Page 24 of The Trouble with Tigers
He eyed her, a considering expression on his face. “Maybe I was angry for a moment. But the moment’s gone. Besides, how could I remain angry at the granddaughter I never had?”
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking his palm and pressing it to her cheek. She glanced toward the door as if she could see Zeke as he stormed out. “I told you he hated me.”
Lord Claybourne dropped a finger on the tip of her nose. “He’ll get over it.”
Kitty sent the earl a fond smile, and kept her doubts to herself.
***
Zeke emptied his tankard and, not bothering to rise from the wingback chair where he’d sulked for the last hour, flagged one of the club's attendants to bring him another.
He pulled at his collar, and inwardly groaned at the close feel of the room. Didn’t anyone realize it was summer? What were they all doing in the city, at White’s in particular?
He’d come here to get away. To think. But every room teemed with members whose laughter and jovial conversations grated on his every nerve.
He closed his eyes and slunk down into the well-cushioned armchair he’d positioned to face the wall. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, asking himself for the fiftieth time what happened tonight? Why had he blown up at the earl? He neverlost control like that, and hadn’t spoken to his grandfather with such disrespect since he was a boy.
Recalling his grandfather’s worried gaze soured the ale in Zeke’s belly. Because he’d done more than bellow at Claybourne. He’d lied to the old man. On one of his recent late nights he had visited a gaming hell.
Whyhadhe gone?
Because, at the time, he couldn’t think of a sound reason not to, he supposed. Nothing else he tried had quieted the edgy, unsettled tension riding him hard since arriving home. Not over-imbibing, which he’d done on an altogether too frequent basis. Not carousing 'til the wee hours, like a man not quite twenty instead of one closer to thirty.
Perhaps he had inherited his father’s traits.
A movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. An older gentleman stumbled toward the exit, weaving into one of the large potted plants flanking the door.
In a flash, a vivid memory of his father, months before his death, seared his consciousness.
It had been Winter Break. Zeke and Caden were home from Eton, much to Zeke’s displeasure. If he’d had his way, he’d have stayed on campus, or gone home with a school chum. Anything was preferable to subjecting himself to his father—or rather the lack of one. Most times dear old dad spent his days abed, his nights deep in his cups, or absent altogether.
But the earl had assured Zeke Christmas would be a grand affair. He’d called the family to Derby, promising time away from the city would make all the difference.
Zeke remembered the day like it was yesterday. Not a cloud in the sky, but cold enough to freeze his nose hairs—and the air rich with possibility.
He’d set out on his own, much to Caden’s displeasure, saddling his favorite horse for a long ride. He recalled the windin his hair, the sun warming his back. He stayed out of doors, hunting for mischief ’til bone-chilling gusts finally drove him back to Chissington Hall. Red faced and half frozen, he’d raced up the back steps onto the portico, on a mission to find hot cocoa and biscuits.
He practically tripped over his father, retching into one of the potted palms. The sour smell of spirits told Zeke all he needed to know. The usual. He’d over-imbibed. Nothing had changed by coming here.
He’d stood there. Angry. Afraid. To his shame, fighting tears.
His father gazed up at him, bleary eyed, unkept and unshaven. “Never give your heart away, son. It hurts too bloody damn much.”
“Is that why you’re this way? Because you miss Mother?” Zeke asked, bewildered and disgusted.
“She left me. In the end, she left you, too. No woman’s worth this.”
“My lord? Your ale.”
Zeke’s head shot up as the attendant’s words dragged him from the past.
The servant took one look at Zeke, placed the tankard on the table, and scurried away.
Zeke scrubbed a hand over his face. Why was he remembering these things? There was nothing to be gained reliving the past, or comparing himself to his weak father.
No?An irritating inner voice asked him. Then explain why you visited the den. Explain your staying out all hours. Explain the emptiness roiling in your gut.
Emptiness?
