Lydia. Dead in an accident.
The thought was too overwhelming and did not even feel real. She covered her mouth with her hands to mask the sound of her sobs that were now ripping out of her throat.
And then she bent over and emptied out the contents of her stomach in the basin, the news having twisted her stomach into knots to the point of making her sick.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Frances, are you in there?” Albina had followed her there, and she was banging loudly on the door.
Frances wiped her mouth with a towel, struggling to compose herself when she felt like falling apart at the seams.
“Frances,you will answer me now, young lady.”
With a mother like Lady Ramsbury, even grieving in peace was a luxury.
Stealing one last glance at herself in the mirror, Frances went to unhook the latch on the door. A furious Albina stood there, staring her down.
“What on God’s earth was the meaning of that? You left so abruptly. It was rude and?—”
“I’m sorry, Mother.” Frances’s face was catatonic. “I felt ill. Must have been something I ate.”
Albina continued to glare at her. “I was doing such a good job at introducing you to Lord Cormick. It is hard enough to get a hold of him—heaven knows where he must be now.”
“I am sorry, Mother.”
Momentarily placated, Albina nodded and yanked her youngest by the arm to continue her mission of introducing her to some other unsuspecting man.
Frances followed without protest, careful not to incur more of her mother’s questioning. Even though she wanted nothing more than to go home and dissolve into a fit of tears, she had to put up an act for the remainder of the evening.
For this wallflower had a secret that she could not afford to come out.
CHAPTER TWO
“How are they?”
The Duke of Huntington leaned against the wall in the hallway of Huntington Estate. His eyes, shadowed with dark circles, were red-rimmed and bleary. His clothes were crinkled, his hair wild and matted—a stark contrast to his usually polished appearance.
“Your Grace….” Rosaria, the housekeeper, hesitated.
“Tell me. I can handle it,” Christopher urged, his patience running thin.
“Your Grace, they haven’t been sleeping well at all. They keep asking for their parents, and I am running out of excuses to tell them.”
Christopher ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Have you tried reading to them?”
“I have, but it only works for so long.” Rosaria frowned.
“And what about food? Have they eaten anything at all?”
“Yes, Your Grace, I managed to feed them a small piece of bread this morning. But they have quite particular tastes.”
“What bread was it? Have the kitchen staff bake more of it, immediately,” Christopher commanded gruffly.
Rosaria nodded and then bit her lip. “Your Grace, you should get some rest and eat something. Please forgive me for saying this, but you look as though you have not slept at all.”
Seven days.That was how long ago Christopher had received the news that his brother, Peter, and his wife, Lydia, had died in a carriage accident by the river. They left behind two sons, twins, who were far too young to be orphaned.
Christopher barely had a wink of sleep since.How could he?It felt criminal to think about himself when his nephews had just been struck by an awful tragedy that they were much too young to understand.
