Page 53 of Kathryn

“Won’t you stay and take tea with me?” Katie asked. “There are two cups and—”

“No, no, I mustn’t. You will need your rest and Gerrit will want to speak to me,” she added, more to herself as she fluttered toward the door.

“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” the pretty, dark-haired maid asked Katie, her eyes sliding curiously to the trunks that were scattered about.

“No, thank you. That will be all—what is your name?”

“Nora, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Nora.”

Once the door had closed, Katie turned to Becky, who was waiting for her with wide eyes.

“Have you ever heard the like?” Becky marveled, shaking her head in wonder as she moved toward the tray and began to prepare the tea.

“She is certainly an original,” Katie said, pulling the pins from her hair and letting the heavy tresses fall with a groan of relief.

“She seems nothing like His Grace.” Becky put two lumps of sugar and some milk in a cup before handing it over to Katie.

Katie gave a mirthless laugh. “No, she is not. Take tea with me,” she ordered, prepared for an argument. But to her surprise, Becky merely nodded and fixed herself a cup.

Katie massaged her aching scalp as she inspected her chambers. “This is very pretty,” she murmured, her eyes lingering on a lovely painting of a meadow that looked so realistic she could almost smell the wildflowers.

“How odd that His Grace has never occupied the master’s chambers,” Becky said, taking a sip of tea before setting down her cup and saucer and returning to the trunk she’d been unpacking before Betje interrupted her.

Katie had been surprised to hear that, too. She knew Dulverton’s father had been dead for at least twenty years. Had Betje made the decision to move her son’s things to the master’s chambers, or had he? Something told her it had been the former.

She wandered the generous suite with her cup and saucer, examining what were surely new blue silk hangings and a lovely blue and cream Aubusson rug. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran along the north side of the room, and she pushed aside the heavy cobalt blue drapes to gaze out at the moonlit landscape. Her room overlooked a parterre garden which was magnificent even at night. Beyond that was a deer park that was bordered by a rather magical-looking wood.

Movement caught her eye, and she squinted. A man on horseback emerged from the woods and galloped toward the house. Katie recognized her husband long before she could see his face.

Where in the world had he gone at this time of night?

Or, more likely, who had he gone to see?

Chapter Fourteen

Gerrit rode through the moonlit night heedless of the beauty around him. All the pleasure he usually took in returning to Briarly had been shattered by his mother’s presence. Not even Amelia’s soothing influence—a balm to his nerves, which had been rubbed raw after barely five minutes in his mother’s company—could completely suppress his agitation.

But running to Amelia to snivel rather than entering his own house and facing whatever carnage his mother had wrought had simply put off the inevitable. Briarly had always been his refuge from the outside world and now his mother, a woman he’d run away from at only nine years of age, had invaded it.

Even worse had been Amelia’s reaction to his anger.

“She is your mother, Gerrit. She has every right to visit your home and meet your wife.”

Gerrit had been rendered speechless by her words.

Amelia had smiled faintly at his shock. “I know what you are thinking, but—”

“That is not difficult,” he retorted. “My butler knows what I am thinking. Hell. I’m sure all my servants know—down to the youngest scullery maid. What surprises me is that you do not agree that her presence here is”—he scrambled for words to adequately describe the chaos the dowager brought in her wake but failed to find them.

“It is upsetting to you, I know that. But—” She stopped and pursed her lips.

“But what?”

“But you are eight-and-thirty, Gerrit. It is past time to forgive your mother. Long past time.”

“Forgive her? I do not know what you mean, Amelia. I do not bear her any ill will. I simply do not care for her presence, which, you must admit, has always been disruptive.