Page 125 of The Sainted Duchess
Stephen’s gaze dropped. “I can’t convince myself of that.”
Peter stood and came to him. “Then at least stop convincing yourself that misery is virtue.”
“I don’t want to be virtuous,” Stephen said. “I just don’t want to be cruel. Maria deserves joy, and I can’t give it. Not when every time I close my eyes, I see the past staring back.”
Peter folded his arms. “You’re not the only man haunted by memory. The trick is to stop making the ghosts comfortable. You feed yours.”
“No need for theatrics,” Stephen muttered.
“I also think you need to decide whether the vow serves you or whether you serve it.”
“It’s all I have left of her.”
“It’s also the one thing standing between you and the living woman who loves you,” Peter’s voice gentled.“Would you wish to have children of your own?”
“It is terrifying,” Stephen said quickly and then wished to take back his words. “I do not know.”
But the mere question had given him a haunting image of Maria and their kids running down the corridors of the estate. It was a beautiful image at first, and then when his fears took over, it transformed into a haunting one.
For a long time, neither spoke. Outside, a carriage rattled past, the sound fading into the muffled hum of the city.
“Do you think she hates me?”
“I think she’s hurt,” Peter said. “And I think she’ll forgive you faster than you’ll forgive yourself.”
“She shouldn’t have to forgive me at all.”
Stephen sighed.
“Violet wrote,” he admitted. “She didn’t give details, only that Maria is safe and that she’s quiet, and that her brother is worried for her. But I am not to come unless you intend to make things right.”
“So will you?”
“I’m not to come.”
“You’re going to waste away out of stubbornness?” Peter’s patience thinned.
“I’m going to let her live,” Stephen said. “I’ve already taken enough from her. If I ask her to return, she’ll say yes out of love, and then she’ll watch me make her miserable again. I’d rather be miserable alone than make her miserable with me.”
Peter exhaled, long and tired.
“You talk as though she’s a saint and you’re a contagion.”
“It feels that way,” Stephen admitted, bitterly.
She was perfect, perhaps. And he could not give her the things that she needed to be happy.
“You’re simply a man who is upholding a ridiculous promise that should have no bearing on your future happiness.”
Stephen sank back into his chair. “Perhaps. But the promise was mine to keep.”
Peter poured two fingers of brandy into a glass and set it before him. “At least drink something human.”
Stephen took the glass, turning it absently in his hands. “Do you ever wonder,” he said, “if love is meant only for those unmarked by the past?”
“No,” Peter said. “I think it’s meant for precisely us. Half-healed and foolish enough to try again.”
Stephen stared at the brandy’s surface. How oddly optimistic.
