He could at least humor her a tiny bit, couldn’t he?
When he came to attend to her one night, she asked him, “Would you be so kind as to fetch me the book by the table, Your Grace?”
His surprise at Augusta addressing him directly and asking him a routine question was evident. But he made no comment on it. Quietly, he did as she bid. She accepted the novel with a smile that he did not return.
“Oh, not this book. It is the other one that was near to it. Lady Jane recommended it to me and I only began reading it this morning. It has been delightful.”
She was rewarded with the same blunt silence she’d given him over a week ago. Drat.
Trying again, she said, “Perhaps you have read it, for she said it was fetched directly from your library. She said it was quite an impressive collection. When I am fully mended, would it be possible to explore it further? I am such a lover of books.” Archly, she added, “I find they do not disappoint as often as our fellow men.”
Lord Ainsworth patiently waited out her speech. Then he took the first book and fetched the second that she had indicated.
I suppose this serves me right. I cannot expect that after my own recalcitrance, we could be fast acquaintances. “Do you take pleasure in reading, my lord? You must, if your library is half as good as Lady Jane has said.”
“I have no desire for conversation with you, Miss Brooke.”
Shocked at his abruptness, Augusta shut her mouth. He had some nerve being so forthright. Well, she had nerve, too. He seemed to be rude deliberately, so she did not relent in her attempts to draw something more out from him than medical observations and cutting remarks.
“Well, it is such a shame that Lady Jane is a more cordial person than you are,” she declared.
That earned her a scowl.
She carried on after a small breath. “But for her, I would have been beside myself. Being left to my own devices in a strange place doesn’t suit me. I do hope she enjoys the ball tonight, but I will miss her company.”
She eyed Lord Ainsworth. He said nothing at all.
“Perhaps she shall tell me all about it.” Don’t mention that you’ve never been to a ball… though, maybe that’s patently obvious to someone of the ton who used to go to every society event, she thought.
“I understand you are an important man, but surely you could spare a moment on me without it being so formal.” She wiggled her ankle just barely.
He finally turned to her. She had observed that when he wanted to watch her properly, he partially turned to his left side. He was doing so, now. It was more of a ritual than anything else, because his sight seemed fine without him changing angles. Good, I have his attention.
“You would be in the company of your own kin if only you would provide their information,” he announced.
Augusta mused on the fact that for someone who had seen so little of her since he’d taken her in, he was certainly interested in seeing her gone. That was not unfair, but it also spoke to his character that he had not even attempted anything untoward with her. She, of course, did not view herself as anything to be used simply because of her station, but many men of his own would, especially when there was such an evident balance of power. She was injured and unable to defend herself in a duke’s home. She knew, thanks to Lady Jane, that he was not the sort to take advantage of her, but his behavior also affirmed it.
“Has it occurred to you, Lord Ainsworth, that perhaps I have nowhere to go… no family of my own?” she asked.
The annoyance in her voice seemed to startle him more than the idea, which she knew that he knew was not the case.
He crossed his arms and leveled her with a dry glance that, for some odd reason, made her heart flutter.
“Well, you certainly did not fall from the skies,” said he. “You are no angel, are you?”
Augusta did not so much as bristle. She countered, mildly, “Well, there are certain circumstances that dictate one’s position, are there not, my lord? Life is scarcely a bed of roses and fate can snatch those we love from us. Unlike yourself, with a title, servants, and an aunt who clearly adores you, there may be some who are completely alone in the world while putting on a brave face.”
Her softly delivered words seemed to hit him like a stray bullet. He almost staggered. Then, composing himself and standing perfectly still, Lord Ainsworth regarded her with solemn eyes.
“Indeed. Life is never fair, Miss Brooke, and if you have learned that, you have learned something fully worth knowing.”
“I am not in a position to forget,” she replied very quietly. Boldly, but without speaking more loudly, she added, “And I am sorry if I caused you pain, my lord, for I don’t know if you are, either.”
It was all she would say that might allude to Lady Jane’s revelations. She dared not broach the subject with him.
He nodded a little in admission of her apology. “You have not caused me any pain, Miss Brooke. Simply accumulated consternation.”
“I am glad to hear it, for otherwise I would be an even worse guest than I already am,” Augusta said. She offered him a gentle smile. He did not return it, but his face softened as far as she could tell. She was growing used to looking upon him. Not that his face is so terrible, she thought—and though she did not have the practice that Lady Jane had, she was starting to become accustomed to his expressions. Lord Ainsworth’s countenance was no longer mysterious to her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He took a few steps toward the fireplace, evidently suffering from an excess of restless energy.
“How am I looking at you?” she asked, unable to deny that she had been without sounding a fool.
“As though we are… not strangers,” he said, studying the small, colorful figurines of dogs on the mantelpiece.
“I suppose I feel less of a stranger with you than I did when I first woke up here,” she said slowly.
He sighed and said, more thoughtfully than put upon, “I see.”
He came away from the fireplace and hesitated at the foot of the chaise. She gazed at him, surprised that he was coming closer and appeared to be questioning whether or not he should go. What happened to him not wanting any conversation? she thought.
