His steward’s rage was palpable. “Wells,” he ground out, “you’ve no right t’ speak of her so and no right to treat me like a?—”
“Like a friend, John? Damn it, man, Iamyour friend, and as such I’ve every right to tell you what I think. And I think you’re rushing into this. I know you want her, any fool can see that, and no doubt she wants you too, but marriage is . . . It’s an impediment, John, an obstacle. A legal contract not easily broken. What if you tire of her once you’ve had her, eh? Have you not tired of other women before? Then what? And what if she wishes to leave Cumberland? What if you?—”
“Yer Grace,” Cuthbert spoke through his teeth, “seems t’ me as though everythin’ you’re describin’ applies more t’youthanme, sir.” His eyes hit Wells hard. “I’ve not said I’d abandon me post here, and Eleanor wishes t’ stay with her father. I’d simply live with ’em there, rather’n here. And when her old man passes I’d move her into the Abbey with me. Why, she could have a position here, same as Charles.”
“Oh I doubt very much Charles wishes her sister to work alongside her.”
“Then Ellie can take her sister’s position as housekeeper when y’ tire o’ yer mistress,” John snapped.
Wellesley’s thoughts turned ominous. “And what makes you so certain I will tire of Charles, John?”
“’Cause y’ said it yerself, sir. And as you’ve had her often enough, and long enough now, seems t’ me you’ll be tirin’ of her sooner’n later. Seems to me, the moment the Duke passes you’ll be forced t’ marry some lady o’ theTonand thenCharles Merrinan’ll want nothin’ t’ do with you, sir, mark my words. For she sure as shite ain’t the sort o’ woman who’ll share Yer Grace, that she will not.”
Wells saw red. “Out,” he ordered, his anger barely contained. “Get out, John, before I say something to you I will regret.”
His steward glared at him, turned on his heel, and left.
Air escaped Wellesley’s lips in a slow and painful hiss; he hadn’t known he’d been holding his breath. He hadn’t expected the evening to end like this.
When Charles slipped into his lordship’s bed that night, full of delicious anticipation, she could tell things were amiss. He remained sullen almost, turned on his side, though she knew he did not sleep. By now she recognized the even cadence of his breathing when in slumber; this was not a man at rest.
Gently she touched him, yet still he did not respond. “Roland,” she whispered, pressing her body to his, “tell me what is wrong.”
She heard him exhale before he turned to bury his face between her breasts, letting her stroke his thick curls. He breathed her in, pulling her to him.
“Do you wish to tell me what is troubling you, my lord?” she asked, careful.
He shook his head.
“Then let me comfort you instead.” She kissed his forehead, his lips, then slowly made her way down his body, kissing every inch of him, until he could stand her kisses no more, it seemed, and simply rolled atop her, spilling what felt like bitter sorrow into the belly of her embrace.
CHAPTER THIRTY
And then the unthinkable happened. Wellesley’s mother, the Duchess of Allendale, arrived the very day the snows began to recede. And she did not arrive alone, for in her carriage was a perfectly respectable, no doubt utterly biddable young lady.
Miss Evangeline Mowry, daughter to some viscount, was clearly there for one reason only: to be offered up as bride.
Beside himself, Wells paced the parlor, still the sole room fit for guests. “Mother, I cannot fathom why you’d?—”
“Roland, dear, Ididwrite, only I imagine the post was delayed by the weather. We left London as soon as the roads were passable so I assumed . . .” She made a face. “Well, I’d forgotten how long it takes for everything up here tomelt.” Her eyes flitted to her soiled hem.
No doubt the audacity of his muddy courtyard to sully his mother’s dress had infuriated the Duchess, but as always, she did not show it. Instead, she let him feel it. He grimaced, still disbelieving his mother was here. Of course she’d bloody show up on his doorstep without a word of warning. But to have brought a stranger with her, without damn well asking . . .
“And I could hardly leave Miss Mowry behind, dear, not when I’d promised the poor girl’s dying mother I would lookafter her only daughter.” She pursed her lips at him. “The young lady is grieving, Roland, you must be kind to her. It was quite a shock.”
“No more than theshockof you bringing her here, Mother,” he bit back, grateful the miss had been brought to the kitchen for some repast and so spared their conversation. Apparently, the young lady did not travel well.
“And if she is still in mourning why, pray, does she not wear black?” His eyes met his mother’s, whose sharp grey orbs mirrored his own: defiant.
“I find it cruel to force so beautiful a young woman as Miss Mowry to don somber hues, Roland.” She barely cracked a smile. “Especially when less austere colors are perfectly acceptable here in Cumberland at least.”
He knew what she was about. “Well I promise to give her a wide berth,Maman,considering how keenly she must still suffer her mother’s loss.” His eyes bored into her. “I expect you, alone, to console her in her mourning.”
“Me? Goodness, Roland, everyone knows a well-bred gentleman like yourself is the greatest balm to a lady in grief. You, more than anyone, I am sure, will take her mind off matters and bring some color to her cheeks.” Her smile dazzled like a bright, cold gemstone.
“Shall we continue this little game,Maman, or must I be blunt?” Wells’s lips formed a line. “I will not marry Miss Mowry.”
“Your father is on his deathbed, Roland, and the Duchy needs an heir.”
