Page 51 of A Devil in Silk
Anger simmered.
Whose damn house was this?
Bentley thrust the black enamel chest into his butler’s arms. “Put this in the study and lock the door. No one is to enter. I’ll be dining alone. Send to the mews for the Woodalls’ carriage.”
Hockton panted as he gripped the heavy box. “Forgive me, my lord. It’s a difficult situation. I served her ladyship in this house for over twenty years. Even after all this time, her grief leaves me at a loss for words.”
He gripped the butler’s shoulder, sharing his frustration. “It’s an impossible situation. I’m often left dumbfounded, too, but it cannot be allowed to continue.”
They had been tiptoeing around his mother’s sorrow for years, enabling her subtle manipulation. Hell, he’d agreed to marry a woman he disliked to prove he was worthy of his title.
Why had he remained silent?
Fear. Fear of feeling inadequate. Fear of causing someone else unbearable pain. He’d sooner take every blow himself than hurt someone he loved.
But something had shifted.
Now he needed to navigate uncharted territory. It was time for the capable, logical man to take his own damned advice.
He drew in a breath and squared his shoulders, deciding to tackle the Woodalls first. “Say nothing to my mother. Remain at your post, ready to escort the Woodalls out.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Bentley moved past the butler and began his march along the hall, pausing only to remind Hockton where his true loyalties lay. “The Woodalls are not welcome here again. If my mother calls when I’m out, she will remain in the drawing room until my return. Is that understood?”
He didn’t wait for Hockton’s reply but left the house, stepping out onto the terrace. The early evening air was cool, though his blood burned hot in his veins.
He slipped quietly down the steps and halted just short of the rose bower, where the low murmur of voices drifted on the evening breeze.
“You’ll have to change the décor in the main chamber,” Mrs Woodall said as though her daughter were already mistress of the house.
Miss Woodall gave a delicate sniff. “Yes, the green is utterly garish. And I shall have the panelling on the stairs painted. The whole house has a depressive air that’s dreadfully unappealing.”
“Hockton will have to go, of course.”
“Yes, his doddering is most inelegant.”
Bentley stepped forward, boots crunching on the gravel.
Both women turned at once.
Mrs Woodall beamed at him as though nothing in the world could be more delightful. “My dear Lord Rutland! We were just admiring your splendid roses. So much healthier than ours at home.”
He inclined his head coolly. “Yes, they thrive on careful tending rather than being uprooted merely for failing to please the eye.”
Mrs Woodall coughed delicately. “Quite.”
He suppressed a sharper retort. “It astonishes me how those concerned with the plight of the working class could dismiss a loyal butler over something as trivial as trembling hands.”
Miss Woodall turned as prickly as a thorn bush. “I’m sure Hockton has an excellent pension and will be comfortable in his dotage. But if we’re to secure the country’s future, we must dispense with old habits.”
“A practice you may employ in your own household, Miss Woodall. Hockton may draw his last breath here if he so wishes.”
Mrs Woodall scrambled to ease the tension. “Sarah meant no disrespect. Her desire to serve her future husband makes her a little overzealous in her suggestions.”
Bentley hardened his tone. “Then perhaps Miss Woodall should reserve her overzealous improvements for a household that might one day be hers. I don’t care what pact you made with my mother, I shall not be marrying your daughter, madam.”
Mrs Woodall blinked rapidly, while her tedious daughter opened her mouth, then closed it again, stunned into silence.
