Page 56 of Stealing the Rake's Heart
“Take him to his room, please,” Alexander instructed. “He’ll have his meals there, if he’s hungry. He’s leaving in the morning, first thing.”
The footmen nodded obediently.
“How about a nip of whiskey for the road?” Hamish asked hopefully. Alexander sighed.
“No. And you’ve got a long way to go, my friend.”
He stood where he was, watching the two footmen gently walk Hamish away down the hallway. When they were gone, Alexander was left alone with his buzzing thoughts.
And the pile of books and vomit, too. He glanced at the mess and wrinkled his nose.
Better clean that up before Mother sees it.
Chapter Seventeen
Abigail didn’t see Alexander for the rest of the day. The peace of her quiet little clearing – well,theirquiet little clearing, really – seemed to have been ruined.
The story he had told her about the previous Duke of Dunleigh shook Abigail. How could a man be so cruel to his own children? Mrs. Atwater was hardly a model parent, but she had never been physically cruel, at least. Her only crime was neglect, and allowing Abigail to do whatever she wanted without caring what might happen to her, but it seemed like the old Duke took great pleasure in torturing his children.
Dinner passed without incident. Abigail was seated across the table from Alexander, as usual, with her aunt on one side and Lord Donovan on the other. When she had the chance, she leaned over to her aunt and whispered quietly.
“What do you know about the previous Duke of Dunleigh?”
It was the right question to ask. Or rather, the wrong one, because Aunt Florence stiffened, a spoon of soup halfway to her lips, and glanced rapidly around the table as if afraid somebody was watching them.
“Ask me again after the ladies withdraw,” she murmured, and continued eating.
Perhaps Aunt Florence had hoped that Abigail would forget. She didn’t, of course. When the Dowager rose, indicating that the ladies would retire to the drawing room, Abigail cornered her aunt, looping her arm through hers.
“Well?” she prompted.
Aunt Florence sighed. “Why are you asking, Abigail?”
“Well, I heard from Al... – that is, I heard that the Duke was remarkably unkind to his children. I heard a story about cutting a swing while one of his children were on it.”
Aunt Florence threw her niece a sharp look, and Abigail suspected that her aunt knew exactly who had told her that story.
The ladies began to file out of the dining room into the dark hallway, and the gentlemen settled down comfortably to enjoy their after-dinner port. Abigail felt an itch between her shoulder blades, as if she were under scrutiny, and glanced around to see who was watching.
Alexander hastily averted his gaze, and she felt her cheeks begin to burn.
“The old Duke was a difficult sort of man,” Aunt Florence continued, once they were safely out into the hallway, the door closed behind them. Ahead, the flickering yellow rectangle of the drawing room’s open door beckoned. It was a cool night, and a fire would have been lit inside, along with plenty of candles.
“By difficult, do you mean cruel?”
“Yes,” Aunt Florence said at once, which rather took Abigail by surprise. “He… he seemed to love no one, beyond himself and his reputation. His title, I should say. He became preoccupied with his legacy, and despite having four fine children, he found something to dislike in each of them. William, I believe, came under the brunt of his persecution. William and poor Katherine, being the only girl.”
They had fallen behind, the last in the line of women, and Abigail spotted the Dowager up ahead, craning her neck to see where they were. Their conversation would soon end.
“My friend, Mary, endured much,” Aunt Florence continued. “She loved him, and I believe that was her downfall, in the end. She is… weak and diminished now, but she was not always like that. I remember the way she was and hope that she’ll find her way back to her own self one day.”
“Oh. Oh, that is terrible.”
“Indeed. Let it be a lesson to you, Abigail. Women must marry, in this world, but for heaven’s sake, choose wisely.”
Then they had reached the drawing room, the Dowager smiling at them all, and the conversation had to stop. Aunt Florence stopped to talk with her friends, and Abigail smiled weakly and went on inside.
Her aunt’s last sentence had shaken her. What if she found herself in a marriage like the poor Dowager Duchess? There’d be no getting out of it, no escape. She shuddered, lowering herself into a chair by the fire.
