She did not.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Amalia glancing between them, her brow puckered in confusion. No doubt his cousin, sensitive to nuances and emotions, suspected the undercurrents of anger and resentment beneath the pleasant dinner table facades.
“I have a friend arriving in London soon,” Patrick said, carefully watching Reggie’s reaction without seeming to. “The Earl of Eastcairn.”
“Is his family name Watson?” the Duke asked, frowning slightly. “I believe I knew his father.”
“Yes, Uncle. Frederick Watson. I will introduce you to him, Amalia. You will like him.”
Patrick almost chuckled aloud at the flicker of anger in Reggie’s piercing blue eyes. “Was he not a school friend, Patrick?” Reggie asked, his voice cheerful.
“Yes. We met at Oxford, and became friends even though he is older than I.”
“I should like to meet him as well,” the Duke said, cutting into his roast lamb. “Perhaps you will arrange an introduction, nephew.”
“Gladly, Uncle.”
“He has estates in Scotland as well as England,” his uncle went on thoughtfully. “His father left him quite well off.”
“He would make an excellent match, Amalia,” Patrick commented, slyly watching Reggie from the corner of his eye. What he saw did not disappoint him.
Amalia shook her head, her ringlets of her vibrant dark brown hair bouncing at her slender neck. “I am not interested in being matched, Patrick.”
The Duke frowned at her. “You must start considering a husband, daughter. You cannot remain a spinster all your life.”
“I certainly can,” she replied, her tone tart. “With Marshall gone, I want to stay in this house and look after you.”
“You are a stubborn child. You certainly did not get that trait from me.”
Amalia’s grin blossomed, and she lifted a glass of wine. “You know I did, Father. Along with your eyes.”
At last, the Duke smiled fondly at her. “So, you did at that. But I refuse to cease nagging you about a husband. I must see you are provided for before I pass on.”
“That will not be for years, so you can cease and desist with the nagging.”
The Duke eyed her sharply. “And your brother was taken from us when he was five and twenty years old. You of all people should understand that nothing in life is certain.”
Amalia flushed to her hairline and studied the plate in front of her. “I do understand that, Father,” she said, her voice hard. “Just as I am terrified of losing you.”
Embarrassed by the sharp voices at the table, Patrick continued to eat his lamb, yet flicked his eyes around to gauge reactions. Reggie appeared mortified, his brow furrowed, and his lips thinned slightly, while his uncle’s expression had softened as he gazed at Amalia.
“This has been hard on us both, daughter,” he said quietly. “I want you to be happy as well as provided for. I cannot see your happiness in watching me into my dotage.”
“And I will be happy with a husband who married me because of what I am and not who I am?” she asked, lifting her eyes. “He marries the heiress, and does not care about the woman? That is not for me, Father.”
“We will talk about this later, Amalia,” His Grace said firmly. “Let us not quarrel in front of our guests.”
Amalia nodded and kept her eyes down for the rest of the meal and did not speak again. Patrick, for his part, felt no little satisfaction in watching Reggie force himself not to blurt out his love for her, and ask for her hand right then and there. He also acknowledged to himself that the match was ideal. Reggie’s lineage was high enough for her, and his own wealth and titles made him the most suitable candidate to become the next Duke of Thornhill.
After supper, Amalia curtsied to her father. “Excuse me, please. I wish to return to my chambers. Reggie, Patrick, it was a pleasure having you here. Goodnight.”
Patrick observed Reggie watching her depart and climb the stairs, his heart in his eyes. Then he caught Patrick watching him, and his jaw tensed. The Duke appeared not to have noticed anything amiss and invited both men to the drawing-room for port. “She is a proper daughter in all things save this,” he slowly said as he gestured for the men to sit. “I fear she may be a bit headstrong.”
“Then the man she marries will have a wonderful, beautiful wife, Uncle,” Patrick replied, accepting a glass of port from the footman.
