“I realise that now.”
“Then why haven’t you followed her, you great numbskull?”
Rising and feeling his stomach shift, he bumbled to the desk and grasped her note. “Read this.”
His mother scanned the brief words before raising incredulous eyes. “This saysdo not follow.”
“I have obeyed. It is the least I could do for her…”
“You bird-witted, jug-bitten, bacon-brained pigwidgeon! This says heave your stately posterior onto your fastest horse and go after her. Oh, good grief! I always thought you took after me, but now I begin to doubt it.” She huffed. “I had to suggest Gretna to your father in the end. Honestly. Men!”
“But it says…”
“If you tell Aideen not to do something, dear, what does she do?”
“The exact opposite, but–”
“Lord Winterbourne is with Thorn, sorting out food, a bag of clothing and your favourite gelding, and if the weather is good, you may make the coast before Aideen leaves our shores. After all, she is in that rickety carriage of yours rather than our spanking trim gig. Go, go,” she said, bussing his cheek and shooing him from the door.
With head still thundering, he plodded up the stairs whilst trying to decode the hidden meaning in a note that saiddo not follow.
Thorn greeted him at the bedchamber door with another dismayed expression – was he that bad?
Winterbourne stood perusing his wardrobe contents – God forbid.
“I’m not wearing parrot green, coquelicot or lilac,” he groused.
“I agree,” stated Winterbourne, “love doesn’t bring about miracles, and Aideen likes you in black for inexplicable reasons, but where’s that off-black waistcoat with the charcoal thread?”
“At the back, I suspect.”
“Hmm. Now I don’t usually advocate running after women or grovelling – it breaks two of my foremost rules – but in your case, I make an exception. Abject grovelling might be advisable.”
Accepting a foul-looking brew from Thorn, he looked up puzzled. “Why would one writeDo not follow. I do not need youif one desired the opposite.”
“Hah, rule eighteen. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he argued, his stomach gurgling the arrival of Thorn’s restorative.
“Yes, but plainly love can be ridiculous. How have you not realised this? I mean, look at you? The staid, priggish, impeccable duke turned slovenly shagbag in a matter of…” He sighed, shaking his head.
Rakecombe peeled his shirt off and Thorn apprehended it, fingers at the very edge as though it crawled with fleas, and he’d a feeling it was set for the fire.
What a fool he’d been. He should have set out the moment he’d read that note – her words be damned.
But he’d been spineless. Afraid of losing her regard for good, afraid to see her eyes glitter with hatred, or even worse, no feeling at all. But no more.
There was one other matter to address. A matter of some importance.
“I shall say the following only once, Jack, and if you tell anyone, I’ll render you ineffectual for any widow’s pleasure ever again.”
“Hmm?” The marquess glanced up from the off-black waistcoat he’d found, eyebrow raised.
“Thank you. Thank you, my friend…for everything.”
A pause.
“All my pleasure, Alex.” He gave a roguish wink. “Now you do indeed smell like an old dog, so off to that contraption of yours.”
