by Kelly Boyce
Before he could ruminate on such matters, something his father had said caught his attention. “Are you saying Walkerton’s intention to court Lady Henrietta is meant to be part of a good deed?”
Laura shrugged. “I suppose, in part, although her family connections cannot be ignored. Both Lord Ridgemont and Lady Dalridge have deep and far-reaching associations and influence. Such a union can only be a boon to Walkerton. And Lady Henrietta is not without merit herself. She gives her time to Miss Caldwell’s proposed school for young girls and several other charities, and when one discounts the scars on her body she is quite beautiful.”
“She is quite beautiful, period. The scars do nothing to detract from that,” Alex answered, his words sharper than he intended.
Laura stared at him for a long moment then tilted her head to one side before changing the subject. “So tell us, Alexander, do you plan on staying in London only long enough to procure a new nanny?”
Alex cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “On the contrary, I plan to stay for the Season.”
His father’s expression registered his surprise. “The entire Season?”
“Yes. I…” He cleared his throat for a second time, the words harder to get out than he’d anticipated. “I intend to find a wife.”
“Good heavens!” His father smiled broadly. “Well, this is good news. Good news indeed! I am certain you will have no end to interested parties and I’m know your stepmother would be more than pleased to make any necessary introductions.”
“Indeed,” Laura said. “We are most happy to hear this news, Alexander. We must throw a party to celebrate, do you not agree, Edmund? Tell us, Alexander, did you have anyone in particular in mind?”
The sudden image of gloriously golden hair and lovely blue eyes flashed in his mind’s eye, but he quickly shook his head sending the wayward image scattering. Inappropriate. Completely.
“No. I have no particular interest in anyone.”
* * *
Lord Rothbury’s voice reverberated down the hallway, originating from the direction of the library and sounding none too pleased. Hen picked up her skirts and hurried along. What had the marquess in such an uproar that it could be heard from one end of Harrow House to the other?
“Goodness!” Hen stopped short at the entrance to the library, setting her hand upon the doorframe to steady herself.
Lord Rothbury glanced up from the wall of books that had been built into a half circle structure around the bookshelf and reached a little over four feet high. “Indeed,” he responded, the word dripping with frustration.
Hen stepped farther into the room. “And who is it that we have behind this amazing fortress?”
“Shall I allow you to hazard a guess?”
Hen smiled in the face of Lord Rothbury’s anger. Why was it his first response in dealing with Lady Margaret—for who else could be behind the wall of books—was to rant and yell and make demands? Could he not see that going against Lady Margaret’s strong will head on would only result in her digging her heels in and pushing back with equal fervor?
Hen stopped next to Lord Rothbury as he continued to glower as if it was the only expression his face knew. Which she knew to be untrue, having experienced a rare smile from him only the day before. He had such a lovely smile, reminding her of bright sunshine breaking through dark storm clouds. It was a shame he did not make more liberal use of it. She suspected Lady Margaret might respond differently to his demands if they were relayed with a smile.
“I think the person behind the wall must be a grand architect. Who else could have built such a masterpiece? Imagine! A wall made of books. I can think of nothing lovelier. Do you think it has a door? I would most love to see what they’ve done with the inside.”
Lord Rothbury gave Hen a look as if he suspected she was thoroughly mad. “I assure you there is no door.”
“Are you certain? Not even a hidden one?” Hen had not stood this close to the marquess before and the awareness that rippled through her now came as a surprise, temporarily derailing her thoughts. His superior height towered over her and made her feel small in comparison. She could not imagine how Lady Margaret must feel to see someone his size raging down at her. No wonder she hid behind a wall of books.
“I can assure you,” Lord Rothbury said, frustration still rife in his tone. “She has built no door of any kind.”
“I see. Well, such a pity as I certainly would have loved to pay a visit. Ah well, perhaps you and I might?”
Lord Rothbury turned his stormy gaze upon her and a shadow of uncertainty crossed his expression. “You and I might what?”
“Visit.” Hen swept a hand toward the chair and small sofa near the bay window that looked down onto the street. It was one of her favorite places and she’d spent untold hours curled up on the cushions, losing herself in the magical worlds that lived within the tomes housed in the extensive Harrow library.
“I really do not think—”
Hen cut him off. “Thinking is not required, my lord.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Rothbury stared down at her, creating a strange, though not entirely unpleasant tingling in her belly.
Was he about to tell her one did not interrupt a future duke? Granted, it had been rather rude of her, but clearly the poor man required assistance in the matter of retrieving Lady Margaret from her self-imposed prison.
Hen offered a smile in the hope of smoothing things over before they found themselves at odds yet again. “It is just a visit, my lord. I promise to be on my best behavior.”
“Meaning you will not propose marriage to me without provocation?”
His words shocked her, sliding out as they did without warning. “That is…how…” She sputtered, unable to come up with a suitable reply. “I assure you, I do not go about proposing to every gentleman that crosses my path.”
“If you say so.” Too late, Hen saw the twitch of his lips and knew he had been having fun at her expense. She did not know whether to be angry or amused. Every time she thought she had a bead on the future duke, he did an about face, leaving her decidedly off balance. The man was as mercurial as the springtime weather. To claim that such did not intrigue her, however, would be a lie.