“I would like you to speak with her, nephew,” the Duke informed him, relaxing on a plush leather sofa. “She may listen to you.”
For a moment, Patrick gaped, and he dared not glance toward Reggie. “Why, whatever I can do to help, Uncle, I will do it.”
“I knew you would. You are a good boy, nephew, and a credit to this family. Now. How would you like to come work for me?”
Chapter 4
Her chest tight with unshed tears, Amalia retreated to her private chambers, her sanctuary. Edwina, her personal maid since she was seven years old, curtsied as she entered, a woman only three years older than she. “My Lady,” she asked, her expression concerned. “What is wrong?”
Fighting to keep her emotions under control, Amalia smiled tightly. “Father. What else could be wrong?”
“Oh, dear.” Edwina put her hands on her hips. “Did you quarrel again?”
“Worse.” Amalia strode across the room and began to unpin her hair. “We quarreled in front of Patrick and Reggie.”
“Let me do that,” Edwina stated firmly. “You will rip your hair out. Your fingers are too tense. Sit.”
Amalia sat dutifully at the dressing table and stared at her reflection before shoving the looking glass away as Edwina more gently pulled the pins from her hair. “Ed, he keeps insisting I marry. That is the last thing I want.”
“I know. Have I not suggested you look at it from his perspective? You are his only surviving child, and he worries about your future.”
“If I am not worried about my future, why should he?”
When Edwina stopped her work, Amalia cringed. “I am sorry for snapping. I should not take my frustrations out on you.”
“That is what I am here for,” Edwina replied cheerfully. “Vent on me, so you do not enrage your father.”
“But that is not fair to you.”
“I can handle it, fear not. I know how badly you need someone to talk to.”
Edwina picked up the brush and stroked it through her long brown locks. “So, continue on. I am all ears.”
“He said I should understand that nothing in life is certain.”
“That is also true.”
Amalia sighed in exasperation. “Ed. Stop agreeing with him. You are supposed to be on my side.”
“Oh, I am, My Lady. When you stop feeling sorry for yourself, you will also see that as well as your father’s point.”
Bursting into shocked laughter, Amalia felt the tightness loosen, and some of her anger and humiliation drain away. “Is that what I am doing?”
“To a degree. I see your point, while I also see His Grace’s. You both want the same things, but you are also demanding he understand you while refusing to see his point.”
Amalia nodded slowly. “Perhaps you are right, Ed. I do want to marry, of course, but I need to attend to Father as well. Nor do I want just anyone drooling over the prospect of becoming the next Duke of Thornhill.”
Edwina laughed. “What an image. Then hold your ground, My Lady. Wait until the right man presents himself.”
“If he ever does,” Amalia complained moodily. “What if I cannot tell if he wants me for me, or for my inheritance?”
“Look for the drool.”
“And the one without it is him,” Amalia finished, laughing. “Oh, Ed, I am so glad I have you to talk to. You never fail to make me feel better.”
“Perhaps this is a good time to inquire about a raise in salary?”
Laughing, Amalia stood up and hugged her. “I will demand it from Father’s steward. Now, how about some wine and a game of ca
rds?”
As the two young women had grown up together, even as mistress and servant, Amalia never ceased to regard Edwina as her best friend. Though she had had a few friends from the social circles, young titled ladies like herself, she felt she could confide in none of them. Edwina was an orphan abandoned on the streets of London and taken in by the Duchess Celeste, Amalia’s mother. Once she grew old enough, she became Amalia’s personal maid.
“Have you contemplated marriage, Ed?” Amalia asked, shuffling the cards for another game.
“A time or two,” Edwina replied, taking a sip from her wine. “But that can wait until after you have found that right man.”
“Have anyone in mind?” Amalia asked, her tone sly as she gazed at her friend.
Edwina smirked. “Perhaps.”
Dropping the cards on the table, Amalia leaned forward. “Who? Tell me, I must know.”
