“Resign your position. After seeing the two of you together this morning, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“After what I’ve put him through, though, I’m not sure he’ll really want me about. I’m such an idiot, you know.”
“No, you’re not. You’re very lucky.” Emma smiled. “And you’re going back to London.”
A warm, nervous, excited spark glowed to life in her heart. “Yes. But I have one stop to make before I see him again.” She wanted—needed—one more explanation. And thanks to Lucien, she finally had the courage to demand it.
Alexandra took a deep breath, tightened her grip on Shakespeare’s leash, and rapped on the massive oak double doors. The sound echoed and faded into the bowels of the house, and her heart hammered in the same nervous rhythm. A moment later the door swung open.
“Yes, miss?”
She looked at the hawk-nosed butler. “Please inform His Grace that Miss Gallant is here to see him.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “This way, miss.”
The mansion was enormous, perhaps even larger than Balfour House. The butler led her into the morning room and closed the door behind him as he vanished. Portraits of the duke and his two sons hung from one wall, along with a rendering of his late wife and several other, more distant, relations.
“What do you want?”
Alexandra kept her attention on the paintings as the duke’s voice boomed into the room. “Why is there no portrait of my mother here?” she asked.
“She left the family. I thought you’d run off to Hampshire.”
“You pushed her out of the family.”
“Is that why you behave so poorly in my presence? Your mother taught you to dislike me, didn’t she?”
She turned around. “Is that what you think?”
The Duke of Monmouth rolled his eyes. “I’m a busy man. You’d best get to whatever point you have. I don’t have and I won’t take the time to hand out lengthy explanations to minor relations.”
His reply resoundingly answered one question. Lucien was nothing like her uncle. That was another apology she owed the earl. “I don’t want an explanation,” she said, her jaw clenched. “I want an apology.”
“For choosing not to display a portrait of your mother? Nonsense!”
Alexandra looked at him. “You don’t have any idea why I’m angry, do you, Uncle Monmouth?”
He strode to the writing desk and began rooting through the drawers. “I don’t care why you’re angry,” he retorted. “I told you, I’m busy.”
Far from being intimidated, Alexandra abruptly wanted to laugh. “You sound like a thespian who has only learned one line of a play—‘don’t bother me, I’m busy.’”
The duke rounded on her. “I will not be made a figure of ridicule. Is this how you show your gratitude? I went out of my way to publicly forgive your indiscretions, and in return you call me an actor? A poor actor, yet?”
“If you are so very busy, why did you go out of your way to forgive my indiscretions?”
“Bah. Kilcairn caught me at a weak moment.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. And you’ve already made me regret taking you back into the family fold.” He lifted out a ledger and slammed the desk door closed. “I suppose you want money now?”
“Good heavens,” she muttered. “I don’t want money. All I ever wanted from you was an apology, as I just said.”
“An apology? I told you, I will not have your mother’s por—”
“Not for that,” she interrupted sharply. “When my mother and father died, I asked you for money—only enough so I could settle their few debts. You refused. I had to sell most of Mama’s jewelry and all of Papa’s paintings just to see them decently buried.”
“And how—”
