“Mother—”
“Don’t call me that.” She bit the words, sending an arrow through his heart as the words sliced through him. “Even Robert doesn’t visit.” She sobbed. “Robert would love me. It’s you… You’re keeping him away!”
Rowles turned to the nurse, waving his hand a little as if imploring help. The nurse saw his motion and met his expression with her own filled with sorrow and pity.
Damn, he hated pity.
He hated feeling as if he’d betrayed his mother more, however.
“Duchess, it’s teatime. I have some lovely biscuits as well.” The nurse changed the subject, offering a cheery alternative.
“The tea here is terrible.”
“It’s the same tea as from your very own kitchens, Duchess. I made sure of it. And your cook made the biscuits. That’s how I know they are the best—a duchess of your caliber would have the best cook.”
“Cook is talented,” his mother admitted, almost against her will it sounded. She even rolled over and sat up. “It isn’t a proper day without tea, I suppose.”
“No, my lady, it is not,” the nurse agreed emphatically. “I’ll have it brought up directly. Did you wish for anything else to accompany it? Cake perhaps?”
“Yes. I do want cake.”
“Of course.” The nurse gave a delicate curtsy and then quit the room. She conveyed the duchess’s desires to a maid and dispatched her directly to the kitchens.
“Tea will be here soon. Do you wish to sit by the window?” the nurse asked, a bright expression on her face, as if the power of her will could lift the spirits of the entire room.
Her efforts failed.
“No. I’m ill.” She glared at Rowles. “Or so I’m told. I must stay in bed, I assume.”
“You may do whatever you wish, Mother.”
“Except go home,” she added, casting a dark look his direction.
“Perhaps soon, if you recover.”
“Or I’ll die. But at least I’ll die having tea. It’s more thanyouoffered.” She glared at him and made a small effort to sit up in her bed.
Rowles reached out to assist her, but she batted his hands away. “I thought I told you not to touch me.”
Raising his hands in surrender, he backed up and allowed the nurse to assist his mother instead.
“There you go, easy now.” The nurse stepped in quickly and effortlessly, adjusting a few pillows and even straightening his mother’s mobcap. “Are you sure you don’t wish to have tea by the window? There’s a lovely view of the courtyard.”
“Tomorrow, maybe, if I’m alone and not bothered by anyone.” She nodded toward Rowles.
“I’ll let you enjoy your tea then.” Rowles took a step back, earning an apologetic expression from the nurse. A maid came into the room carrying a tray set up with tea and biscuits, the scent inviting.
“Don’t come back unless you’re taking me home,” his mother called out as he started toward the door.
Rowles opened his mouth, but to say what, he was unsure. How did a son respond? Agree? Heavens no, but to disagree would bring more harm than good. So with a bow, he bid her good day.
Bloody pity, it would be the death of him.
The carriage swaying as it conveyed him home, he was assaulted by another black thought. Because rather than have some sort of anticipation for the evening, he had none.
In a perfect world, he would arrive at the Rathbone rout, secure a waltz from Joan, and delight in her dazzling company, sure in his confidence in a pursuit for her hand. Yet, it was far from a perfect world, so he would do the right thing, the harder thing, and stay away. If anything, the afternoon with his mother proved his earlier assessments, and those of Morgan, correct.
Who would subject a potential wife to such a mother-in-law?