What are you thinking about?” Nicholas asked, reading her expression. about how far we’ve come about that first night and everything after.
His arm tightened around her. I wish I could go back and do it differently. I don’t. She looked up at him. If it had been easy from the start, we wouldn’t have fought for this. We wouldn’t have learned how to trust each other through the hard things. So, you’re saying my being an idiot was actually beneficial? I’m saying your being an idiot taught us both what we needed to learn.
She smiled. But let’s not repeat the experiment. Agreed. He kissed her soft and sweet with their son making happy sounds beside them. I love you. Nicholas said against her lips. Every day more than the day before. I love you too. Josephine rested her hand over his heart. You gave me everything you said you wouldn’t.
A real marriage, a real partnership love. You gave me back myself. The part of me I thought Catherine destroyed. He pulled back slightly to meet her eyes. Thank you for not disappearing. Thank you for staying and making me face what I’d become. Thank you for proving you could change, for choosing me when it mattered. They walked together through the gardens, their son between them, the future bright and promising ahead.
Josephine had thought marriage would be an ending, the culmination of her purpose as a woman. Instead, it had been a beginning. A beginning that had cost them both dearly, but one that had given them everything. The end. Thank you for staying with Nicholas and Josephine through their journey from hurt to healing, from obligation to love.
Some marriages begin with romance, but theirs began with wounds that had to be tended before anything beautiful could grow. If their story touched you, if you recognize the courage it takes to trust again or the strength required to demand being seen, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Like, comment, and subscribe for more stories about love that fights for itself, even when the fight is hard.
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