Page 94 of A Bride for the Forbidden Duke
Henry’s childhood was difficult… His father was tyrannical, ruling their home with an iron fist… If Henry was not adhering to that iron fist, then he was surely under the blows from it.
Veronica looked at the deceased Viscount. “Henry has his father’s eyes,” she noted, seeing the warm brown of Henry’s gaze, except on Lord Banfield, it was a cold, hard stare.
As if he was even disapproving of the painter.
“It is one of the few things he brought from his former residence,” Mrs. Nelson said. “The painting. Although he rarely comes in to look at it. I think it causes him too much pain.”
Veronica nodded slowly, her heart aching.
What did you do to him to cause so much damage? she wondered, looking at Henry’s father.
She knew that fist he had on Henry’s shoulder in the painting had caused him pain, but there was more beneath his surface. Not just cold anger but devastation. Something else had happened to Henry—to his mother, too. Lady Sheridan had alluded to a fateful night but had said nothing more about it.
The Viscountess looked… sad, almost removed. Her eyes were slightly lowered, her mouth pinched as though she had to hold her tongue.
What had they endured?
“We must not dwell in here, talking of such things,” Mrs. Nelson muttered. “Do you think it is a good space for Lord Grantham’s story, should he wish to tell it?”
Veronica did not really want to parade her brother around anymore, and her passion for the presentation of his disappearance suddenly drained, seeing such a broken family. Her own had been but not in the same way as Henry’s.
“I think I shall leave the performance planning, after all,” she said. “My brother’s tale is his own to tell wherever he should like to. That can be among small circles, or he may find his own corner to speak of it.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Mrs. Nelson gave her a sympathetic look before she led them out of the gallery and into the hallway where Veronica tried to distract herself from her questions by planning a theme for the ball.
Masquerade, perhaps.
“You are quiet,” Henry noted as they rode in their carriage to Miss Hettie’s Tea Room. “Is there something bothering you?”
Veronica jolted back into the present, realizing she had lapsed into thoughtful silence. “I am merely mentally preoccupied.”
“Are you thinking of your brother returning home?” Henry asked.
I am thinking of you, she thought.
“I should have encouraged him to stay,” he considered. “I hope I did not make Lord Grantham feel unwelcome.”
Veronica shook his head. “No, I am sure my brother is very well. And he was grateful for you letting him gather himself overnight.”
“So, what ails you? Is it the ball? We can cancel it if it is adding too much pressure.”
“No,” Veronica said quickly. “It is not the ball. I am quite fine.”
“And I am not convinced,” he replied, his tone light, and an unconvinced smile played on his lips, but Veronica shook him off.
He gave her a worried look. In all honesty, Veronica could not get the thought of Henry’s parents from her mind. Her thoughts had become a tornado of worry and questions and doubts, and she had never done well at hiding her true emotions.
But the Duke dropped his questioning, and they rode to the tea rooms in relative silence. Henry was not a conversationalist, and for once, Veronica was glad. He did not press her until they wereseated at a window table in Miss Hettie’s, being served delicate slices of cake.
“Lemon,” Henry noted as Veronica picked up her fork. “Interesting.”
“What?” she asked, a half-hearted smile on her face. “Did you not think I liked lemon?”
“I… Well, I actually imagined you as a vanilla cake sort of lady.”
“Had you thrown me a proper wedding breakfast with a cake, then you may have seen what sort of cakes I liked sooner,” Veronica tried to tease, but it came out sharper than she planned.
