Lady Collins. Girls, the duke is a friend of mi—” She stumbled and then quickly found her way. “That is, His Grace was a friend of your father and… me,” she added more softly.
“An honor, Your Grace,” Miranda said, sinking into an elegant curtsy, Caroline almost perfectly in step.
He waved off that formality. “The honor is mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“You are leaving?” Lydia blurted.
Caroline gave her an odd look. “Didn’t you just say he was going?”
Lydia’s cheeks instantly fired hotly, and she curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. “Uh, yes. Of course, that is…” She folded her palms demurely at her waist. “If you didn’t have to leave, you are welcome to join us…”
He inclined his head. “As much as it pains me to miss out on the company of three lovely ladies, I would not infringe. I, however, have matters to see to.”
You’re not infringing, she silently cried.
“Of course,” she brought herself to stay instead.
As he made his polite, charming goodbyes to Miranda and Caroline, Lydia surely proved the worst mother in the world for wishing it was he who remained.
Chapter 8
A short while after his morning visit with Lydia, as Geoffrey made his way back to his townhouse to see his son, he stared out his carriage window at the passing London streets and replayed his morning visit with Lydia. He went over it again and again in his mind.
Everything in being with her, in talking to her, in embracing her, was an unfettered joy. And it wasn’t that his life had been miserable these past years. There’d been moments of happiness peppered in. He’d known many of those times with Pamela Audley. Then there’d been the moments he’d spent with his friends. That was, when they weren’t with their families.
But happiness and joy were on far ends of a spectrum when it came to emotions, and the happiness he’d found after Lydia had always been… fleeting. Like spots of sunshine peeking through a thick gray sky that brought light shining briefly through before the clouds swept over it, stealing the unabashed light.
When he was with her, he remembered everything he’d wanted in life.
Absently, he traced his finger along the windowpane, the pad of that digit leaving a faint imprint upon the glass as he remembered another time when, in the midst of a summer house party at her family’s estate, he and Lydia had escaped to the quiet, well-stocked stream.
I’m marking our names upon this tree, Geoffrey, because someday, when we are no longer here, I want to leave the world with a link to the depth of love that we share.
Geoffrey stopped those distracted movements with his finger.
He wanted her.
And a family.
He’d desperately wanted that, too. That yearning had been the reason he’d allowed himself to make the match he had. He’d not wanted to wed a woman who’d had romantic hopes for something more than he’d been able to give, which was why wedding his wife had made the most sense. She’d not loved him. She’d been clear with a blunt directness he’d appreciated that her desire extended to the title and wealth that came from a match with him. As long as they’d been aligned in their wishes, then surely a future where he’d have a family and she’d have what she wished made sense.
He’d been so very wrong.
In their short union, there’d been not even a hint of affection from her, and there’d also been no children.
But perhaps Lydia was right. Why must it be too late for a relationship between Geoffrey and his children and a future with her?
The carriage rolled to a stop, and he sat there, frozen, his heart thumping under the wild wings of hope. It didn’t have to be impossible. Yes, he needed to work to prove himself to his sons and daughter, and yes, a lifetime had passed between him and Lydia, but nothing had changed. Not what was important, anyway.
A servant drew the door open, snapping him to the moment.
Grinning, Geoffrey jumped down. “Thank you, my good fellow,” he said cheerfully, and with a spring in his step, he danced out of the path of a handsome young couple passing; he tipped his hat as they went.
Enlivened, Geoffrey, his strides fueled by hope, hurried up the steps, eager to speak with Wesley. Nay, not Wesley. His son.
“My son.” He mouthed the words silently, testing and tasting the feel of them, so very foreign on his mouth and in his mind. And