Page 7 of Finding Hope
“Have you heard from Westwood and your sister?”
“Yes, my lord. They have arrived in Paris, and are enjoying the cuisine and shops.”
At her side, Carew snorted. “I’ll bet.”
Hope did not understand the sardonic tone. Perhaps he was more affected than he let on that Faith had chosen Westwood. She sipped on her punch to give her something to do besides talk.
Hope didn’t want to hang on Rotham’s sleeve—or Carew’s, for that matter. She also did not wish to go another Season unwed, which meant she had to make the effort to attract other suitors. All those dreams and fantasies she’d had about having a Season were nothing like the reality. For all she knew, Rotham was as high in the instep as his mother, and had only been doing her a kindness. Had she so wildly mistaken his interest? It did not matter if his marriage to Miss Cunningham was already planned. He certainly had not denied the Duchess’ announcement of that fact. She was unaccountably hurt when there was no understanding between Lord Rotham and herself. She had stupidly allowed herself to become infatuated with him, and the only way to cure that was to distance herself.
“Would you excuse me?” She broke away from the gentlemen, needing to be away from him. Whenever Rotham was near, she could think of no one else.
Patience and Grace were still speaking with Miss Cunningham, and Hope made her way towards them. The alternative was to go to the Dowager Lady Westwood, but she was with the Duchess of Davenmere.
Hope stood on the periphery as her sisters and Miss Cunningham were discussing some of their mutual army friends and their Regiment’s movement to the country for the summer, causing general woe amongst the eligible misses who relied upon the soldiers for dancing and frivolity.
Hope had drunk her punch too quickly, and excused herself to find the ladies’ retiring room, but halted behind a clematis-covered column when she overheard the Duchess talking to Faith’s mama-in-law. “They are all passably well-looking, I’ll grant you, but I pity you for being taken in, Louisa. They are nothing but commoners looking to better themselves. I would have expected no less from Florence Halbury. Westwood should have sent them right back where they came from with a hired companion to see them suitably placed. To foist them on you to bring out is unforgivable!” Every syllable from her lips dripped with disdain.
“Westwood did so with my blessing, your Grace. Faith is now my daughter, and I could not be more pleased with her. The other girls are equally a delight to me. I enjoy squiring them around immensely.”
The Duchess humphed doubtfully. “I suppose there is nothing to be done but keep them away from Rotham.”
***
Enough was enough. Max attended the Cunningham garden party and decided he could not take anything more. He hadnoticed how Miss Whitford had distanced herself from him every time he’d come near. Curse his mother for ever saying anything about Vivienne!
He had to get away to think, and it seemed as good a time as any to visit his father, the Duke. If he was truly to be cut off, then it was time they came to an understanding. It was hard to imagine his father ever doing such a thing.
It said much about the state of his familial relations that Max rarely went to the ducal seat, but he’d been brought up much like an automaton without love or affection, save from old family retainers such as the nurse and the head groom, with whom he had spent most of his time until he went away to school. Then he’d relished the camaraderie of his friends, whom he was still close to.
His mother had been born and bred to be a duchess, and she thought of nothing but duty and connections. He had seen her twice a year as a child, and even then, he’d only been brought out for her inspection.
His father, on the other hand, was not a stern creature, but allowed himself to be swayed and directed by the Duchess and his steward. He made time for Max when requested, but would much rather be with his hounds and horses than people.
Knowing the Duchess was in London, Max directed his valet to pack for a fortnight in Derbyshire. The ride and distance from the Duchess, and females of marriageable age, would be most welcome.
A long, hard two days’ ride eased some of his anger with his mother. City had turned into countryside, then as he’d neared Ashbourne, the gentle climb towards the peaks alleviated the rest.
As he approached Davenmere from the village, he felt detached, even though he’d grown up there and knew it would one day be his. He knew he needed to marry to carry on the ducalline. He might not be attached to the house, but even he had pride in the family name.
As he thought, surveying the pride of the ducal name, he wanted what his mother looked down her aquiline nose at. He wanted to fill the estate with warmth and laughter and affection. A wife. Children. Then he might feel what he ought.
When he thought of who he could share that with, it was not Vivienne Cunningham’s innocent blue eyes and angelic face that came to mind. One thing he could say for her was that she was not cold. However, she did not warm his blood as Hope Whitford did—yet would it be fair to Miss Whitford to ask her to be his duchess? It was not an easy task, especially when one had not been brought up to it, and it was a very public position. Max cared little for that, but he could not shield her from it entirely.
But he didn’t want to think about marriage at the moment. His mother had put such a distasteful flavour for it into his mouth, and he feared it would throw a dark cloud over any arrangement he wished to make that was not with Vivienne Cunningham. The Duchess had proved her ruthlessness time and time again, and with this latest stunt of trying to announce the betrothal, he feared his ability to properly court anyone else would be doomed to failure.
He urged Romulus forward down the hill to the stables and left the large, bay gelding with the grooms.
“My lord!” Gilford exclaimed with unaccustomed surprise as Max entered the house. “We were not expecting you.”
“Am I unwelcome, then?” Max was taken aback.
“Of course not, my lord. I will have everything readied for you.”
“Where is my father? I did not see him in the stables or the kennel.”
“I believe he is resting in his chambers, my lord.”
Max frowned. When had his father ever rested in the afternoon? He turned away and walked towards the stairs that led to the family apartments. He climbed slowly and thoughtfully up the plush burgundy carpets, and past the walls lined with portraits of pompous-looking ancestors wearing their court regalia.