“Shall we sit then, my lord?”
He followed her to the sitting area and Hen pulled the bell rope to have tea and biscuits delivered. Perhaps if Lady Margaret saw treats had been brought, she would come out of her own accord without any further prompting. Hen took a seat on the sofa, and Lord Rothbury settled himself on the chair to her left, so that only she had a clear view of the book fortress on the other side of the room.
“She is supposed to be in the nursery,” he pointed out, keeping his voice low.
“All day?” How awful.
Lord Rothbury gave her a strange look. “It keeps her from getting underfoot.”
“And does Lady Margaret often crawl beneath people’s feet?”
A sudden giggle erupted from behind the newly built wall.
Lord Rothbury’s good humor disappeared and his glower returned, as did the warm tingle in Hen’s belly, as if little hummingbirds flitted about tickling her insides. She placed a hand there and pressed against her stomach to hold the little critters in place.
“Keeping her to the nursery keeps her out of trouble.”
“Is she in trouble now?”
“Yes. She is not where she is supposed to be.” The firm set of Lord Rothbury’s very distracting lips told the story of his frustration. Apparently, he had determined that out of sight was out of mind and therefore meant he did not have to worry over the situation. The situation being his daughter. It irritated Hen to no end that the poor girl’s existence was treated as if she were nothing more than a burden he wished to shuck off. At a different time in her life she had held Lord Rothbury in high esteem. He had acted as the anchor that held her in place, preventing her from being swept away in the storm that ravaged her world.
But this taciturn man sitti
ng next to her was a stranger. Why did he not give his daughter the same attention he had given Hen all those years ago? Surely Lady Margaret could only benefit from such in the same way Hen had.
“I can think of no better place for a child to be than in a room filled with books. Stories fuel the imagination, don’t you agree?”
“I do not.”
“You do not?” She shook her head. Had a more ludicrous statement ever been made? “Do you not read for pleasure, my lord?”
“I do not have time for such frivolities.”
“Reading is not a frivolity, my lord. It is a necessity if one is to keep a nimble mind about them. To expand their thoughts beyond where they would normally go. They offer knowledge and ideas and even escape. Have you never wanted to escape, Lord Rothbury?”
She had. And often. Books had allowed her to do that, especially upon her return to London when she was forced to wade through a sea of judgment and harsh criticism. Not to mention the heartbreak suffered when Lord Pengrin had played himself false to her, breaking a heart that had begun to believe in the possibility that someone might see beyond her scars to the woman underneath. She’d been wrong, of course. Lord Pengrin had wanted nothing more from her beyond her embarrassingly large dowry. Had it not been for her dear friend, Lady Glenmor, she might never have discovered his duplicity. Though even then she had been slow to believe it.
Lord Rothbury’s answer scattered the unwanted memory. “I do not have the luxury of escape, Lady Henrietta. I have any number of responsibilities to attend to at any given time. It is for this reason that I do not need the added distraction of such shenanigans.” He swept a hand toward Lady Margaret’s fortress but kept his gaze fixed on Hen.
“Lady Margaret has built a glorious structure out of books and bothered no one while doing so. I cannot fathom how this would be considered a shenanigan, nor a distraction. Nor how it might have disrupted your duties in the least. Why then is your anger piqued?”
“It is piqued because—” He let out a sharp breath, glancing at the fortress then back to Hen. “I do not believe I need to explain myself to you, Lady Henrietta. I left my daughter here because I thought you might exert a positive influence on her.”
“Did you? Or,” Hen lowered her voice, “is it more likely that despite being her father, you are out of your depth in matters concerning children?”
Lord Rothbury vaulted to his feet and Hen wished she could claw the words back, remembering too late that Lady Margaret was not his lordship’s first child. That he had had a son, born and passed on before the fire that brought her to Breckenridge. She rose to her feet. “My lord, forgive me. That was out of bounds. I did not mean to suggest—”
He cut her off without mercy. “Lady Margaret is not to be rewarded for bad behavior or disobeying the rules.”
Despite her regret over her previous words, Hen could not prevent her anger from simmering back to the surface in defense of the little girl. Would he give his daughter no quarter? “But, my lord, she has not behaved badly. Not once. Not in any way.”
“Tell me, Lady Henrietta, do you think this type of candor will play well with Lord Walkerton?”
She flinched at his harsh tone. “It’s difficult to say, my lord. Perhaps he will be too distracted by my scars to notice what words come out of my mouth.”
Her words, meant to throw him off guard, had no effect. Instead, he glared at her with such potency it rattled the very marrow of her bones. Regardless, she refused to back down, which left them facing each other for a moment, locked in a strange stalemate neither was willing to break. He was a powerfully built man, more so than he had been eight years ago when he would have been but four and twenty. The years spent out of doors, riding or walking the craggy hills about the property had chiseled him into the man now standing before her and she could not help but be reminded of the rugged landscape that surrounded Breckenridge when she looked upon him. Both maintained the same unforgiving edges, stormy skies and sense of isolation.
