Page 51 of The Season of Lady Chastity

“But—”

He held up his hand, halting her words. “I came to accompany you, Mama. I will remain right here until you are well.”

“Do not be unreasonable, Bastian,” she chided. “I am well and will be fit to attend the ball this evening.”

“The ball,” he choked. “We shall not be attending the ball. Absolutely not.”

“I will be fine by this evening, I assure you.” She pushed to her elbows again and managed to sit up, clutching the blankets to her. “Can we see the wedding from my window?”

“Mother, fresh air is good for you, but it is far too cold near the window.”

When he didn’t move to allow her out of bed, she climbed to the far side, taking her cloak from the chair and wrapping it around her shoulders. The collar was high enough to block her ears, and she sank her hands into the deep pockets.

“My warmest cloak.” She sat in the chair Bastian had resided in before and leaned close to the open window. So close, Bastian feared she might tumble out and fall to the garden below. “Oh, the yard is gorgeous. All those flowers. I am certain Lady Lucianna will be the most beautiful bride. The raven hair, creamy skin, and willowy height—she is exquisite.” She knotted her hands and pressed them to her chest.

Bastian suspected memories of her own marriage to Duncan Stanhope, the Earl of Mansfield, floated through her mind, possibly taking over all her senses. It was understandable. An occurrence he’d be unable to prevent.

“Mother.” He stood, prepared to remove her from the window and return her to the warmth of her bed. “Please, Doc Durpentire said—”

“He is a very wise man, is he not?”

The question took Bastian by surprise. “Father?”

“Heavens no, my boy.” She shook her head sorrowfully, but never looked away from the ceremony below as the stringed music floated through the open window. “But your father was a wise man.”

“Do you speak of Montrose?” Bastian asked. “Lady Lucianna will make a wonderful duchess.”

“You are rather dense when it suits you, Bastian,” she said with a quiet laugh. “I speak of the physician.”

“He is a learned man in charge of the health of all who visit Montrose’s estate.”

“Yes, that is a rather mighty undertaking,” she mused. “Why do you not go down to the gardens?”

Bastian glanced at his mother’s unworn dress, knowing his attire hung similarly in his own chambers. “The nuptials are nearly over, I would assume. And besides, you are in need of me.”

“Oh, Bastian. Do not use me as your excuse. Life will pass you by if you stand aside and consign yourself to the role of onlooker.” She balanced her elbow on the windowsill and set her chin in the palm of her bare hand. “That is not any way to live. Certainly not.”

It wasn’t difficult to picture his mother, Isabella Stanhope, the Countess of Mansfield, in her youth: her rich mahogany hair, always worn long, and her piercing brown eyes. Truly, his father had no choice but to claim her for himself and take her to wife.

Oh, to be so certain of something—of the future.

Bastian had a difficult time looking forward to the coming day, let alone the upcoming decade.

“Lady Mansfield?” The call was punctuated by a gentle knock at her door. “It is I, Doctor Durpentire. May I come in?”

His mother shot up in her seat, fussed with her hair, and pulled at the sleeves of her cloak.

“Just a moment, please.” Hurrying toward him, his mother paused, looking up into Bastian’s eyes. “You look tired, Bastian. If you are determined not to join the festivities in the gardens, I would suggest some rest before the ball this evening.”

“I shall endeavor to rest, but if the physician does not recommend that you attend, we will remain here.” Bastian kissed his mother on both cheeks. Her color had returned, and she did appear well. “We can play games, or I will read to you.”

“Very well, son.” She walked to the door, signaling that it was time for him to depart. “I will consult with Clarence; however, I can assure you, I am feeling quite the thing.”

When Bastian opened the door, the physician stood in the hall, black bag in hand.

“Good morning, my lord,” the doctor greeted. It did not escape Bastian’s notice that he stared past him, his gaze settling on his mother. “Lady Mansfield. I must say you are looking much better this morning.”

“Good day, doctor.” Bastian stepped aside to allow him into the room. “I will retire to my chambers and rest. Mama.” He nodded. “Doctor, please send word if you deem my mother fit to attend the ball this evening.”