“Only because you have plied me with too much drink, and it will be your fault if your hair is a mess in the morning.”
Amalia groaned, sinking back against her chair. “Ed.”
“Oh, all right. Mr. Bannock’s son.”
Her mouth opened in a round O of surprise, Amalia stared. “He is the handsomest devil this side of –”
Coughing instead of saying the word that came to mind, Amalia spluttered and picked up the cards. “You know what I mean. And as the son of Father’s steward, he has a brilliant future ahead of him.”
“I would take him if he were a cotter’s son.”
Laughing, Amalia said, “You love him. He returns your feelings, I trust?”
Blushing to the roots of her blonde hair, Edwina glanced aside. “Yes. He does. He has already asked me to marry him. Twice.”
“You will make such a wonderful couple, Ed.” Amalia sighed dramatically. “There is no need to wait until I marry. Accept his proposal, and then I can start making wedding plans.”
Edwina shook her head firmly. “I told him not until you have married, My Lady. He has agreed to wait until then.”
Amalia folded her arms under her bosom. “Thank you for adding the pressure on me, Ed. You have no future until I have one. What if I do not get married, Ed? What then? You follow me into spinsterhood?”
Edwina set her jaw, and Amalia recognized the expression on her face. An angry and recalcitrant mule might have appeared less stubborn. Maybe. “If I must.”
Narrowing her eyes, Amalia asked, “What if I order you to get married?”
“You will not.”
“Perhaps, I will.”
Edwina grinned and twirled the stem of her wineglass in her fingers. “You will not because that would go against your personal code of conduct.”
Snatching up her own glass, Amalia glared at her. “This is why ladies of society do not become social with their servants. They know too much.” She took a long gulp and emptied her glass.
“So, dismiss me.”
“I hate you.”
“I know. More wine, My Lady?”
Blinded by a headache and the bright sunlight, Amalia squinted up as Edwina opened her bedcurtains the following morning. “Please close them,” she whispered.
“I do apologize, My Lady,” Edwina replied easily. “But I must not. Breakfast is in less than an hour, and I know you would not wish to annoy His Grace further.”
Trying to rise, she stared blearily at Edwina. “You got me drunk last night.”
“No, I must correct you, My Lady. You got yourself drunk last night. You attempted to draw me into your behavior, but I declined most graciously.”
“I still hate you.”
“If it will make you feel better, please indulge in your fancy. Meanwhile, I stand ready to assist you in washing, dressing, and I have the perfect coif in mind for your hair.”
Dragging herself from the huge bed with her head pounding, Amalia staggered to the basin and splashed cold water on her face. “At least my scandalous behavior was private,” she muttered. “Why is it men can get drunk publicly, and no one talks about it, but if I were to do it, the scandal sheets would burn?”
“Women are supposed to be silent in church, bear children, and behave as though the world were watching.”
Feeling sick to her stomach, Amalia wondered if that might excuse her from breakfast. But then, that would lead to many questions from her father as to her health, and he might even insist his physician take a look at her. Amalia decided she would rather face breakfast than that. “If women ruled instead of men….”
“That is bluestocking talk, My Lady. I can see the scandal sheets now.”
“Never mind. I do not suppose there is any wine left?”
Less than an hour later, Amalia strode sedately down the stairs, freshly washed, clad in an attractive gown of red gold trimmed in brown, her hair pinned atop her head and her legs steady. If her head still ached and her stomach churned, her discomforts did not show on her face. She smiled demurely at Patrick, awaiting her outside the dining room.
Bowing, he kissed her hand, smiling into her face. “You look lovely this morning, cousin,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied, offering him a warm expression she did not truly feel inside. “Has Father arrived?”
“No, actually he has not.”
Feeling a stab of concern, Amalia glanced toward the stairs, expecting to see her father descending them, breaking his own rule on tardiness. He had never once, that she knew of, ever been late for a meal. Frowning with her lips pursed, she opened the dining-room door and discovered that the Duke was not inside waiting for them. Perkins and the footmen stood ready to begin serving, and Perkins bowed at the sight of her.