Without warning, the strict line of his shoulders eased and he glanced down at his hands where they had fisted against his legs. When he spoke next, his whispered admission surprised her. “You are correct. I do not know what to do with her.” He looked at her then and what she saw in his ravaged expression cut her to the quick. “The more I try to correct her behavior, the worse it becomes.”
Hen’s heart softened, her anger easing away. “Then perhaps stop correcting her and simply give her your time and attention. Love her. You are the only parent she has left, Lord Rothbury. I am sure your attentiveness is all she wishes for.”
His eyebrows dipped downward as if Hen had spoken to him in a language he did not understand and he gave a curt shake of his head. “Nonsense. I provide her with a roof over her head and food in her belly. She has a grand home and pretty dresses and whatever toy she desires, and when the time comes, I will find her a suitable husband and provide a dowry to ensure her future happiness.”
Any hope Hen had that he had been about to come around to her way of thinking disappeared. “If that is what you believe, then forgive me, my lord, but you are a prize idiot.”
“And you, my lady, should be thankful at this moment you are sister to my dear friend, otherwise I would give you a dressing down you would not soon forget!”
Hen stared at the firm line of Lord Rothbury’s broad back as he did an about face and marched from the library, his fists once again clenched at his side and anger burning off him with each step until she thought she caught the hint of brimstone in his wake. His heavy footfalls echoed along the hardwood as he disappeared down the hallway.
A section of the book fortress suddenly toppled forward onto the floor, revealing a discouraged Lady Margaret. The look on her face, a distressing mixture of hurt and disappointment cleaved Hen’s heart clear in two.
“Bollocks,” the little girl whispered.
Hen sighed and dropped back into the plump cushions of the sofa, crossing her arms over her chest. “My sentiments exactly, sweeting. My sentiments exactly.”
Chapter Six
Lady Henrietta’s claim that Lady Margaret needed him chased Alex from the library and barked at his heels all the way back to Franklyn House, nipping at his anger and gnawing upon the ball of guilt that had developed inside of his chest, far too close to his heart for his liking. He did not want the girl to need him, and likely such a notion was all in Lady Henrietta’s head. What could Lady Margaret possibly need from him, after all? She had plenty of attention from the nurses and nannies he’d hired. If she had behaved like a proper young lady, she would not have continued to lose each one in fast succession. That she insisted on terrorizing the women, forcing them to flee Breckenridge as if their skirts were on fire, was her fault, not his.
“Goodwin, I will be in the study if my father is looking for me,” Alex said, handing off his hat and gloves to the butler.
“Very good, sir. And can we expect Lady Margaret this day?”
Alex stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes. Could he not be allowed even a few moments of peace where he did not have to think about the girl or answer inquiries about her?
“No, Goodwin. Not this day.”
He didn’t wait for the butler’s reply, knowing he had been asking on behalf of Lord and Lady Franklyn, who had likely grown tired of his barking back a curt answer whenever they asked upon when she would be gracing their doorstep.
He sighed as he entered the study and poured himself a hefty helping of brandy. The stiff drink wouldn’t solve anything, but maybe the burn would rid him of the heavy lump inside his chest that had no right to be there.
He had done his duty by Lady Margaret, which was a far sight more than many men would have done for a child borne out of betrayal and sired by a madman. Alex had not cast her out, nor did he send her to live with distant relatives. He had even repeatedly turned down Lord and Lady Ottley’s claim to her when they had tried to convince him the girl belonged with them, recompense for the da
ughter they had lost. A loss they blamed on him, convinced she had taken her own life when he’d refused to offer her solace in the aftermath of Edward’s death.
Indeed. And what solace had she offered him? She had refused to speak of the boy. Refused to mourn him, as if pretending he had never existed would make the pain of his loss go away. He had turned away from such madness. Not that his own madness was much of an improvement. He had haunted his son’s grave, overcome with the insane desire to dig up the dirt covering him with his bare hands and wrench Edward from the coffin they’d placed him in. He wanted to hold him one more time. Just one more. To shake him so hard his heart had no other option but to restart and force the air back into his lungs.
Grief had overtaken every minute of Alex’s day and had it not been for James, likely it would have been the end of him and he would not have cared. Was it any wonder, in such a state, he hadn’t noticed Ruth’s betrayal? That she had been able to carry on her affair under his nose, under his roof, and he had remained oblivious. He had pushed her and her denial of Edward’s death so far away he’d missed all of the signs.
But James hadn’t. He’d tried to warn Alex, small, subtle hints that he only recognized in hindsight, after it was too late. After she announced to him she was pregnant with a child that could in no way be his. He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t visited her bed since Edward had fallen ill.
Alex took a drink and let the brandy hit the back of his throat as he swallowed hard.
Ruth’s betrayal had been the last straw. He could take no more pain beyond that. Something inside of him broke upon her claim of what she had done and the result. The last remaining thread that held him together snapped. And when Ruth died, he felt nothing. No sense of loss, or regret, or remorse.
It was as if everything inside of him of substance had died away, leaving only shadows.
When Ruth gave birth to a daughter, it barely registered. When her lover murdered her, Alex’s need for revenge was muted, smothered in an earlier desolation that her loss could not compete with.