Page 84 of His Wild Duchess
Finally, George turned, feeling as though he ripped himself away from the window, no longer succumbing to the childish hope that Penelope would soon return over the hill.
“Golly, Georgie,” Winnie breathed, her eyes wide. “You look like you’ve seen the ghost of your daddy.”
“Worse.”
Winnie stared till the reality of the situation seemed to hit her square in the face. “Mary and Joseph,” she murmured because ripping the door open, and sticking her head out to yell, “Freddie! Get your behind over here!” When she turned back to George, her face was softened. “Did you say goodbye, Georgie?”
“No,” he snapped. “Did you?”
“‘Course not,” she replied. “I knew it two days ago, when she announced it, that she wouldn’t dare to say goodbye.”
“How?”
Winnie shook her head as thundering footsteps came from down the hall, her husband twisting his way past the doorframe. “Lovekeeps us from doin’ even the simplest of things, George. Now,” she reached, taking the glass out of his hand, “Why don’t we talk about this?”
“There isn’t anything to say.”
Fred huffed from the door. “C’mon, now, Georgie. Don’t close up on us.”
“I believe you’ve made a mistake,” Winnie said. “And soon, you won’t have any time left to fix it.”
George glared at her. “Shewas the one who left, Winnie.Sheleft. I did not tell her to leave, she -”
“Did you tell her not to?”
“What?”
Winnie shook her head. “You two,” she muttered. “Two of the most lovesick fools.”
For the next few days, George was unable to remove himself from the study. Not only was he flooded with letters and business proposals dealing with the stud farm, but he found that whenever he stepped outside of the room, he was reminded of the reality of his situation. While he expected a dog to be in his way, or to hear Penelope’s loud laughter outside, it was never truly there. George did not wish to come face-to-face with hissadness, and decided to hide instead, ignoring the pleas from his American companions.
He had made them plenty of promises that he was now failing to keep, through no one’s fault but his own. Winnie wished for him to show her around London, but he refused. Fred insisted upon going to the stud farm before it was open to the public, but George couldn’t bring himself to leave his study.
As the guilt of his situation settled within him, George restedhis back against a bookcase one morning, remembering how the mastiff Antony used to sleep across his lap as the sun filtered in through the windows.
Suddenly, there were a rumbling of footsteps outside the study. Within a moment, Fred ripped the door open without a single knock.
“George,” he called out. “You gotta come now.”
“Where?”
“To the stables.”
George’s head shot up. There was only one mount in the stables for the past few days, and it wasn’t Vaun. Fiona was left behind when Penelope took Vaun to the cottage, but that was how he planned it. Eventually, he would return the horse to the cottage, and take Vaun back instead, once the stud farm was ready for him. That wasn’t going to be for another week or so, and the ideaof Fiona being hurt or sick while in his care struck a nerve deep within his heart. Without needing to hear a single word, George felt as though a fire had been lit beneath him, and he leapt to the door. Side by side, the pair shotthrough the hall, George’s coat flying out behind him like a cloak.
“What is it?” George asked when they crashed out the back door. His eyes immediately landed on Mr. Busch, the veterinarian that George had been enlisting since returning to London. Mr. Busch was renowned in all of London, known for tending to the finest of horses at all the popular racetracks. He quickened his pace at the sight of the doctor, suddenly drowning in the fear of something truly bad happening to Fiona when he was too beaten down to notice.
“I called him when I noticed a change in Fiona’s behavior,” Fred said as they met the doctor in the middle. “I told him what I saw and the man came right away.” He shook the vet’s hand. “Mighty grateful for you, doc.”
“Well, I’m proud to look after such well-cared for steeds,” Mr. Busch said, turning his attention quickly to George. “Not to worry, your Grace. In fact, if you were saving a bottle of something nice, now might be the time to pop it open!”
George frowned. Sliding past him, he pushed open the stable door, where the stablehand dragged a brush along Fiona’s coat. The mare didn’t look sick at all, but rather low-energy, which wasn’t her usual condition. George reached, grasping onto her snout. Fiona neighed at him, nuzzling her snout against the crook of his neck.
“Tell me, Mr. Busch,” George called out over his shoulder.
Mr. Busch smiled. “The steed is pregnant, your Grace.”
He jumped around. “Pregnant?”
