“That may have been well a month ago, but it is utterly unacceptable now. Given that Lord Eckelston is family, he might address you as Roseleigh, however.” Aunt Blanche entered behind him.
His back still to her, Henry rolled his eyes. “Very well, Eckelston. We’ll stay on a formal footing. For now. Has George Bradley arrived?”
“Mr. Bradley broke his fast in the estate office earlier and is at work as is his custom,” Givens advised.
“Thank you, Givens. Kindly send someone to inform him that I will meet with him in my study in one hour.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” Givens said, putting fresh coffee down in front of him. “May I ask your breakfast preferences?”
Aunt Blanche stood behind her chair, glaring at the old butler, while Henry answered him and a footman was dispatched to fill his plate. Givens then assisted her to sit and asked the same question.
“Don’t behave like an imbecile to impress the new duke. You know very well my preferences. I’ve eaten here every day for twenty years,” the old woman growled.
Chapter Three
Lady Margaret Ansel,eldest child of the Earl of Edgecote, loathed unexpected events that upended her plans. She certainly didn’t plan to be stranded in a third-rate inn on the edge of the moors on her way to the Duke of Roseleigh’s funeral, but stranded she was.
Snow and a bad axle dumped her there to brood. After two days, another delay occurred that morning. She stood staring out a dirty window in the public room, dressed for travel, reliving her departure from Dove Abbey, her father’s words ringing in her ears.
“We owe Roseleigh nothing, girl! We aren’t precisely friends!” he had shouted.
Margaret had held her ground and done as she pleased as she always did. She’d believed then, and still did, that old rivalries were pointless. People in both estates suffered from it. Paying respects to the old duke might help bridge the gap. Or so she thought.
Still, she didn’t look forward to seeing Harry Bradley. Oldest son of the oldest son, he’d been bred to succeed and knew it. They met at least once a year at the York Rose Show and occasionally at other events in the northern counties. She’d found him both arrogant and frivolous with no concern for anything but his own comfort when they were in their teens. He didn’t give a damn about the roses, their ostensible reason for rivalry. Roses were merely one more reason for Harry to preen over his superiority and lord it over others.
The only one who’d seemed to tolerate him as a boy was his cousin Henry, but the younger Henry was rarely around. Harry’s father’s death while he was at university had done little to improve his personality. He grew into a stern and intolerant man who kept mistresses in Leeds and York and thought women ought to keep opinions to themselves. He’d have banned Margaret from the Rose Council, organizing board for the York Rose Show, if he could have. The last she’d heard of him, he had racketed off to the continent with some of his rakehell friends. With his grandfather’s death announced far and wide, she was certain he would have scurried home.
The more she remembered, the more she suspected she had set out on a fool’s errand, but pride kept her to her course once decided. She would not go back to her father and admit it had been useless.
“Ready, my lady.” Her coachman stood in the doorway, hat in hand.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” she said, walking with determination to her coach.
They reached Roseleigh Hall late that afternoon, two days after the funeral. It would be rude to expect lodging. She had stopped in the nearby village and bespoken a room at the Red Rose Inn. Unfortunately, the friendly innkeeper turned cold when he saw her name and the white rose badge on her cap. The stupid rivalry infected people at every level. She expected cold water on her washstand and damp sheets when she returned.
Now Margaret climbed the steps to the rambling old Hall with a determined stride. The footman at her side rapped on the door, and it swung open to reveal a grizzled little man as old as the hills around them. He eyed her ensemble and the fur trim on her pelisse and gestured them in. He took her card and glanced up sharply.
“I have come to pay my respects to the late duke and convey the sympathy of my family. Unfortunately, the weather and a faulty axle delayed me from arriving for the funeral,” she explained. “If I could speak to His Grace, I will be brief and then on my way.”
“I’ll inquire,” the old man said. He escorted her to a finely appointed drawing room whose chief attraction was a brisk fire. She went to it to warm her frozen hands.
“What do you want here?”
Margaret turned at the sharp words to see a woman, gray-haired, well dressed, and straight backed, glaring at her from across the room. She recognized her as Lady Blanche Bradley, Harry’s mother. Margaret made a polite obeisance.
“A condolence call only. I meant to attend the funeral but was delayed en route,” Margaret replied.
Lady Blanche breathed in slowly, causing her nose to pinch and her chin to rise. Before she could unleash whatever it was she meant to say in response, someone else entered.
“Welcome, Lady Margaret. Kind of you to call,” the gentleman said. “Have you sent for tea, Aunt Blanche?”
Shocked, Margaret groped for a reply. “You aren’t Harry!” she said without thinking.
The man smiled sadly. “I most certainly am not. Henry Bradley, Duke of Roseleigh, at your service.”
Margaret curtseyed deeply.Henry.On the heels of relief came the realization that, if this amiable young man was the new duke, his cousin had died. “I’m—”
He waved her formal calling card. “Lady Margaret Ansel, daughter—unless I’m mistaken—of the Earl of Edgecote.”
