Page 52 of Watching the Earl

Pleased with his plan, he continued toward his door and opened it. Despite a need to look down the corridor to see if any staff were about, he refrained. This was his house and he was the lord. Confidently, he closed his door behind him and strode to his father’s door.

It wasn’t until he’d turned the knob and stepped inside that he had second thoughts. The scent of musk, his father’s cologne, still lingered in the air.

Refusing to look at anything in the room, he kept his gaze on the connecting door to Georgina’s bedroom. The layout of the lord’s and lady’s chambers had the bedrooms connecting with the dressing rooms on the opposite sides, and then the sitting rooms. It was an old-fashioned design, since no one had ever changed it.

He opened the door and stepped into Georgina’s room. Immediately, the light, flowery scent that was her filled his nostrils. It wasn’t heavy like roses or distinct like lavender. He breathed deeply. It was sweet and fresh.

Pansies. His wife wore a pansy scent. No wonder she’d had pansies placed on the breakfast table. Pleased that he’d figured it out, he walked to the bed, smiling.

But as he approached, he could see she was already asleep. He shouldn’t be surprised. She had been up with the sun and then bustling about the property gathering names all day. Despite a yearning to wake her, he stepped back. Tomorrow, he could explain that he had come but she’d been asleep.

After all her questions at dinner, he found himself looking forward to showing her how Crestfield provided for them. Her knowledge of estate management meant he could discuss it with her when he wished to, as opposed to only with his steward. She would no doubt enjoy that.

Quietly, he turned and headed back through the connecting door and closed it. He started across the lord’s bedroom, determined to make the door, but his footsteps slowed of their own accord. His gaze scanned the room, the large four-poster bed, the end table and lamps, the two wingback chairs before the cold fireplace.

He found himself walking to the side of the bed, the last place he’d stood as his father struggled to breathe just so he could see his only son before moving on. All the feelings came back to him in a rush: the anguish, the hopelessness, and the overwhelming guilt. His father had smiled at him as soon as he stopped coughing, so pleased that he’d come, telling him to take care of his mother, who had sat on the other side of the bed, never leaving.

He’d agreed to everything his father asked of him, barely hearing the words, just knowing that he’d do anything to make the man feel better. Then his father took his hand and squeezed it. I love you, Philip. I’m proud of the man you’ve become. I know I leave Crestfield and all who reside here in good hands.

Then the coughing took over and his mother gave his father a draught that helped calm it. His father closed his eyes then, never to open them again.

Philip had gone to his room. Even then, he’d known exactly how selfish he’d been. His father had given him everything, his time, his love, his knowledge, always being patient, never expecting perfection.

Even in his own guilt, he’d been selfish.

Then there was the wail in the middle of the night, his mother’s keening over his father’s passing, their love so strong that he thought he’d lose her too, but she was tougher than he.

His vision blurred, and he wiped his eyes, surprised to find tears on his face. He hadn’t cried when his father left them. Even then he was too selfish in his own guilt.

He forced himself to touch the pillow, the last place his father had rested his head while alive. How could he begin to atone for his own actions? His new wife, who was meant to be his atonement, was far too agreeable.

He looked around the room again. It was clean, the servants keeping it so, yet everything was exactly as his father had left it.

Bent upon pushing himself, he moved into the dressing room. Here the scent of musk was far more prevalent. His father’s valet, having retired upon the earl’s death, now lived with his daughter and grandchildren in the village. Everything in the room had been put away in the armoire and drawers—though the shaving soap still sat on the shelf as if his father might need it.

Moving on, he walked into the sitting room that his father had turned into a study of sorts. Here is where he’d smoke on occasion, drink, and instruct Philip on the proper ways of a true gentleman. There’d been many a night they’d stayed up until dawn, playing chess or talking. Those nights had become few once he went to Oxford.

His chest filled with the pain of his loss, his conscience telling him he deserved it. If he moved into these rooms, would that be just punishment or a reward for being the new Lord Durham? The more important question was, could he do it? Could he sleep in his father’s room, knowing that if only he’d thought a bit more about his parent, things would have been different, his father possibly still alive?

He strode back through the dressing room and into the bedroom once again. He would do it. It was time.

And whatever nightmares visited him in his sleep, he deserved. Maybe if he’d repented sooner, he wouldn’t have almost lost his father’s legacy.

Glancing at the connecting door, he felt an odd sense of relief fill him. Georgina had saved his family’s reputation with her dowry, and maybe she would be the salvation he needed. Maybe.

Opening the door to the corridor, he crossed it and slipped back into his room. Tomorrow, he would tell Mrs. Newman that while he was in London, the staff could move his belongings into his father’s rooms. That would give them plenty of time. It would also give him time to prepare himself and maybe enjoy a few days as a newly married man.

*

“Whom will we visit next?”

At Georgina’s excited question, Philip held back a chuckle. “You’ve met almost thirty. I thought you’d like to save the rest for other days.”

“How many more are there? I don’t want anyone to feel that I’ve snubbed them.”

“I have two hundred and eleven tenant farmers. If we visit them in the order of closest to farthest, there shouldn’t be any hard feelings. In fact, I will bet that the wives of those farmers you haven’t met yet are now quickly planning what to wear when they meet you.”

“Me?” She set her hand to the neckline of her pale pink dress. It made her look far more delicate than he knew her to be.