“Something is wrong,” she said, her worry growing, turning back. “Even when he felt ill the other day, he came down for meals.”
“Shall I go check on him?” Patrick’s brow had furrowed, his own apprehension clear.
“I will go to his rooms and see. I presume Reggie went home last night?”
“He did.”
“I will return shortly.”
Spinning on her heel, Amalia strode rapidly across the wide entryway and climbed the steps. Her father’s vast array of rooms took up almost half of the third floor, Marshall’s former apartments spread out over a portion of the other half while her own filled the rest. Knocking on her father’s door, she waited with nervous impatience, chewing on her lower lip.
The door opened, and Charles Finley, the Duke’s valet, bowed to her. “I was going to send for you, My Lady,” he said. “I fear His Grace has taken ill.”
Real fear jolted her, and she recalled the terrible illness that had taken her brother’s life. She pushed through the open doorway and strode to the Duke’s bedchamber. No, no, it cannot be happening again. “Have you sent for his physician?” she called over her shoulder.
“I have, My Lady.”
Her father was awake and beckoned to her as she hesitated at the entrance to his most private room. “Amalia,” he said, his voice strong despite the paleness of his flesh. “Come in. I had just asked Charles to ask you to come.”
Pulling a chair nearer to the bed, Amalia sat, gazing into his waxy face and dull eyes. “What is wrong?”
He waved his hand. “The same as before, only more pronounced, I fear. I am not understanding this. I was fine yesterday.”
“Your symptoms are not the same as... Marshall’s were,” Amalia asked slowly, panic choking her throat, “are they?”
“No, please do not fret, daughter. This will pass shortly. I merely wished to reassure you and ask that you become hostess for our guests.”
Amalia’s gaze sharpened on his face. “Patrick?”
“Your cousin as well as his friend, the Earl of Eastcairn.” The Duke closed his eyes and winced, as though enduring a spasm of pain. “I agreed to permit Patrick to invite him here for a visit, yet now I fear I will be unable to perform my duties as host.”
“You must get well, Father. I am sure the Earl will understand.”
; “If he is a true gentleman, he will. Now go on back downstairs and prepare the household for his visit in my stead.”
“I will come back later to see you, Father.”
The Duke smiled. “I will enjoy that. Now please go. The physician is here, and I do not need you to see him cut open a vein and bleed me.”
Rising, Amalia bent and kissed his brow. “I will see you shortly.”
Leaving the room, Amalia passed the bowing doctor with his leather satchel slung over his shoulder. With a quick glance back, seeing him vanish into the depths of her father’s room, she retreated from his apartments and back into the hallway.
Patrick hovered nearby; his head lowered as he paced back and forth. He glanced up, his dark brown eyes anxious, as she closed the door quietly behind her. “How is he?” he asked, falling into step as she traversed the corridor toward the stairs.
“He believes he will be up soon,” she replied, “but asked me to play hostess when your friend arrives.”
“He is in London now, and should be arriving in a few hours.”
“I will send for Reggie,” Amalia went on, thinking. “He is close enough to the family, and his rank will enable him to take my father’s place as host.”
Chapter 5
Reggie’s butler brought him the missive on a silver tray. He had finished his meal and was planning to spend an hour or so with his steward when he read Amalia’s note.
My dear Reggie, my father is ill again, and the Earl of Eastcairn will be arriving soon. Might I call upon your friendship and closeness to the family to come and act as host? In addition, I feel the need to have you near me, for you never fail to bring me comfort. Yours, Lady Amalia Gallagher.
Reversing direction, Reggie retraced his steps toward the dining room and found the butler, James Grogan, supervising the footmen cleaning up and laying a fresh table.
“Have my horse saddled, Grogan,” he said. “I will be away for a few days.”
The Last Lady of Thornhill Manor Page 2