Page 4 of Never Beguile a Duke
Stopping again, she peered around the carriage, ensuring Mr. Dunn’s absence from the window, then raced across the pavement toward the pathway leading to her mother’s house.
As she entered the property, Winifred’s stomach flipped, churning with indecision. A myriad of excuses accompanied each step toward the residence’s entrance. Still, despite her misgivings, she trekked to the door, raised her arm, and, after a moment of internal warring, knocked on a wooden panel.
No answer.
“Mother!” A frown pulling the corner of her mouth, she rapped again. “I’m not leaving until I speak with you.”
The door eased open a sliver. “Why are you here?”
“I want to give you something.” Winifred lifted her beaded reticule, swinging the purse in front of the small gap.
Her mother reached for the bag. However, Winifred, anticipating the move, yanked the purse away and shoved the door aside. Pushing past her mother, Winifred entered the residence and stalked toward the drawing room.
“I didn’t invite you inside,” her mother said, chasing after Winifred.
“I have no desire to converse in the cold…” Winifred froze in the doorway, her gaze sliding across a worn, light blue and white floral rug in the center of the bare room. “Where is all the furniture?”
“Sold to pay the creditors.” Her mother shuffled past Winifred, stopped in front of a dark fireplace, and held her bare fingers out to the invisible flames. “I had to release Mrs. Bexley from her position along with all the other servants.”
“Will you survive the winter?” Winifred asked, shoving her hands under her arms and shivering.
“I’m certain you’re hoping for my demise.” Her mother sniffed and rubbed her palms together. “Freezing to death; a fitting punishment for my crimes.”
Always the thespian.
Winifred rolled her eyes. “I don’t want you to die, Mother.”
Though I wouldn’t mind sending you to prison for a few months as retribution…
“Does Nora?” Her mother sniffed, peeking over her shoulder.
“Certainly not,”—at least, she assumed Nora wasn’t given to murderous tendencies—“and you shouldn’t believe such rubbish.”
“Am I invited to her wedding?” Her mother sidled closer.
Winifred shook her head. “Nora and I have unsettled grievances that must be resolved before we’ll allow you to rejoin our lives.”
Her mother’s eyebrows rose. “You expect to reside with Nora until your death?”
“Well… no.” Winifred swallowed, glancing at the falling snow gathering on the windowpane ledge.
She hadn’t considered her living situation following Nora’s wedding.
“Have you captured any gentleman’s interest?” Her mother's soft question brushed over Winifred’s shoulder.
“Since my history with Mr. Hollingsworth, and my recent incarceration, are both common knowledge,”—Winifred spun around—“we both know the chances of me receiving an offer are quite low.”
“Then you’ll soon need a place to reside.” Kneeling on the rug, her mother gestured to a chipped porcelain teapot resting atop a wooden serving tray. “Would you care for some refreshment? I have two cups.”
Winifred didn’t have much time remaining before Nora realized Winifred’s absence. However, she hadn’t completed her task, so she nodded and, hiking up her skirts, sat across from her mother on the thin rug.
How will Mother serve tea without a fire to heat it?
After accepting the offered cup, Winifred brought the rim to her lips and blew on the liquid, but no steam rose from the fluid. She hesitated, then tipped the vessel and choked on a mouthful of ice-cold tea.
“I thought it was hot!” Winifred sputtered.
Her mother laughed; the harsh, brittle cackle echoed in the parlor. “How would I heat the tea without fire?”
