But then, that was how his every interaction with his mother had always been. He returned her embrace, narrowly avoiding being poked in the eye by the silk flowers and feathers adorning her extraordinarily high coiffure. His mother had forever been of the opinion that her lack of height could be countered by elaborate hair stylings. Once, to his utter horror, she had wornan entire family of stuffed birds in her hair for a ball. He’d spent the evening trying to avoid the glossy eyes of the wretched wrens, whose feathers had been dyed to match her purple silk.
“Mother,” he said stiffly, patting her back.
Their relationship had never been particularly close. She had been aloof in his childhood, content to allow him to be raised by servants and then later to send him away to school. His father had been no better. The Duke of Sedgewick had been fifteen years his mother’s senior, an austere, white-haired gentleman who had guarded his smiles and praise as if giving them would lessen his massive fortune. It had not been until Amelia had come into Quint’s life—ironically enough, in a match made by their parents—that he had begun to understand what love truly was.
“Your hair.” Mother extricated herself from his embrace and drew her shoulders back, frowning as she surveyed his appearance. “My heavens, Sedgewick, you look like Robinson Crusoe, stranded on a desert isle. It will need to be cut, of course. I cannot think your valet allows you to carry on this way.”
Until recently, he hadn’t one. He’d had Dunreave, who served as both butler and valet. Now, he had one of the footmen to assist him in shaving. But the lad hadn’t dared to speak a word against Quint’s hair, too wide-eyed from his movement up the service ladder.
“I’m not cutting my hair,” he informed her.
“And whatever are you wearing?” she asked quite as if he hadn’t spoken, her nose wrinkled as she took in the rest of him. “Where is your coat, and why are you wearing so much country tweed? I understand that you are here in the wilds of the north, but surely you have something more elegant to wear.”
He frowned down at her. “I am wearing what I wish to wear.”
She was still exhibiting a moue of distaste, her eyes returning to his hair as if it were a tragedy from which she couldn’tlook away. “Fortunately, I have brought some garments up from London. I sent word to your tailor, and he was exceptionally pleased to send along a selection of coats, waistcoats, and trousers. I directed Dunreave to take them to your rooms.”
It was as if he hadn’t said a word. His mother was holding a conversation entirely with herself, making sweeping decisions as if he hadn’t the right to object. Why had he expected differently? This had been the way of it between them, his mother’s overbearing nature trampling over any objections in her way. It was one of the reasons he had buried himself away here at Blackwell Abbey. She’d had the audacity to suggest but a few days after Amelia’s funeral that when his period of mourning was over, he would need to begin looking for a new wife to breed so that he might carry on the line.
“…and you must really take better care with your appearance for Lady Diana’s sake, if for no other reason. She is considered one of the greatest beauties in Polite Society, you know. She could have her choice of any husband.”
His mother’s continued prattling sifted through Quint’s thoughts, making him snap back to attention. “What do Lady Diana’s marital prospects have to do with what I wear or whether I cut my hair, Mother?”
Suspicion curdled his gut. He ought to have known his mother hadn’t simply wanted to visit him for Christmastide. That the housekeepers she had sent him were her means of orchestrating some larger plan. That she would never be content to allow him to exist in peace.
“Nothing at all if you want to remain a bachelor hiding away in Durham, of course, and if you wish to allow some distant country cousin to become the next Duke of Sedgewick,” she said pointedly, her tone suitably dramatic.
“We have discussed this, Mother,” he reminded her tightly, clenching and unclenching his gloved hands at his sides.
“You have a duty to the title,” she insisted. “You cannot simply molder away here with this ancient estate. You must think of your obligations.”
“Is that why you have come, madam?” he demanded. “To remind me of my obligations?”
She heaved a sigh, the plumes in her silvery hair quivering. “It has been two years, Sedgewick. You are five-and-thirty. You must make another match, and you must beget an heir. To say nothing of Sedgewick Hall, which you have abandoned, and your many other duties.”
He flexed his hands again, feeling the tightness of his ruined flesh, the heaviness in his chest as if the weight of that flaming beam had fallen upon him anew. “You needn’t remind me of how much time has passed since my wife and child died.”
“Apparently, I must. The proper period of mourning is six months. A year, at most. And yet, here you remain, buried in the north for two whole years, just as surely as if you lay down in her grave alongside her,” she snapped.
Her callous words brought back memories he had valiantly sought to suppress. The sound of dirt falling on the coffin bearing what had remained of his wife and babe. The finality of the shovel striking earth. It was all returning to him now, the past at war with the present.
“I’ll mourn as I see fit,” he said, his tone harsh, but he didn’t care. “You have no right to meddle in my affairs.”
“I have no right?” She had the temerity to look affronted, a small, disbelieving laugh slipping from her. “Sedgewick, I am your mother. It is my solemn duty to remind you of yours.”
He didn’t want to think about duty or the pain of the past. All he wanted to think about right now was Joceline. He wanted—needed—to know what was between them. He wanted to see her again, kiss her again, touch her again. To be alone with her. She wasallhe wanted, full stop. But not only did they have thecomplication of their disparate stations, now they also had his mother, Lord Dreighton, and Lady Diana.
He passed a hand over his jaw, grim. “I’m more than aware of what is expected of me. I don’t need you to remind me.”
“Of course you do, Sedgewick.” His mother fluttered nearer, venturing a consoling pat on his upper arm. “I was heartened when you didn’t send the latest housekeeper I sent you away. It gave me hope that you’re ready to return to your rightful place in society.”
He didn’t wish to speak about Joceline with his mother. Nor did he want the reminder that she was his housekeeper.
“Mrs. Yorke is remarkably adept at her position,” he said politely, doing his utmost to expunge every hint of emotion from his voice.
It wouldn’t do for Mother to suspect there was something between himself and Joceline that went beyond employer and domestic.
Another light pat, as if he were one of his mother’s prized pugs gathered at her feet. “That is why I chose her. It’s my most fervent hope that you will come to your senses in other areas as well, not just the running of your household. Give Lady Diana a chance. She would make you an excellent wife.”
