“Then you must not have stayed long enough to hear the rest of what I had to say. I told her that I loved you, Viola. And that I wasn’t worthy of you.”

“You did?”

“Damn it, Viola. I have a speech all prepared. Come to Westbury Abbey willingly or I’ll . . . damn! I promised Birdie that I wouldn’t threaten to throw you over my shoulder. She’ll be furious with me if she learns I mucked this up again.”

Viola smiled. “In that case, I’ll do it for Birdie.”

She placed her hand in his.

And was lost all over again.

The ride to Westbury Abbey was brief. She expected him to bring her inside the house but instead he led her around the back to a small graveyard.

“This is my mother’s grave.” There were fresh red roses placed on the marble statue of an angel. West laid his hand over his mother’s name, his fingers trembling. “She would have loved you, Viola. She would have recognized a kindred spirit in you.”

“I wish I could have met her.”

“And this is my father’s grave.” West’s voice trembled this time, not his hand. He pulled a pile of letters banded about with red twine from his pocket. “I read every single one of these letters. Every word. My father berated me and praised Bertram. And between the lines I read a story about a hard, flinty man who could never relinquish his anger. He made my mother’s life, and mine, miserable. But as I read the letters something eased in my chest. A knot of tension that had been there since childhood. The tension of waiting for a physical blow yet knowing that his scorn hurt even worse.”

Viola smiled. “And did it make you feel lighter?”

“Not at first. I realized that I’d become just like him.”

“Never,” she said. “You could never be such a tyrant.”

“I mean that I’m a man who was unable to let go of a grudge. And I’ve caused pain to those around me because of it. Each letter I read strengthened my determination to change, to forgive him, leave the past behind, and begin anew.”

The faintest tinkle of victory bells began to sound far off in her mind. “That’s wonderful, West.”

“I didn’t reform in order to attract the perfect duchess. I changed my ways because of you. For you. You make everyone around you want to be better. You made my old life feel hollow and joyless.”

He led her toward two marble tombstones set next to one another.

“Is this Bertram’s grave?” she asked.

“Read the inscription.”

Here lies Brandan, Duke of Westbury, she read, whose life began in truth when he met his beloved wife, Viola.

The bells grew louder, beginning to ring with real abandon.

“And the other one.”