Never Too Late

When he was fifteen, Lord Devin thought he was a man because he’d bedded his first woman, a lush and energetic tavern wench recruited by school chums. When he was eighteen, he thought he was a man because his father died and he took on the role of Lord Devin, head of the family. When he was twenty-four, he thought he was a man because he’d become the kind of gentleman that other members in the House of Lords looked to before casting their votes. Now, at twenty-six, he knew he was a man because he finally understood what it means to love, without conditions or limits. He loved Honoria with everything in him, from the very marrow in his bones, and that meant he wanted her to be happy, and safe, even if her happiness didn’t include him. Even if it meant acknowledging the threat he was to her and that she would be safer without him. He wanted her love, but he wouldn’t begrudge her whatever choices she needed to make for her own sanity. He would kill any man who tried to hurt her—and at least incapacitate any woman who tried to do so—but he would not bring her any more misery himself. He would make things right for her.

“Silly boy, I know you. And I knew from the first moment I met her that there was something between you. You hate my dinner parties. No, do not deny it. You always present yourself creditably well, but you have never enjoyed the formality or the small talk. Your clues to invite her to dinner were as subtle as a cannon. I was understandably curious about your motives. So unlike you. What I saw that night was not just what a lovely woman she is . . . and she is that. I saw in your eyes that you were smitten, even if you did not know it yet.”

“That is how anyone but your mother would see it, yes.” She responded with a quiet smile. “She is a fine woman. Fiercely independent, honest, and direct to a fault. She is not what I would have expected for you, but she is a good woman. And you love her. That is all I need to know.”

This was only the second time in his adult life that he’d asked his mother for something. It felt strange, but not unpleasant. She looked at him sternly for a few moments, without speaking. Then she walked up to him and began stroking his hair, like she’d done when he was a child.

“Trust is such a fragile thing. When given by someone like her, it can be stronger than steel and diamonds . . . and when shattered, it can be that impossible to rebuild. I cannot provide assurance, but I have faith in both of you. Have faith, my son, that the love you have for each other will overcome this . . . obstacle.”

“You have led quite a self-contained life thus far. I had despaired of you marrying, but, more than that, I worry that you closed yourself off from what is most valuable in this life. That is why it is so clear that she is different. You would not lower your defenses for just anyone. And I am so very glad you have.”

“I wish I had your confidence about her. About me. I do not deserve her affection. These feelings are entirely alien to me. She is as vital to me as breathing.” He saw his mother’s eyes glisten at that. “Was this what you felt with Father? I thought it was awful every time he left. But how could you stand it?”

His mother blanched, and he immediately regretted his question. They never discussed his father or his parents’ marriage. Even now, his anger and guilt toward his father still simmered so close to the surface. And he didn’t want to face his mother’s whitewashed adoration.

“That is quite all right. I did feel awful every time he traveled.... It was . . . difficult. But our situation was different. We both made choices best suited to our life, our needs.” Her tone was conciliatory, but she stood and ambled toward the door. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “You are an honorable man. No matter what you have done to upset her, I’m sure you had the best of intentions. You can make this right. I am certain of it.”

He sat at the desk trying to figure out how best to express himself to the one woman he wanted, the one woman whose forgiveness and esteem were now everything to him. But the words wouldn’t come. So instead he began a note to Mrs. Marissa Clarke, member of Needlework for the Needy, offering his assistance in their endeavors in exchange for assistance in his own helpless muddle.