Page 6 of When her Duke Returns
“I daresay I mourned him longer than you, sister. You sported the black for all of a week before turning your attentions elsewhere.”Had Mary not been so blinded by the sun, she may have struck him. She settled on quiet resentment.
“That is unfair, truly. It was Mother who urged me off the shelf and back into society before the clock had struck twelve. I would have mourned him far longer, given half the chance.”
“What is the point of this?” Francis asked to break the tension. “Why speak of this now?”
“You are the one who brought it up!”
“Hardly.” He looked away in consideration and then snapped his head back toward her. “Do you have doubts?”
Mary sucked in her breath. “Doubts of what sort?”
Suddenly, a rustling came from one of the smaller pebbled paths of the gardens that lead straight to the castle’s main courtyard. The sound was followed by footsteps upon the ground and then the swaying of leaves as a hand came to clear the path and make the presence of its body known.
“There you are,” the man said at once, regarding the both of them.
“Antony,” Mary exclaimed, forgetting her manners. “Lord Burkley,” she corrected.
Antony stood with a smile, his tall, lanky frame strangely dark against the brightness of the day and the vibrancy of the gardens. He was always polished with fair skin, sharp features, and dark hair, yet there had always been an unnatural edge to his good looks.
“Indeed,” he said with a wide smile. He nodded to Francis. “It’s good to see you, Francis. You’re looking… well, rather peckish, I do say.”
Francis composed himself quickly, straightening out the lapels of his coat. “I’ve had to contend with the wrath of Sophia all morning, so you’ll have to excuse me any bitterness… but it’s good to see you. I was told to expect you later this afternoon.”
“As was I,” Mary added. Antony walked closer to Mary, taking her hand in his and placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. His lips were always cold against her skin though Mary attributed it to the Scottish blood that ran within the Simons line.
“That was the plan though an opportunity presented itself to arrive earlier, and I could hardly turn down the chance to see more of you, My Lady.”
Mary felt her skin flush pink. She had never thought of Antony as particularly handsome, but his natural charm largely made up for whatever else he was lacking.
“I’m flattered, My Lord,” she said with as much kindness as she could muster. “Although I fear you shall be dreadfully bored. There is not much for a man of your kind to do in Devonshire, especially not while the house is busy with the preparations for this evening.”
“Then we shall have to make our own fun, shan’t we?” He gestured to Francis. “Come, I would talk more of our affairs in London over luncheon before the eve is upon us.”
With that, the two men bid her farewell and walked back toward the castle, the sound of talk and laughter carrying over the hedges.
Before she could give any more consideration to matters offun, the sky became greatly overcast and heavy with rain. With a rumble of thunder, the heavens themselves spilled open atop her, and Mary rushed inside.
* * *
“Alexander! I ambeggingyou, lay this wicked plan to rest! You shall ruin us!”
Alexander picked up his pace along Markham Road as it showered more violently overhead. He held in one hand a hastily thrown-together trunk of clothes, and, in the other, a twisted scroll of paper bearing the seal of the Carlisle family. With each step, the letter disintegrated further in the rain, melting into the crevices of his hand.
The Duke could see nothing but the rain through the veil of his anger as if possessed by some daemon of desire he could not speak nor dismiss. His mother continued to shout from behind him. Her cries reached him through the downpouring of rain like the distressed yelps of an ailing dog:
Don’t do this.Comeback.She is beyond your reach.
He was sopping wet by the time he reached the street corner where his mother and his good sense faded from view.
ChapterThree
“You look precisely ravishing, sweet Mary,” said Miss Cecelia Stanton upon entering Mary’s chambers.
Mary could hardly disagree. Her mother had chosen a gown of flawless velvet for the evening’s ball, and it suited her perfectly. She ran her hands over the deep teal fabric of her skirts, stopping at the embellished belt below her breast. Her hair had been pinned up high atop her head as a dazzle of jeweled teardrops fell from her ears. Honora’s finest work, she had thought.
“Are you sure it’s not too much?” she asked.
Cecelia shook her head. “Not at all! You’ll put us all to shame.” The young Stanton lady had herself adorned a dress of similar style though hers was amber-colored and far less bejeweled.