“Would you rather I read the book to you, then, Miss Brooke? After all, it is not the novel that you originally requested.”
“Well… you don’t need to do that, Your Grace. Or you could bring me the other book.” She was uncharacteristically indecisive. “Or you can go about your day as you wished to.”
Lord Ainsworth shrugged. “If you have lost your appetite for reading, then may I engage you in a game of piquet? I know that my aunt has a deck of cards somewhere in the manor.”
Simply because it was what she had been endeavoring to get him to do, yet she did not expect he would do it, Augusta faltered in making a sensible reply. You collect yourself right now, Gussie. “I… have no desire to take up your time,” she uttered at last.
“It would be my pleasure. You were right. I am not as cordial as Lady Jane, although I believe I used to be. Perhaps I could cultivate the skill again.”
Was he toying with her? Teasing her? Cautiously, Augusta said, “Perhaps. A great many skills can be learned in one’s lifetime, Your Grace.”
She was rewarded with an easy, somewhat self-deprecating smile. “Yes. I believe so.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, shall we play?”
Deciding that he was in earnest, Augusta said, “Yes. I would quite enjoy that.”
He nodded, and she watched him quit the room to obtain the deck of cards. Ruefully, she thought that, perhaps, she had been too harsh on him. With what he had endured, she could imagine that he was not only given to fears over how people might treat him, but he had also reverted to a sort of boyish shyness.
And as she kept reminding herself, she was withholding the information he kept requesting from her. I won’t feel guilty, she thought fiercely. I have no reason to be… if I tell the truth, Father might kill me.
“As it happens, Lady Jane told me I should attend to you before she left for the evening.” Lord Ainsworth strode back into the parlor with a deck.
Augusta glanced at him warily. “You don’t have to entertain me out of a sense of charity. Or duty.”
“I’m not,” he said with a low chuckle.
“Why are you, then?”
“Perhaps, you may tell me what I want to know. But apart from that, as you were speaking and underscoring it just now, I rethought my uncouth behavior.”
He moved a small side table closer to the chaise and drew a chair for himself. A vivid aubergine tone, it was pleasantly mismatched from the chaise’s upholstery, a bright salmon.
As he did so, she eyed the shape of his legs in his trousers before he could turn back around to face her.
“I won’t tell you,” she said pleasantly. “Your Grace.”
“Oh, I only said perhaps. I didn’t say you would.”
She straightened up on the chaise and watched him as he broke and shuffled the cards. “I am glad we seem to sense where we each stand.”
He smiled almost shyly at her, and they began their game.
Augusta had learned how to play piquet with Mama, but had not played since before her death. She recalled the times when her father was not present and they snuck out the cards, hoping he would be in the pub for much longer than they assumed.
Lord Ainsworth turned out to be quite adept, not that it surprised her. But he seemed to sense her enjoyment of the game for reasons other than their present situation, which did. She did not imagine that her pleasurable associations had surfaced in her expression, but they must have.
“You seem to particularly enjoy playing this, Miss Brooke,” he said.
“I do,” she replied. “It was a favorite of my mama’s.”
As he dealt another hand, he said, “Did she teach you to play?”
Nodding, Augusta murmured, “Yes, she did.”
“You must miss her. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Oh, yes,” said Augusta, her gaze fastened on the card in her hand as her mother’s likeness replaced its normal state. She saw her wonderful eyes, their warmth filling her even though her mother only existed in memory. Mama had been a remarkably perceptive and kind woman, an absolute foil to Father. “I never want to forget her smiles, or her impossible love for the world in general. Her heart was as pure as her smile. She simply lit up wherever she was.” Fondly, she smiled to herself.
“We never had enough, either, but my mother never complained. She would still always find a piece of bread for a stranger—much to the consternation of my father.” Wrinkling her nose in disdain, she confided, forgetting for a moment who she was speaking to, “It is my hope that I take after her and not him.”
She thought back to the first time she could remember being beaten by her father. It was over some small infraction that she did not recall. But she had been young enough to be startled. Fifteen? He had never been an especially kind man, so she was used to his brusqueness and his curt ways. But she had not yet grown to expect his fists or the end of a crop when he was filled with fury.
It isn’t worth recalling, she told herself. Unbidden, flashes of the incident came into her mind, painful like hot sparks against bare skin.
But what was she to do but stay? She had no other kin that she knew of, and at that time she had been too young, even by very broad standards, to marry. It was either remain with her father or end up on the street.
Unfortunately, his temper did not improve, and as he turned more and more readily to intoxicating diversions, it actually worsened.
Lord Ainsworth was, perhaps not unexpectedly in the face of such personal talk, silent. Slowly, Augusta raised her gaze to his. His eyes were on her face, studying it peculiarly.
She had not meant to reveal so much about herself, but had found herself carried away by the moment. Suddenly, she realized that she had never given voice to the thought that she did not want to be like her father in any manner, but it was a very keen desire she held all the same.
“I believe your hope is not in vain,” he remarked simply. He did not elaborate.
