Her soft, almost accusatory question hit him with a surprising amount of sting.
He drew himself up straighter in his seat. “The brother you remember has been pressed into duty. I am the Duke of Westmorland now, and though it should have been Alfred, I cannot change the past, nor can I undo what has already been done, no matter how great my wish is that I could. While you have been gallivanting about Paris with Aunt Fanchette, I have been here taking up the familial cudgels as I must and doing my damnedest to bring the Fenian menace to ground.”
If his voice rang with anger, there was a reason for it. After Alfred’s death a year ago, Callie had fled for France, leaving him behind. Alone. He had allowed her to go, because she had borne the pain of their older brother’s death the most.
“I miss him.” Callie’s quiet admission broke through the ugly silence that had descended in the wake of his outburst.
Alfred had been their heart. When the deaths of their parents had left them alone in the world, he had taken on the role of both mother and father in some ways, alternately protecting and scolding and looking after them in the way of a hen with her chicks.
“I miss him as well, Callie.” His voice was hoarse. Tears burned, threatening to fall. He forced them away. “He was too bloody young.”
“Yes, he was,” Callie agreed. “I am sorry I left for Paris when I did. I should have stayed.”
“You needed to go.” He swallowed a knot in his throat. The knot of grief which would never entirely dissolve, he knew, regardless of how much time passed. “You did not need to set tongues wagging in quite the fashion you did, however.”
They had not discussed in detail which rumors about her sojourn in Paris were true and which were fabrication. This weighed upon him as well, for he knew he must. It was a task he dreaded. He was not Alfred. Nor could he ever take his brother’s place.
“Are you going to reprimand me over breakfast, Benny?”
Bloody hell. He was too soft. All it took was one tear upon his sister’s cheek, and he was done. Abruptly, he stood.
“Not today, Callie.” He had work to attend to this morning. And Miss Hilgrove should be arriving forthwith. He bowed. “Enjoy your breakfast, my dear. We will talk more later. For the nonce, no moreBennyand no more surprise balls.”
Callie gave him a tremulous smile. “You cannot hide from the truth forever, you know.”
Yes, he damn well could. He could bury himself in duty and obligation. It had been working quite admirably for him thus far.
“I bid you good morning, my dear,” he said before stalking from the room, leaving his partially eaten breakfast and the mostly unreadTimesbehind.
He no longer had an appetite, neither for sustenance, nor for news.
Isabella arrived fiveminutes early just as she had the day before.
In an echo of the prior day, she was led to the cavernous grand library, up the staircase and at the end of the picture gallery. Also as on the prior day, the Duke of Westmorland was seated at an elaborately carved desk on one end of the room. Unlike yesterday, however, her table and typewriter were not positioned by the windows overlooking the gardens.
“Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace,” the butler announced.
The duke stood, perfectly polished and buttoned up, his neck cloth perfectly tied. Heat flared in her belly, a testament to his golden good looks. She had spent the early morning hours casting up her accounts thanks to all that dratted wine, and as a result had been reasonably certain she was incapable of feeling anything other than biliousness, regret, and headaches ever since.
She curtsied, belatedly remembering she had come here to perform a duty, not to stare upon Westmorland as if he were a Greek god descended to the mortal realm. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Good morning, Miss Hilgrove,” he returned. “Thank you, Young. That will be all.”
The butler made his departure, leaving Isabella and the duke alone. She stood near the threshold, and this morning, also unlike the day before, it was not the massive library surrounding her which stole her breath.
“There is no time for tarrying, my dear,” he said, quite shattering the spell which had been cast upon her. “We have a great deal of work awaiting us today.”
Yes, you fool. You are here to work, not to ogle a duke you do not like.
But she had liked him yesterday. Indeed, she had been quite tempted by him yesterday.
“Of course, Your Grace.” She moved toward him. “Forgive me, but I was momentarily thrown off by the relocation of the typewriter.”
“Ah.” He gestured toward the chair awaiting her. “Sit, Miss Hilgrove. I will be dictating this morning, hence the necessity of your nearness. If you are at the opposite end of the library, you shall scarcely hear me, and I dislike having to repeat myself.”
The sharpness in his tone was a bleak reminder of why she did not like him. He had no inkling of the proper manner in which he ought to speak to others. He was arrogant and dreadful. He had sent three of her typewriters home in tears.
“Naturally, I would not wish to displease Your Grace in any way.” If her words were stiff, tinged with a hint of challenge, it could not be helped.
