She beamed at him.
“Let us change course,” he suggested, offering his arm again, “or we will end up in the meadow on the far side of the lake. We will stroll on this side instead and then take the path up to the house. Vincent will be quite wrathful if I keep you out beyond the time allotted for his lesson.”
“Is it possible?” she asked. “For Lord Darleigh to be wrathful, that is?”
“I malign him,” he admitted with a smile.
Dora had never walked by the lake, though she had seen it from a distance. Nor had she walked on the railed path from the house to the lake, which Lady Darleigh had had constructed after her marriage so that her blind husband could move more freely about the park without always having to be led. It was the viscountess too who had made inquiries about the possibility of training a sheepdog to guide him and give him even more freedom of movement. And she had had the wilderness walk in the hills behind the house reconstructed so that he could walk there in relative safely. She had had it planted with several aromatic trees and flowers to delight his other senses.
“Have you ever been across to the island?” Dora asked, nodding toward it as they strolled beside the lake. “Agnes told me that the little temple folly at its center is very beautiful inside. The stained glass windows make the light quite magical,” she said.
“I have only ever admired it from the bank here,” he admitted. “It is a delight we will experience together on our next visit to Middlebury—as man and wife.”
Dora’s stomach felt as if it had performed a complete somersault. She was not sure that even yet she was fully believing in this future to which she had agreed. She scarcely dared trust in such happiness.
“Penderris Hall is by the sea,” he told her. “Did you know that? There are steep cliffs bordering the park on the south and golden sands below and an overall beauty that is quite wild in comparison with what you see around you here. I hope you will not find it bleak.”
“I do not expect to do so,” she said. “It will be home.”
Home. Yet she had never seen it. She had never set foot in Cornwall or in Devonshire. Or in Wales, though she was not far from it here in Gloucestershire. And she remembered that his wife had died on those cliffs to which he had referred. Someone had told her, perhaps Agnes. The duchess had thrown herself over not long after losing her only son, their only son, during the wars.
What must it have been like for the duke, losing them both like that? How had he retained his sanity?
Dora was struck fully with the realization that she would be his second wife. He would be coming to her encumbered by years and years of memories of a family life with another woman and a child. He would be coming burdened by the memory of the terrible tragedies that had taken them both from him within a few months. Was it any wonder that he had no romantic love or passion to offer her? She could not possibly replace his first wife in his affections.
Well, of course she could not. She would not want to even if it were possible. Theirs would be a different type of relationship altogether. It was comfort and companionship he wanted from her. He had been quite honest about that, and she must not forget it. He wanted someone to help hold the loneliness at bay.
Well, and so did she. They could do that for each other. She could be his companion and friend, and he could be hers. She had music to offer too—in exchange for all the material goods and luxuries he would provide. She smiled when she recalled what he had said to her earlier about his cleverness in choosing a wife who could play for him.
She was not going to get depressed about what she could not have from her marriage. Gracious heaven, at this time yesterday she had fully expected that she would live out her life here at Inglebrook as a spinster. Yet now she was betrothed.
They turned onto the path up to the house.
“You are a peaceful companion, Miss Debbins,” the duke said. “You do not seem to feel the need to fill every silent moment with words.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, “is that a polite way of saying that I have no conversation?”
“If it were,” he said, “then I would be condemning myself too since I have been equally silent during much of our walk. I almost wish we had had time to keep going through the trees to stroll in the meadow and sit in the summerhouse. But I must, alas, behave responsibly and deliver you on time for your lesson.”
“Do they know?” Dora asked. She could feel the fluttering of anxiety in her stomach.
“I did not feel I had the right to make any announcement,” he told her. “It struck me as altogether possible that after thinking things over you would change your mind about facing the upheaval in your life that marrying me will bring. I did not want to embarrass you unduly if you had changed your mind. I was extremely anxious as I walked to your house earlier. I did not know what awaited me.”
She glanced at him suspiciously, but he looked perfectly serious.
“It never once occurred to me to change my mind,” she said. “I thought perhaps you would be the one changing yours after having seen me again yesterday afternoon. But I remembered that you are a gentleman and would not cry off, having made your offer.”
He laughed softly. “I do assure you, Miss Debbins,” he said, “that seeing you again yesterday only made me more eager to marry you.”
Oh, dear, Dora thought. Why? But she felt warmed right through to the center of her heart anyway.
* * *
George was feeling anxious all over again. Vincent and Sophia, he could see, were outside, sitting in the formal gardens while Thomas, their son, toddled happily along the path near them. He stopped even as George spotted him to pluck the head off a flower and hold it out to his mama with a look of triumph.