Mr. Findlay
Loretta reached down to examine the near perfect leaf that had fallen from the tree. How it had managed to survive intact, so late into December, she couldn’t guess. Nature could be fickle that way. Thick veins added texture to the resilient piece of greenery. Adrift now, from its source of life, it would turn brittle and brown.
Much like herself.
The bitter irony of her thoughts thickened the lump that now seemed permanently lodged in her throat. Life was short. Everything died.
Dropping the leaf, she shook her head and continued along her walk through the extravagant gardens at Eden’s Court. She welcomed the frigid air.
All of this had once been hers to manage, hers to watch over. Not any longer.
Although still considered a duchess, she was no longertheduchess. She wasn’t the dowager either. For Dev was not a direct descendent of her husband.
Her deceased husband.
She swallowed at the thought. Seventeen months had passed and yet the heaviness, the weight of loss had yet to lift.
“Your grace.” A nearing voice announced the end of her privacy. The deep gravelly tones dragged her from her ever present self-pitying thoughts. “Feels like snow, we might have a white Christmas after all. Would you mind some company?”
She hid a grimace. Mr. Thomas Findlay was not the type of man she’d ever had much reason to converse with. Burly, larger than life, his company made her uncomfortable. A wealthy industrialist, he was the father of one of her daughter-in-law, Sophia’s closest friends.
Loretta dismissed her irritation.
Sophia, whom Loretta now shared the title of Duchess of Prescott, had begun entertaining even before the full year of mourning had been observed. She’d also remarried and given birth.
Loretta nodded reluctantly at Mr. Findlay’s intrusion but allowed the man to draw abreast of her. Without a word, she then turned to continue along the flagstone path. It took her a moment to realize he’d offered his arm and then another for her to actually take it.
This man could not be any more different from her late husband.
Her husband had been a duke, born and raised to carry the weight of the title and all that came along with it. Both the privilege and the responsibility. Prescott had been tall, lean and oh so very haughty and arrogant. He’d rarely smiled except for a few occasions. He’d seemed cold to most, but he’d loved her in his own way.
And she’d loved him.
Mr. Findlay didn’t stand quite tall as her husband had, but he likely weighed a few stones more. Hard labor showed in his broad shoulders and muscular build. The man lacked the finish of a gentleman, often running a weathered hand through his thick head of hair, which was mahogany, almost red, threaded with a few silver strands. Although he made some half-hearted attempts, he occasionally failed to uphold the protocol required of a guest at the ducal estate.
Many women might consider him handsome for his age, though, which, if she might hazard a guess, would be close to her own.
Forty-three years old and now a widow. Likely, she’d already lived the best of her life.
She allowed him to draw her arm further through the crook he’d made and then lead her along the path.
His forearm was thicker beneath her hand than she’d grown accustomed to, making her feel small. His warmth spread to her. She’d not realized how cold she’d become until she began absorbing some of his heat along the length of her side.
“I do love the children, but it’s nice to experience peace and quiet.” His deep voice resonated clearly in the empty walkway. When had she last strolled alongside a gentleman her own age? Not since Prescott’s funeral. She’d yet to leave off her mourning.
She rarely left the estate these days and persisted in wearing widow’s weeds. She knew she could transition to dull grays and lavenders now, but she hadn’t the heart.
Even with Christmas a fortnight away.
“Little Finn, that one’s likely to be a handful.” Ah, yes, his namesake, his grandson. Just a few months older than Lady Harriette, Sophia’s nine month old baby.
Loretta had always loved children. And it wasn’t that she didn’t lovethesechildren, especially the baby girl… She wanted to coo and fuss over the darling, who ought to have been her own grandchild, but little Harriette gazed back at her from eyes as black as the night. And the tufts of downy hair that sprang from her little head matched that of the man who was now the duke, the man who ought to have only been her stepfather.
Even so, the infants reminded her of the past. The sight of them, their cries and laughter, prompted her to recall all that she’d lost.
“And that granddaughter of yours — not yet a year old and already quite the beauty.”
She stiffened at his words.