In the silence that ensued, Augusta found herself craving to know his further thoughts or, indeed, if he had any, but she knew that he would most likely keep his peace. They continued to play their game, saying nothing more, but Augusta would have sworn the duke’s eyes lingered on her more often than his own cards.
The quiet did little for her nerves and she sought to quell them with banal conversation. Really, this is a taste of your own medicine, Gussie, she thought.
She decided that she disliked being on the receiving end of silence. Well, his silence, anyway.
“Lady Jane has expressed her wish to throw a ball on her birthday,” she said at length.
“Yes,” said Lord Ainsworth. “Though I have endeavored to persuade her not to, she seemed most determined to go on with the mad idea.” He frowned to himself.
“I would not call the celebration of one’s life mad,” said Augusta. She smiled at the idea of Lady Jane enjoying a gathering of friends. “Many are dead…” She sighed and added, “While many wish they were.” She thought about those she knew who were so deeply dissatisfied with their lives that the thought of carrying on drove them to drink or recklessness. Due to relocating from place to place, her father was only first in a queue of men, and sometimes women, she had observed abusing liquor and their common sense. “When one is gifted with good health, a good disposition such as Lady Jane’s, and not a worry about sustenance, I should think they would celebrate.”
He peered at her as though she were babbling her words in reverse.
She laughed a little at his amazement. “Why, if I were half as rich and content with my lot in life as your aunt, I would celebrate my birthday every year!”
“I never quite thought about life in that way,” he said.
“Well, it is nothing but the truth,” she told him. “We tend to be bound by our statuses, do we not? So if one has never thought about matters of wealth or comfort… one has never had to worry about them.”
“Have you?”
Augusta humored him. “It would seem so, my lord.”
He blinked at what was, for her, an open admission of a fact. “I do not mean to seem glib.”
“You do not seem so,” she said gently. “You seem more cynical than either your age or your circumstances might allow.”
Changing the subject and glancing at his cards, he said, “I would rather Aunt Jane held her soiree anywhere but here.”
“Why is that? Are you scared of the crowd, Lord Ainsworth?”
Her question seemed to rattle him a little. “No. I simply detest the noise and music and all the dancing and talking. Miss Brooke, I should like all merriment infinitely better if it was not commonly found within those things.”
His proclamation earned Augusta’s giggling. “In their absence, I daresay that anything left would not merit being called merriment.”
A small smile crossed his lips. It was genuine and bright, and Augusta noted that it was the easiest one he had given her yet. Not that there had been an abundance of them until this evening. “Then I want no part in traditional merriment.”
“No?”
“No.” But he was still smiling. He snorted. “If my aunt persists—”
“Which she will, you know,” Augusta cut in, before he could finish.
“I see you have the measure of her, then. I believe I shall find some business to engage in outside the manor.”
“You’d deprive her of your presence on her birthday?”
“Indeed, I shall.”
“Then I maintain that it is either you have something to hide, or you are afraid of something.”
“Nonsense,” said Lord Ainsworth primly, but with a tighter smile, now.
“Then you should not shy away from her ball, or else everyone might wonder why you have not come. Especially if it is under your own ro
of.”
Gathering his cards in his right hand, he rubbed his forehead with his left out of evident consternation. “Fine, Miss Brooke. When the time draws nearer, I will consider attending. But at the moment,” he said, then cleared his throat meaningfully, “let us concentrate on the game.”
Triumphant, Augusta smiled. She had not been trying to distract him on purpose by drawing him into conversation, but she was trumping him.
All conversation stilled, and time seemed to slip from her notice. The ornate grandfather clock had struck twice. She was yawning too much for it to be unnoticeable, so Lord Ainsworth told Augusta that she needed to rest. She tried not to gloat when she realized that she had bested him, but she could not resist a light jab.
“Your Grace, are you not telling me to go to bed because I have shown you up?”
“No. I know when to accept defeat,” he said, and she believed him. His eyes were playful, if calculating. “It is growing late, though, for anyone who is still in recovery.”
He might be right, she conceded. I’m exhausted and I’ve done nothing at all, today.
“Very well. I am not a physician.” She gathered the deck and placed it in an impeccable pile just near his hands.
“Thank you.”
“It is the least I can do, Lord Ainsworth,” she chuckled. She glanced about the parlor, which was not as tidy as the first night she had arrived. It did look as though someone was using it as a sickroom. “I have annexed this beautiful room without paying any rent. Or looking after my surroundings.”
Standing to replace his chair and shift the table over slightly so that there was more room between it and the chaise, he replied, “Don’t be absurd. You cannot be expected to move about like you are well. Though Marcus has mentioned that you’re attempting longer hobbles.”
Augusta felt her cheeks warm. If he knew that she could walk and she was past her fever, he would endeavor to send her home. “They are not so very long.”
“I wouldn’t expect so,” he said. Glancing at her from his standing position, he clarified, “You would not be able to walk much with the state of your ankle. I’m happy that you are making progress, but if you could hobble any further than the end of the corridor, I would be completely stunned.” He gave her another one of his previously rare smiles. “Now, I shall take my leave of you, Miss Brooke. Sleep well.”
Duke of Sorrow Page 10