Page 38 of Stealing the Rake's Heart
Anger coiled in William’s chest.
I am here,he wanted to shout.Your oldest child. Your firstborn son. Katherine and Henry are here. Aren’t we enough?
He didn’t dare ask, mostly because he knew what the answer would be.
No.
“He’s tired, Mother.”
“No, no,” Mary shook her head a little too energetically. “That can’t be the case. Go and fetch him, quickly, before he starts to get ready for bed.”
William drew in a breath. “No, Mother.”
“Then I shall fetch him. I want my Alex here.”
“He’s drunk, Mother.”
That came out much harder and more cruel than William had intended, and it was of course too late to take the words back.
And they weren’t even true.
Mary recoiled, eyes huge. “Drunk?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” There was really nothing for it but to double down. “I’m sorry, Mother. Best to let him alone for tonight.”
Mary cleared her throat, turning away. “Oh. Right. I see. Well, thank you for telling me. I should have preferred it if you had stopped him drinking quite so much, then we could have enjoyed his company all night, but I suppose it’s too late now.”
“Mother…” William began, but she did not hear. Already, Mary was shuffling back into the crowd. The smile had gone from her face.
William was left alone, feeling like the worst son – and brother – in the whole wide world.
Chapter Eleven
It was an embarrassing thing to admit, but Abigail had spent most of the previous night’s ball looking for Lord Alexander Willenshire.
She hadn’tmeantto do it, only that whenever she looked around, she found herself searching for a particular face. She kept hearing voices that sounded like his, kept thinking that a gentleman with his back to her was Lord Alexander, only for the man to turn and for her to realize that he looked nothing like him.
Ugh. It was impossible.
Aunt Florence knocked on her door at around ten o’ clock the next morning.
“Are you awake?” she asked, peeping around the door. “Ah, yes, I see you’re up. Why haven’t you rung for Lucy?”
“Lucy was up just as late as me last night,” Abigail answered, eyes fixed on her reflection as she pushed the last pins into her hair. She’d chosen a plain, dark green muslin dress that she could put on herself and had done up her hair in a simple knot. “I didn’t get to bed until close to four in the morning. I can dress myself, thankfully.”
Aunt Florence pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Hm. Well. Never mind. Come on, let’s go to breakfast.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Abigail answered meekly, getting to her feet.
Downstairs, the ballroom and dining room were still in a state of disarray. Servants bustled to and fro tidying up the seemingly endless mess. A footman went past with a wheelbarrow full of dying flowers, the remnants of last night’s centrepieces, already wilted with the heat. Housemaids swept up broken glass amongst piles of dirt and dust and fallen leaves and petals, while a scullery maid knelt on the rug before the mantelpiece, scrubbing what appeared to be a red wine stain out of the material.
“It’ll be a quiet day today, I think,” Aunt Florence confirmed. “Lord Henry and his wife are not here, and neither is Katherine. There’s talk of a walk after breakfast, but I shall have to stay with Mary. She’s always dreadfully low after her yearly party. She looks forward to it for weeks,monthseven, and then, poof! It’s over.”
Abigail bit her lip. She’d seen the Dowager last night, beaming with joy. She’d talked to everyone, and even danced once or twice. Only with her youngest son, Alexander. The two seemed to have a special bond.
The Duke himself had even asked Abigail to dance, although Aunt Florence had warned her it was a courtesy thing and did not indicate any real interest. Abigail had been relieved more than anything. The Duke was remarkably handsome, in the same way that Alexander was handsome, but he was cold and serious and almost unfriendly, seeming to be occupied by something heavy. She’d been glad when the dance ended.
With the dining room still in a state of disarray, Aunt Florence led the way to a morning room, where tables had been set out for breakfast.
