Page 111 of The Runaway Duchess

She could be generous, too. Like Lucy. Despite having lost everything.

She took both of Neal’s hands.

“You’re going to be happy,” she said. “As happy as you deserve to be. I’m sorry for every snide remark I ever made about your mother, and fossils, and Cornwall.” Holding his hands meant she couldn’t dash away her tears, so she smiled through them. “You and Muriel are meant for each other.”

Oh dear, her voice wobbled desperately. “I wish you joy.” She turned, far too quickly, but really, what etiquette pertained after such a speech, in such a situation? “Well then. I have a husband to bury.”

In her mind’s eye, she processed past him. Measured. Solemn. Yet . . . she could hear her feet thudding on the path. She was most certainly running. Running away. Again. The hedges opened and closed around her in a mystifying pattern. She put her hand on the stitch in her side and slowed. Stepped out from the green corridor into a large enclosure awash with color.

Long, narrow flower beds framed a marble basin. Not a fountain, a planter. Its vivid, ruffled surface was all red and purple blossoms. In the center, a statue of a nymph lifted a vase from which yet more flowers bloomed.

She’d reached the heart of the maze.

At the sound of Neal’s footfall behind her, she caught her breath to speak. “I took a wrong turn.” She looked over her shoulder.

Another wrong turn.

Devastating. He stood in the gap of the hedges, eyes bright as sun, but darker. Scorched light. The sight of him made her heart cramp.

He strode forward. “Muriel and I—”

She interrupted, smiling so fiercely she thought her lips might bleed.

“Congratulations!” Of course. They were already engaged. No surprise there. She’d seen them holding hands in the lecture hall. Her cheeks ached. “I couldn’t be more pleased for you. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

He was going to ruin it, her largesse. She’d break if he uttered one detestable detail. She tried to slip around him, and he hooked her waist with his arm, moved her gently until they stood face-to-face.

She didn’t let him speak.

“I want to be pleased for you,” she gritted out. “Let me be my best self, I beg you. Another moment and I can’t vouch for what I do or say. I’m not very good by nature at sharing, or losing, or being kind for no purpose, even about small things, and now I’m behaving commendably about the biggest loss I can possibly imagine, and so don’t spoil it by detaining me or I will scream.”

Her chest heaved. For a tense moment, they regarded each other. Then he grinned, eyes crinkling. The grin that made her whole body flush.

“Your best self?” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I enjoy all of your selves.” Slowly, he bent his arm, drew her closer. “I am enchanted by them.” His voice dropped. It was almost a growl. “I am maddened by them. Made sleepless by them. You are the most fascinating, unforgettable, impossible series of women I have ever met in my life.”

She gaped, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. Her blood was crashing in her ears.

“In that case . . .” She swallowed hard. “I hate that you’re marrying Muriel Pendrake. I don’t care how much you have to say to each other about Darwin. I wish Darwin had never been born.” She gripped his thick wrist and squeezed, the pressure almost vicious. “And I’d rather slice off my fingers than let you go. There. That’s not even my worst self.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest.

“I am not marrying Muriel Pendrake.” His hands cupped her face. “Muriel and I are planning an expedition to China, for Varnham. I won’t go myself, of course. She’ll lead it.”

“For three years!” The exultation in her voice embarrassed her.

And amused him.

He cocked a brow. “Mmm,” he said. “Yes, that’s the standard contract.”

She inhaled, and now as his spiced green scent billowed through her, nothing hurt. She felt bigger and bigger.

Oh, the wonder of it, Muriel would be back among her woody shrubs on the other side of the world, and Neal . . .

Where would he be? Truro? Penzance? Never far from Cornish flora, or from his family.

She’d reached it, the sharp edge of her happiness.

She was a series of women. But not one of them—of her—truly met his specifications. What he felt couldn’t survive long. Reality would wither his esteem, a little bit each day. When his mother loathed her. When his sisters found her ignorant. When his cousins learned she was a liar. When he wearied of her chatter. Of course, his goodness meant he wouldn’t treat her ill. He wouldn’t even put her aside. He’d marry her, and it wouldn’t be the marriage he wanted, a marriage in which both parties agreed on bryophytes. She should protect him from himself. But not even her best self had the strength.