Page 2 of A Bride for the Forbidden Duke
“Are you not concerned?” she asked in disbelief. “At such an hour, Lord Barwicke has?—”
“I shall not ask again.”
Her heart deflated. Grief had long buried itself in the prideful Dowager Countess, weighing in her bones, even as her determination to continue flared in her brown eyes. Eyes that Veronica herself shared. Losing the Earl of Grantham three years ago had carved something out of her mother that Veronica would never truly understand, but she had still lost her father.
And my brother, she thought.
But those thoughts were not right for the moment. Not yet.
Still, she did not understand why her mother was not concerned about an intruder. Although Lord Barwicke was no stranger, he was not welcome at any moment at their house, least of all, this hour. Even Veronica’s own friends would be seen as strange for it.
“I didsee His Lordship out there. He was at the back gate. He looked right at my window!”
“You must have been dreaming, Veronica.” Judith’s vacant face turned into something falsely bright as she gestured for Veronica to move along. “Come now, back to bed. You look exhausted. I shall not have you falling asleep during your busy day.”
“You are avoiding my questions,” Veronica pointed out, trying not to sound accusing, but still firm. “Is there a reason?”
“I believe I do not have to explain myself to you.”
Her mother’s sympathetic smile irked Veronica. She was not foolish. She did not believe herself to have dreamed up Lord Barwicke.
“Come. We shall both retire.”
Veronica looked at her mother suspiciously. “Mama, what is it you are not telling me?”
“Nothing, dearest. Now, for the last time, I shall ask you to return to bed. If you are dreaming of men in our gardens, then perhaps it is a sign to find you a suitor. Even your dreams are encouraging your chances of an advantageous match!”
Again, that false cheer entered her mother’s voice, not doing anything at all to settle Veronica’s nerves or worries but inciting them further.
Her mother’s hand on her shoulder ushering her towards her doorway only made Veronica push back.
Her mother was a slow-paced woman who often took her time with her meals, thoroughly appreciated something she experienced or tasted, and lingered in conversation, for it all prolonged her return to grief-induced loneliness. For her to wave this away so quickly could only mean something was deeply wrong.
“Mama, this is not the first time Lord Barwicke has entered our home,” she said, pulling away from her mother’s hand.
She turned to the Dowager Countess, eyes on the tears that refused to be shed. “He is often poking around. I have overheard you conversing with him. I understand he is no stranger, but I do not believe you consider him a friend, surely?”
“Of course, he is a friend.”
“He does not attend properly,” Veronica insisted. “He does not dine with us nor take tea in the parlor. He rarely acknowledges my existence at all. I have seen you go into my father’s study with him. Is it to discuss father’s unfinished affairs?”
“Darling, no more questions. I am quite tired.”
“What could he have wanted to keep you up this late?”
“Veronica, please?—”
She did not hear the desperation in her mother’s voice.
“And hedoesfrequent ever so often, does he not? I did not believe you liked him so much to entertain these visits. Heavens, you enjoy Lady Hastings’s company but even you do not see her half as much as Lord Barwicke is here,” Veronica went on.
The Dowager Countess of Hastings was one of her mother’s oldest friends who lived several houses away on their square in London, but she did not frequent Grantham House quite so often since Veronica’s father had passed away, and her brother had gone missing.
“Veronica, I would beg you stop asking your questions now.” She finally heard the crack in her mother’s voice. “Dearest, I am fascinated by your curiosity and ability to notice things othersdo not seem to. You must have gotten that from your father, but that is quiteenough.”
And those were the very words that caused her mother’s chest to start heaving, a sharp inhale taken, right as those tears spilled over. The tears were not continuous things, not a long cry, but with her mother’s weathered face and the droop in her proud shoulders, Veronica knew they were tears of exhaustion and defeat.
Veronica stood only several paces from her mother, but it may as well have been a cascading ravine in between them, for she could not go to her. Not as her mind turned over every card she could see—and tried to work out aloud the ones she could not.
