Page 45 of When her Duke Returns
Mary sighed and shot a dismissive look toward Antony as their coach slowed to a stop. She looked out to the East Anglian manor beyond, sitting proudly atop its pebbled entrance. She had not visited Richon in years. Its grand, walnut doors loomed overhead as a soft honeyed light waxed through its windows.
“Well?” Antony pressed upon her silence.
“If you’re looking to squabble, I shan’t humor you. We’ve shared conflict enough on our trip so far. Is it not enough that you forced Harry and Mama to travel in a separate coach? That you’ve sent Cluett off without so much as a note?”
Antony scoffed and straightened out the lapels of his dark, velvet jacket. “It’s the least their lot deserve, I say.”
Mary grew hot with anger. Her betrothed had been insufferable in the two weeks since theordealas they had taken to calling it. “Lest you forget, he is my brother and soon to be yours. I will suffer no more of your contempt on his account.”
The Earl began to speak, but Mary raised her hand to make clear their conversation had ended. In her anger, she swung open the carriage door before the driver had the chance, almost knocking the man off his feet, and gathered the long ends of her cream muslin gown between her fists to set off toward the house.
Her brother and mother were a few steps ahead, having just exited their own carriage. Harry looked utterly wearied. Mary rushed over to him, dancing between footmen as they carried their trunks about, locking her arm in his to keep him steady.
“This is for the best,” she whispered as they approached the manor’s porch.
“I should not have come,” he muttered with a voice brittle and low.
Mary could smell alcohol on his breath. “Come, Harry… You haven’t been out in weeks. You need to be amongst your friends, or you’ll rot away.”
Harry scoffed. “These people are hardly my friends.”
“Merciful Heavens!” Mary heard her mother cry as she came to step beside them. “Do try to smile! This is a soiree, not a wake.” She pressed a hand to Mary’s back and drew in close. “Do not let Harry drinkanymore,” she muttered to her daughter then turned on her heels to fetch Antony.
Mary let out a pained breath and guided Harry inside. They met with the butler first. He greeted them with a smile and turned them toward Lady Stanton and Sir Tristan, who appeared jubilant in their matching auburn finery.
“Lady Mary and Mr. Carlisle! How glad we are you could make it!” Tatiana cried.
“It’s so good to see you again,” Sir Tristan echoed, slapping Harry on the arm as if to wake him from his daze.
“The pleasure is ours,” Mary replied, forcing a smile.
“Cecelia will be so pleased to see you’ve arrived safely! She’s been beside herself with emotion as of late. It will do her some good to speak things over with you, Mary. I fear she is in desperate need of a friend,” Lady Stanton remarked.
Mary’s breath hitched. “Speak things over? Whatever could you mean?”
Tatiana eyed her up and down as Sir Tristan continued to tyrannize Harry. “Why, wedding jitters and the like.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Mary mumbled, noting that both Ceceliaandthe Duke were absent from the lobby. “Is she nearby?”
Tatiana hummed and turned her attention to the arrival of Lady Carlisle and Antony. “No doubt,” she reassured her with a distracted smile, before turning away entirely. Harry came beside her, then.
“Dash it all! Miss Brichester is here,” he cursed in a whisper once he had scanned the room.
Mary turned to look at him. “Why is that so terrible?”
“Her father asked that I call on hermonthsago. I’ve been avoiding them since the dinner at the Rowes.”
“You need only speak with them, brother.”
“Yourspeaking with the Simons landed you Burkley,” Harry grouched. “No, this is too much, too soon. I need some air, a drink, anything!” Harry looked around frantically then settled on an exit off onto the terrace. With a sad look toward his sister, he dashed off.
“Harry!” she cried then set off after him, her pearls dancing atop her bosom as she went.
The air was warm and clear that night. The terrace was alight with candles and lanterns abound, and the soft cement paving clicked under Mary’s heels as she strode along the patio in search of her brother. She thought to see the figure of a man at the far end of the terrace, leaning on the railing that shot out over the garden. She strode forth, mulling over her words, then stopped dead in her tracks as the man came into view.
It was not Harry but the Duke of Redgrave, nursing a near-emptied glass of ambered drink and staring absently off over the grounds. He was dressed in a long, navy overcoat, his golden hair twinkling under the incandescence of the lanterns. The man turned his head toward her then drew to a stand.
“So, you did come,” he said. The sound of his voice sent shivers down her spine.
