More singing from the hall.
A deep baritone echoed. The duke’s voice was distinctive and blended with Her Grace’s low harmony. Her friend Lady Ashbrook’s high-pitched voice joined. Yet nothing covered Amelia’s nasally mid-level tones or Agatha’s loud alto.
Felton should laugh; he wanted a home like this, one filled with laughter and love. Yet, he sat and did what he always did when he came to Sandlin Court: stared at the landscape of Port Royal, Cecilia’s landscape.
Months.
Months since they’d talked, since they’d last given in to the love that bound them.
How could it still be so strong after all the time wasted, all the places searched, all the moments he pretended she didn’t exist, all the nights his dreams of her were so vivid?
He was nutters.
Totally mad to be unequivocally in love with Cecilia still.
The duke entered the parlor, his Pott’s limb made only little clicks when he moved his injured leg. “Staring at that painting again.” He shook his head. “After a successful cleaning of my battle cannon, Lionel is napping. He now says Papa and Wellington. I take such pride in that boy. Oh, the women are heading to the porch to sketch.”
The duke came farther inside. His gait was slow and careful as he pushed on his cane and eased into a chair. Maybe his war injuries were hurting him today.
“Refreshment, Gantry? I’ll have Mr. Gerard bring us some.”
The weight of the world felt pinned to Felton’s shoulders. He shrugged. “Pride cometh before the fall, Your Grace. That’s how the saying goes, but no one says how it feels to fall or how much it hurts to be a fool.”
“Oh. Oh.” The duke squinted at him. “You’re in a mood, Gantry. Can my old lieutenant use his expert marksmanship to shoot through the excuses and say what’s wrong?”
“Haven’t touched a gun since your drills in the countryside. Before that, not since my last mission for the Department of War and the Colonies. Maybe that’s what I need, to go shooting. You have anything I can aim at, like between its eyes?”
The duke waved him to the sofa. “You’re suffering, and you haven’t said why. And we are in my wife’s parlor again, not my office—that’s another unanswered question.”
Felton shifted but didn’t move. “The painting’s in here. Can’t come to Sandlin and not see it.”
The duke took his time, stood erect, then walked to the masterpiece. “It is a fine piece. The bright colors. But I don’t understand your fascination with it, or my wife’s.”
This brought a chuckle to Felton. “You honestly haven’t figured this out. Do you need the Widow’s Grace to bring you clues?”
“The meddlesome Lady Shrewsbury and her women’s group have left my duchess alone for now. So don’t mention them, or my darling bride might revert to breeches and sneaking about even with her pregnancy in full bloom.”
“Then she definitely won’t want to hear what I have to say.”
Deeply frowning, his friend offered Felton a sour Lionel-like look when the babe was given pap milk. “Duke, you can’t be so thick as to press and make me say the truth aloud. No, make me say.”
Repington tapped the arm of his chair, his nails galloping fast like a horse. “We’ll be heading back to Hamlin Hall at month’s end, and I will walk into the house.”
“Ask me. I’m dying to tell.”
The duke ignored him again and waved his hands and hummed. “Going to the country home to nest. Lionel and I will begin walking practice. I’ll have to rest up so I can show the eleven-month-old what to do.”
The duke had backed up the conversation so far, his words might fall off the continent. Yet, Felton couldn’t contain his secrets any longer. He sat up, stared the man in his eyes. “Walking practice? At least your stepson is old enough for your schedule now. Repington, how do you continue to have the best luck? Your wife, your poor wife, Patience Amelia Thomas Strathmore, puts up with such stubborn foolishness. I wish mine did. How can sisters be so different?”
The duke’s spry cheeks lost all color. It took him at least a minute before any signs of life made him stir. “How long have you known? And this is the soonest you would say?”
“Since you had me investigate Her Grace, daughter of Wilhelm Thomas.”
“That was months and months ago, I had you do that to find her family. You said nothing?” The duke banged his cane. “Mr. Gerard? I know you’re around. Rum and brandy, please. As much as you can carry.”
The man with wild gray hair peeked inside. His dark cheeks huffed. “Now, Your Grace, are you sure? Old Jove been sending you blessings, keeping that back nice and tight so you can pace like every other man when his babe’s due to arrive.”
“We have time, and I’ll proudly whip my wheeled chair in the traditional position, rolling back forth outside her door until the doctor says all is well. Please bring the bottles now, especially the brandy for Lord Gantry.”
