Page 93 of The Duchess Audition

He told Marina the story as the memories flooded back, as vivid as if they had happened just last night.

Anthony trying to reason with Emilia, sitting up in bed with his arms out, reaching for William, urging his late wife to hand the child over. All the while, the boy had wailed and wailed, his face red, as scared in that moment as Anthony had been.

Then, Anthony made the mistake of moving. Emilia had darted for the door, William screaming in her arms, and Anthony had given chase, all the way from one side of the manor to the other, ending up in Emilia’s bedchamber.

The doors to the balcony were already open, the rain pouring in, thunder grumbling and lightning flashing in the distance. He remembered Emilia slipping on the slick floor as she backed toward the balcony, grinning at him, a mad, sick grin.

“You will never ignore us again,” she had laughed cruelly. “I will end us both, and you will have nothing. No one will ever come near you again once the rumors start that you killed us. That you pushed us in a fit of fury.”

“Just give the boy to me,” he had begged, reaching hopelessly as she had stepped further and further toward the balcony’s edge.

“You do not care for him. You do not care for either of us. We are better off dead.”

Everything after had happened so quickly. Emilia’s foot had slipped on the stone, and she had let go of William in order to break her own fall. Anthony had sprinted forward and caught the boy before he hit the hard ground, taking him inside, wrapping him in a blanket while Emilia had sat there, sobbing in the rain, screaming of how much she hated Anthony.

By that point, the ruckus had drawn the servants, who ordinarily would not have dared to enter a duchess’ rooms. Two footmen had grabbed Emilia, while Anthony had instructed them to take her to an empty room, any empty room, and lock her in there.

“Make sure the windows do not open,” he had added, turning his attention back to his soaked and terrified son.

Anthony puffed out a breath, withdrawing from the memories and settling his gaze on his wife. On the woman he loved. The woman he had hurt because he was half existing in the past, judging her by another woman’s antics.

“With my grandmother’s help, we managed to send Emilia to an asylum a week later. A few months after that, she died. A sickness she acquired from her many affairs. A sickness that the physicians said might have turned her mad,” he concluded, suddenly feeling the full weight of a week of sleepless nights.

He had not dared to look at Marina throughout the tale, worried that he might see blame instead of understanding. But he looked at her now, and brimmed with such relief that he wanted nothing more than to close the gap between them and embrace her tightly.

“I am so sorry, Anthony,” she said quietly. “I… had no notion it was so awful.”

He laughed stiffly. “How could you know? I refused to tell you. It is not something I ever speak about.”

“You should have,” she chided mildly. “It is no surprise at all that you cannot trust me after all of that.”

“Could not,” he corrected, pushing away from the windowsill. “But I trust you now. Belated, certainly, but I do. And I wish… that I had seen you for the woman you are instead of remembering the ghost that used to be. Things might be different if I had.”

She frowned at him. “Are you giving up, brave knight?”

“I do not know if I have the right to ask forgiveness from the queen,” he replied, a flame of hope flickering wildly in his chest. “I invaded her queendom, I insulted her, I mistrusted her, I treated her poorly.”

A mischievous smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Oh well, if you do not dare, then I suppose I shall have to ask Doctor Stanforth if he is in want of a wife. After all, we are already besotted with one another, according to you.”

He had no choice but to laugh, mortified. “It is far too soon to jest about that, my love.”

Her face changed in an instant, the mischievous smile shifting to open-mouthed shock, a soft gasp leaving her lips. Her hand flew to her heart, her beautiful eyes unblinking.

“What did you call me?” she whispered.

He moved closer. “What else should I call the woman I love?”

“You… love me?”

Reaching her, he sank to his knees before her chair and took her hands in his. “I have wanted to confess for a while, but then I sent you away and somewhat destroyed the opportunity. There can be no love without trust, so now I have no fear of telling you how I feel.” He met her astonished gaze. “I love you, Marina.”

“I love you!” she gasped. “Oh, but you will be amused to hear this…”

He smiled. “What?”

“I thought I was desperately unwell,” she told him, a grin spreading across her face.

“Unwell? Why?”