Chapter 17
MaryAnn casts a furtive glance at Jacob before turning back to the dowager duchess.
“All right, Your Grace. I’ll just go put on something warm. It is a bit chilly this morning,” she says reluctantly, her gaze flicking to Jacob again as she rises.
Jacob pays her no mind. His eyes remain fixed on Therese, reading every subtle flicker of emotion across her face.
“Nonsense, MaryAnn. Let a maid fetch something for you,” Vallejo interjects, still brimming with excitement.
“I won’t take long, Your Grace. I’ll be back shortly,” MaryAnn insists.
Vallejo gives a brief nod and rises to leave, accompanied by Mrs. Fletcher and Therese.
With a broad smile and eyes still lingering on Therese’s retreating figure, Jacob stands, ready to make his exit—until soft footsteps approach the doorway.
He turns and sees MaryAnn. She’s barely added anything to what she wore earlier. Frowning at the oddity, he moves to pass her, but her voice halts him.
“Your Grace, may I have a word with you in private?”
Jacob stills.
She attempts a smile, but it falters at his look.
“I’ve received a proposal of marriage from the Earl of Kilmore,” MaryAnn begins, her voice hesitant, eyes searching his. He remains impassive.
“I know it’s sudden,” she continues, “but he asked, nonetheless. And as I told the dowager duchess, I wanted to hear from you first—knowing she, like I, would prefer I remain in this family.”
At those words, Jacob arches a brow. He exhales slowly and walks to the window, gaze drifting absently over the gardens. Relief flickers within him. At last, a solutiona way to marry MaryAnn off to a reputable man and still satisfy his mother’s quiet wishes.
And yet, something in MaryAnn’s tone holds back.
“My cousin, the Earl, is a good man. Now I understand why he declined other matches; something Mother just admitted to me,” Jacob says, turning to face her fully. “I’ll send word of my approval and begin dowry negotiations immediately.”
MaryAnn’s expression tightens in horror, but Jacob continues.
“There’s no reason the marriage can’t happen before the end of May. It’s a fitting match for you and for Mother.”
MaryAnn stares at him, speechless. Then, barely audible, she whispers, “But I wanted it with you, Jacob. Not the Earl.”
The very words he’d long suspected. The reason she had rejected every other suitable suitor since Jonathan’s death.
Jacob’s voice drops, low and bitter.
“That was never going to happen, MaryAnn. I wasn’t going to dishonor my brother’s memory, or indulge my mother’s wishes.”
She shakes her head in protest. “No. That’s not what it would have meant.” She steps toward him, clasping his hands, bringing them to her lips. “There was a time you wanted me. You looked at me the same way you looked at that dressmaker.”
His heart jolts at the mention of Therese, but his face remains unreadable. He doesn't regret being caught admiring her. If anything, he welcomes it.
“You wished to marry me then. It would’ve been a perfect union. A...”
“A continuation of what began years ago?” Jacob cuts in, pulling his hands free and stepping back.
“It ended with Jonathan, MaryAnn. It ended the day I set sail for Portugal, knowing your marriage to him was imminent. He loved you. I won’t tarnish that.”
His voice drips with disgust. MaryAnn’s head shakes frantically.
“No. I loved him too. But this… this would honor him.”
“No, MaryAnn. It would betray him.” His voice cracks with emotion. “There’s nothing left here for you. Go to Kilmore. Become a countess. Start again. You’re still young.”
“I want to be your wife, Jacob. Not Rowland’s.”
Her voice is firm. But Jacob only stares at her, realization dawning.
Once upon a time, he’d longed to hear those words. But she had dismissed him—reminded him of his place.
Now, she spoke them to the wrong man.
A cold smile curves his lips.
“You don’t want me, MaryAnn. You want the Duke of Orford. You reminded me once that no one would choose a second son over a future duke. And now here you are.”
The shock on her face is deeply satisfying.
This is who she truly is. A woman clinging to status. She had never loved him—or his brother. She loved the title. And now, with Orford holding wealth and power, thanks to Jacob’s influence, she wishes to remain.
“I’ll send word to Rowland. The wedding will happen before May ends,” Jacob says coldly. His resentment burns as he bows and turns away.
“What about my opinion?” MaryAnn asks bitterly.
Jacob turns once more.
Yes, she’s still beautiful—though time and grief have dimmed her glow. But her best years have passed.
“You lost that right the moment you chose to remain in this house after Jonathan’s death. You should’ve known that.”
And with that, he walks out, slamming the door behind him.
He strides briskly down the stairs, needing space, distance from the bitterness clinging to him like smoke. The thought that he and Jonathan had once fought over her now sickens him. She wasn’t worth it. She never had been.
There had been a time, after his return from Portugal, when her presence had unsettled him. But that discomfort faded. He learned to be civil. Then, when he inherited the title, her closeness had grown too convenient. She stayed in the house, refused suitors, all under the guise of mourning.
When his mother suggested marriage, he shut it down, insisting she find MaryAnn a match.
Now he understands. It was never about love. Only ambition.
“Jacob.”
His mother’s voice calls from behind as he waits for the carriage. He turns as she approaches gently.
“Walk me to the garden, will you?”
“Shouldn’t you be with Mrs. Fletcher and Ther...Miss Antonio?” he corrects himself quickly.
“I need to talk to you, Jacob.”
“I’m late for a meeting with Joseph and some associates,” he mutters, though he already suspects her reason.
“Please. It won’t take long.” She loops her arm through his.
He signals the driver to wait and leads her into the garden. The sun is warm above them. The scent of roses fills the air.
Vallejo exhales deeply. “Rowland has asked for MaryAnn’s hand.”
Jacob stays silent, eyes fixed ahead.
“From your silence, I assume she told you. I saw her stop you earlier.”
There’s no judgment in her voice—only a quiet hope.
“I plan to write Rowland today. It’s a sound match. As I told her, it suits both your interests,” he says, subtly suggesting even MaryAnn shares that wish.
“You can’t blame her for wanting to remain. She loved Jonathan.”
Her defense irritates him, but he holds back. Better she doesn’t know the truth.
“I understand, Mother. But it’s time for MaryAnn to go.”
“But she won’t be staying here, Jacob. She’ll be in Ireland with Rowland. It’s not quite the same.”
“No, Mother. Rowland is family. She won’t be a Wilson by name, but the connection will remain. He’s Father’s cousin, remember?”
His mother sighs, lowering her gaze.
“There was a time you begged me to get MaryAnn for you.”
He freezes. Pain stabs his gut, her words a jagged memory.
“She’s available now. Why not take her? Keep Jonathan’s memory alive.”
Silence falls. Birds chirp faintly in the hedges.
He considers his reply. Recalls every word from MaryAnn moments ago.
“I’d be desecrating his memory, Mother, by darkening the walls of her womanhood.”
The words are crude—unfit for her ears. But the message is unmistakable.
His mother flushes, cheeks pink.
“I’ll see to it that she marries Rowland before the end of May. Do well to prepare for the wedding. Good day, Mother.”
He kisses her cheek and walks away.
She remains, quietly watching as he boards the waiting carriage.