It Had to be the Duke - Christi Caldwell Page 0,3

its own volition, her neck moved.

And he placed his lips close to the place her pulse pounded. “Are you telling me to stop, love?”

Because if she was, honorable as he was, she’d no doubt he’d honor that command, and yet, when he did, then she’d never again know… this. Him.

In the end, he made the decision.

Sadness filled his eyes.

Nay, sadness was a weak, mewling emotion. This was an agony so deep and keen and sharp it cut through her soul, and robbed her of breath, and left her empty inside.

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

“Like what?” he asked with a mournful twist of his lips in a grin that had always been pure and joy-filled before this. “Like you’re breaking my heart, Lydia?” he whispered. “Because you are.”

She took his hands in hers, his fingers long and strong and hot in her own, and she gripped him, selfishly stealing the warmth to be found within his touch. “I have no choice,” she pleaded.

His eyes hardened, and for the first time ever, the cynical glint in his eyes was directed her way. “You always have a choice.”

“You might believe that, and you also have that freedom,” she said, trying to will him to understand. “You are a duke. But women? We do not have the same power that men enjoy, Geoffrey.”

He scrubbed a hand down the side of his face. “Leave it to me to fall in love with the one and only woman for whose family a dukedom is not enough.”

A pained laugh escaped her.

“When I’m a duke, I’ll have access to all my funds. I can give—”

She took a deep breath. “My father has put a timetable on the decision. I have just two days to decide. If I marry Lawrence, he will free up Marion’s dowry and support the union between her and Mr. Cheevers.”

He gave her an aching smile. “Damn you for putting another’s happiness above your own.”

“It is one of the reasons you love me.” Her voice caught.

Geoffrey dropped his brow to hers. “Yes.”

As close as they were, their eyes meeting, their noses nearly touching, she detected the shimmer in his eyes.

Oh, God. His tears would gut what was left of her heart. “Please, don’t cry,” she whispered.

“You are,” he pointed out, and a pair of crystal droplets coursed down his rugged cheek.

She brushed them away. “I love you.”

“But not enough,” he said sadly.

Too much. So much she was dying inside. But he could not understand that.

Going up on tiptoe, she pressed a final kiss against his lips, one filled with sweetness and warmth… and also one that offered goodbye. She sank back on her heels.

“I will always love you, Geoffrey,” she said softly, and then Lydia collected her hem and did the hardest thing she’d ever done, or would ever do, in her life—she walked away from the love of her life.

Chapter 1

Lydia Brandeis, the Countess of Chombley, had been married thirty-two years.

In those thirty-two years, she’d served as the perfect wife and hostess.

She’d given her husband the requisite heir and a spare; Jonathan and Benedict, two fine men, now busy with their own lives and responsibilities.

Lydia had organized extravagant balls and soirees and adorning the arm of her now-late husband, Lawrence Brandeis, the Earl of Chombley.

She’d planned formal dinner parties to which all of Polite Society had sought an invitation.

There’d been musicales, with flawless performances given by her three daughters.

And summer hunting parties, perfectly executed.

Now… there was nothing.

There was nothing more than the aching heaviness and pain that came with loss.

Silence. There was so much of that, too.

It had been so very quiet for a year now.

A year and a handful of weeks, if one wished to be precise.

Ultimately, however, the world? It moved on from suffering and pain, with only the one closest to it left behind with the misery of…nothingness.

The lords and ladies who’d come ’round to attend the affairs hosted by her and Lawrence? They had since moved on. Almost immediately, really. They’d found new events to attend. Transient friends who’d really just been acquaintances had never been capable of properly mourning his loss as they ought.

Lydia’s children had mourned the passing of their father.

Their daughters had worn black skirts, until they hadn’t.

Their son, Jonathan had remained in London, assuming his responsibilities, getting his affairs in order, before going off again.

But then, that was the way grieving went. Eventually, people picked up the pieces and carried on. As they should. As she’d wished for her children