Page 18 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
The Duke of Southbourne greeted him with tears in his eyes. Sixty-two, the eighth duke of the family Compton, sat in his wheeled chair like a sovereign on his throne. With pristine snowy hair and snapping green eyes, he had the broad shoulders and firm torso of a man who’d remained fit until a horse threw him a year ago. Ruler of his grand domain, he deserved to look regal, for he had saved the family fortune from financial ruin on two occasions. He now faced the third one. He had written to Charlie of rising prices, due to debts of the wars, causing misery for them all.
“Dear boy,” the duke said, extending his quivering hands to his son. “So good of you to come see me. I long for good company.”
Indeed, Charlie’s mother had died two years ago while Charlie was fighting in Spain. She’d passed away in her sleep. His father had written to Charlie that she prayed for his survival as often as she appealed to God to reform their oldest son of his drinking and whoring.
“And Isabelle?” Charlie’s sister, older by two years, visited here often from her home in Yorkshire. But her brood of three was soon to grow to four and she was ill often in this pregnancy.
“Came for my birthday, of course, three weeks ago. But she is so large with this child, she wanted the comfort of her own bed. Sudbury demanded they go home. They left last Tuesday.” The earl adored his wife and justly so.
“I don’t blame him. Twins, do you think this time?” Twins occasionally ran in the Compton family.
“I do. Sit, sit, sit.” His father focused on every detail of his face and form. “Good health, yes?”
“Indeed.” Charlie took up one of the enormous matching George the Third upholstered chairs before his father’s desk and admired the man’s hearty looks. “I bring you a good chess opponent and a fine reader for your latest passion. Who is it?”
“A romance!” the old man joked, a twinkle in his eyes.
Charlie clapped his palms on the armrests. “Marvelous! I’ve not read one lately!”
“Aren’t you to read the Good Book every night, dear boy?”
“I know that by heart, sir. I need new material.”
His father snorted. “Be careful. If the Archbishop hears of it, you will be gone.”
“I could claim such fiction makes me more empathetic to my charges. But I will tell no one of my new tastes, save you.” Charlie brushed a hand down the material of his breeches. He had many new tastes and pondered if he should reveal them to his sire. The duke did not appear to need any more frustrations than he already had and Charlie doubted his father could aid him in his desire to marry a lady so far beyond his abilities to wed.
The duke cocked his head. “You’re pensive.”
Not a question. Well, what had he expected? His father knew him so well.
“Why?”
Charlie inhaled. Rose. And sought the liquor arrayed on the far console. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Shall I pour for you as well?”
“Indeed, you can.”
When Charlie had measured the two of them generous draughts of good tawny port, he returned to hand one crystal tumbler to his father and allowed the man to catch his gaze. “I came home, sir, because you need me. I am not here to bare my problem.”
“Nonetheless, I will hear it first.”
Charlie sat, considering his port for longer than he intended.
“I believe you should drink that and pour another,” his father said.
He drained his glass, then got up to get another. As the alcohol went to his head, he retook his chair. “I’ve met a woman I wish to marry.”
“It’s about time.” His father raised his glass in a toast. “Do I detect you have a challenge with that?”
“A few, yes.”
“Allow me to help?”
“Ah, Papa. With this, there is not much you can do.”
“The name Compton has sway.”
“I do not doubt it. But in this?” He took another swig. “Not so. The lady will not wed.”
