He strode to a seat near his mother and sank down into it. She had not bid him to sit, and no doubt she never would. Well, to hell with that. He was not a youth any longer, desperate for her approval. “I have been to America,” he said. “To Boston.”
Her eyes flared wide. “Whyever would you go and do a thing like that?”
A sharp laugh burst from him. “England is not the center of the world, Mother.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, with a surety that would have done any queen proud.
But arguing would get him nowhere. He closed his eyes against a sudden pain in his head. “Where are my brothers? I would get the rest of these loving reunions out of the way so I may go back to living my life.”
Instead of a sharp retort, however, there was only silence. A silence that was as heavy as it was dark. Funny that, for he had never thought a lack of sound could hold so much emotion. He opened his eyes to question his mother once again—perhaps she had grown hard of hearing as well. To his shock, however, she appeared utterly destroyed.
He bolted upright in his seat and reached for her hand. It was a foreign thing, to touch her at all. And so he did not immediately realize how cold her fingers were. “What is it? Are you unwell?”
The sound of his voice seemed to jolt her back to herself. Snapping her hand back from his touch, her lip curled ever so slightly, eyes blazing. “Of course I’m well. But what game are you playing? What do you mean, you wish to see your brothers?”
His momentary worry transformed to anger of his own. “Why else would I come back after all this time but to see my family?”
“You are cruel,” she spat.
“What the devil are you talking about? How is it cruel to want to see them?”
Realization dawned in her eyes as she took him in. “But…you don’t know then?”
“Know what, precisely?”
She shook her head, artfully arranged curls trembling in agitation. “But you have to know. It’s why you came back, surely.”
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” He tried to keep the words even. But unease had begun to bubble up in his gut, like a pot of water set to boil.
Her next words, said with a cruelty that stunned him, had that pot boiling right over the edge.
“You cannot see your brothers because they are, each and every one, dead in their graves.” Her lips stretched into a malicious smile. “And so it is only me to welcome you home, dear boy. Or should I say, Your Grace, the Duke of Reigate?”
Chapter 3
Mrs. Ingram,” Clara tried for what was probably the hundredth time since returning to Dane House from Lord and Lady Crabtree’s nearly an hour ago, “surely I can be of help somewhere.”
“Help?” The housekeeper shook her head emphatically, even as she gently guided Clara out of the way of two maids carrying armfuls of linens. “My lady, I assure you I have everything well under control. Why, I started preparing for just such a contingency the moment Lord Oswin began courting our Lady Phoebe.”
Of course she would. Clara let out a frustrated breath. The housekeeper had spent the better part of three decades making herself indispensable to the comfort of the Dukes of Dane; it should have been no surprise that she would have foreseen that such actions would be necessary, no matter that the news had completely surprised the rest of them. It also should not have surprised Clara that Mrs. Ingram would adamantly refuse her offers of help.
“Now,” Mrs. Ingram continued with a distracted smile, her sharp eyes remaining fixed on the servants as they bustled about them in the upper hallway, “don’t worry your head any longer about any of this. Why don’t you have a nice rest in your rooms. I’m thinking you need it after the excitement of the past days.”
And with that she was off, Clara already forgotten as she barked orders to two footmen carrying a chest to Phoebe’s rooms.
Clara, well and truly dismissed, and knowing that any further attempts to make herself useful would only accomplish the opposite, heaved a sigh and made her way to her rooms. But instead of sitting herself down and occupying herself in pursuits deemed proper for a gentlewoman as Mrs. Ingram had no doubt intended, she strode to the windows and looked down into the verdant green that was the center of Grosvenor Square. Within the shady depths nannies held the hands of impatient toddlers, couples strolled arm in arm, young ladies giggled with heads bent together. It was a lively scene. Yet from the relative peace of her room, with only the muted sounds of work behind her closed door, she felt as if she were looking at a painting.
No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? For out there was life. She was the painting, one-dimensional, lacking passion and warmth. Mere brushstrokes on canvas. And she would remain unchanging while the rest of the world moved on.
She pressed her hand flat to the glass before her and dragged in a deep breath, trying to dislodge the maudlin thoughts—as well as to tamp down on the restlessness she felt for more than what she was destined. Goodness, but this wasn’t like her at all. Despite all that life had thrown at her, she had always managed to remain cheerful and useful. And she would find a way to be useful again. Her lips twisted. Somehow.
She stood there for a time, feeling as if she were caught between two worlds, every lively interaction below or sound of busywork behind making her feel trapped until her body was nothing but a mass of tension. Unable to stand the inaction a moment longer, she pushed away from the window. Surely there was something she could do to be of benefit. A quick glance at the clock over the mantel told her the afternoon was quickly marching by. Her family was due to return soon from Lord and Lady Crabtree’s. No matter that she was not needed in the packing preparations, there was still much to do. Her sister’s wedding was only a month away, after all.
She faltered at that. To her, Phoebe was still that child who used to dance to imaginary music and drag her dolls everywhere she went, not a woman about to be married. But after a moment, Clara squared her shoulders, marching out her bedroom door and through the upstairs hallway. Phoebe was a woman grown, and she’d best remember it. Now was the time for joy and hope. No matter that her heart grieved that life would never be the same.
She hurried to the ground floor, her mind busy. Surely they would all appreciate a refreshing drink after being out on this overwarm day. She would go down to the kitchens, have something prepared for their return.
Just as her feet hit the last tread, she heard a pounding at the front door. With the butler in the attic directing his footmen in the removal of the trunks, Clara did not think twice about redirecting her steps. She reached the door just as another barrage of knocks sounded. In the back of her mind she recognized the desperate quality to the pounding, alerting her to the fact that this was no casual caller. Her hand, however, was late in getting the message, for it swung the door wide, to reveal—