Page 43 of The Iron Duke's Flaming Christmas
The gentleman had been abroad for the past ten years, but they hadn’t ever been friends, even when he had been in residence in the district, and despite being the same age and having attended school together. Lord Eaton was rather too smooth and a bit oily for Ian’s comfort.
Redford had once remarked that Eaton was the type of chap who would cheat you at cards while fondling your sweetheart behind your back at the same time—and the description was so apt that Ian couldn’t help laughing.
“Eaton,” he said, trying to muster enthusiasm. “How long have you been back in the district?”
“Just over a month,” the gentleman replied, with a slight smile. “I felt the calling of home. Even Venice, with all of its beauty, gets cold at this time of year, and there is nothing like being in the bosom of one’s family at Christmastide.”
Ian inclined his head, thinking that the gentleman had ignored his ageing, invalid father during many festive seasons during the past ten years. Clearly, Eaton hadn’t heard the call home that loudly then. “Indeed.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. They both glanced around the ballroom, sipping their drinks. Ian’s eyes slid to the gentleman as he felt another stab of impatience. This was insufferable. How he despised making mincing conversation with such people. He was just thankful that the Captain was here to stave off complete boredom. As soon as he could persuade Lord Mastiff and Lady Gwen, he was going to leave.
He was just about to make an excuse to walk away from the gentleman, when Eaton turned to him, looking at him in a speculative way, which wasn’t particularly friendly.
“I must say I am surprised you have not remarried, Trenton,” he said. “It has been nine years since Mary’s passing, after all.” He took a long sip of champagne. “I took you for the type of chap who would have remarried within a month. Wonders will never cease.”
Ian bristled. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you are a duke, Trenton,” continued the gentleman, raising his eyebrows. “It is all about the continuation of the line, is it not? You need an heir… and a spare.” He smiled unpleasantly. “You only have a daughter. Mary left you without even providing you with what you really need. And she always wanted to give you exactly what you wanted.”
Slowly, Ian turned to face the gentleman, his face hard, staring at him, noticing that the small half-moon shaped scar above his left eyebrow that the gentleman had acquired in a fencing accident was still very visible, and seemed to glow white against his tanned skin.
“And you should stop talking about my wife as if you knew her better than I did, Eaton,” he growled, remembering now why he had always disliked the man so much.
“You know that Mary and I grew up on neighboring estates,” replied the gentleman, raising his eyebrows. “I did know her better than you did, and I know what you did to her.”
Ian’s blood ran cold. “What are you talking about?”
The gentleman’s face tightened. “You mistreated her, Trenton,” he said, in an ominous whisper. “If it was not for you, Mary would still be alive today.” He took a deep, ragged breath. “If she had married me, as I wanted her to, then she would still be alive. How do you sleep with yourself at night?”
“You go too far, my lord,” snarled Ian, trying to restrain himself from hitting the man square in the nose. “Mary made her choice. She never even mentioned to me—not once—that she had ever contemplated marrying you. She never had any finer feelings toward you. Your desire to marry her was in your own mind entirely.”
But even as he uttered the words, a whisper of doubt swept through him. He was remembering now that Mary had mentioned in passing that Eaton admired her and his nose was out of joint when she married Ian, but she had been laughing when she said it, and he had never taken it seriously—had never believed that Eaton was a real suitor to her, nor that the gentleman truly loved her.
Now, as he contemplated the gentleman’s taut face, quivering with suppressed anger, he realized that he had been wrong. Quite wrong.
“You made her travel on Christmas Day when she was heavy with child,” said Eaton, glaring at him. “You knew her time was close but that did not stop you selfishly insisting that she leave the house.”
“Her time was not close,” growled Ian, his stomach tensing into a knot. “She had a month or more until she was due.”
He swallowed hard, unable to get any more words out of his mouth. It was like they were lodged there. Even though his instinct was to defend himself against this odious man, whose only motivation was to provoke a reaction from him, he just couldn’t do it.
Eaton is right. I should never have insisted Mary travel that day. If I had realized what was going to happen, I would never have done it, not in a thousand years.
The ever-pervasive guilt over his wife’s death that gnawed at him started growing, entering his bloodstream, staining his soul.
It was only now that he realized he hadn’t been feeling it as strongly these last few weeks… and that had coincided with Selene coming to Trenton House, making him forget, to dare to live as if this shadow wasn’t constantly following him, and that he was still a man who deserved to live in the light once more.
And Eaton had just gone and wiped it all away in one foul swoop.
The gentleman arched his eyebrows. “You keep telling yourself that, Trenton. I know the truth. You cannot fool me.”
He turned, walking briskly away. Ian watched him, his grip tightening on his glass, suppressing the urge to throw it to the ground and watch it shatter into a million pieces.
Thomas approached him, following his line of vision.
“What did Eaton want?” asked his friend, shaking his head. “You look like you are about to run after him and throttle him.”
Ian turned to his friend. “Did you know that Eaton was in love with Mary? He claims that he wanted to marry her.”
