Page 37 of Her Notorious Rake
Self-loathing filled him, making his stomach turn. How could he be such a fool? Gemma might be drawn to him, but it would not be in her best interest. And yet, the idea of Neville and her?
It was perplexing, how his soul revolted at such a notion.
He needed a stiff drink. A good one. But in his thoughts as he boarded the coach taking him out to drink, he grimaced at the thought of visiting one of those salons where courtesans would vie for his attention, strutting like colorful birds.
At last the boat reached Westminster where everyone deboarded, stepping onto the carriage. Several times throughout the coach ride back to Blakemore Manor, Dalton turned from the window to find Uncle Ernest studying him, his small eyes cold and shrewd.
Each time Dalton offered him a stiff smile in return. Celeste’s sniffling filled the silent carriage.What is she so distraught about?
As the carriage rolled through the darkened streets of London, Dalton reminded himself that he was playing a dangerous game with Miss Hayesworth. He was rapidly coming to realize that perhaps all this time he had been searching for her in those hazy nights he couldn’t even remember any longer. He was tired of returning home, his head foggy, an empty voidyawning inside him. He did not want to face the self-reproach that gnawed at his soul after nights like this.
He hurried up the front steps of the manor and headed towards his mother’s wing. He expected her to be asleep already, but instead, he discovered her standing in the window of her bedroom which overlooked the gardens, a candle clutched in her thin hands. She turned when she heard the bedroom door creak open, and extended an arm, entreating him to come closer. “My son,” she sighed, smiling sadly.
Dalton’s heart ached. What had happened to the mother he’d grown up with? The mother who had once been so full of life, so vital?
As he came to a stop before her, she reached out, clasping his hand in her cold one. “How were the gardens?” she murmured, something wistful in her eyes.
“Rather crowded,” Dalton leaned forward, kissing her on the cheek. When he drew back, he found tears in her eyes. She reached up, running the pad of her thumb over the dark circles under his eyes.
“Oh, my boy. You find little joy these days.”
“I worry for you, Mother.” A lump formed in his throat.
“Don’t, please. I will be in better spirits one of these days. Those tonics given by the physician, he just needed to adjust the dosage.”
“Mother, perhaps we should take a trip to the sea. Jut you and I.”
“I told you, I wish to remain here, in society. And Celeste—”
“But it would lift your spirits so. And your health—your old physician always instructed visits to the sea, before—”
“That was before your father passed. A sterner course needed to be taken. And Ernest was so kind to recommend this physician. I should hate to wound him by returning to Doctor Jensen.”
Dalton closed his eyes, nodding. Mother would not be swayed about this, that much was evident. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek, before bidding her goodnight. “Rest well, Mother.”
“And you. You seem wearied by this evening.”
“I will be better after a good night’s sleep.” Dalton returned to her bedroom doorway before he paused, considering. A part of him longed to share his burgeoning feelings for Gemma Hayesworth with his mother, get her advice about the whole matter. But at the same time, he worried she would mention it to Uncle Ernest. And he did not wish for any sort of battle with the man. Especially not now. His patience with the man was short as it was. But should Uncle Ernest speak to him again of Gemma, or utter her name in that pompous voice of his…
Dalton lifted his hand in farewell, but Mother had already turned back to gaze out the window. So, he slipped out without another word, and in the hall, he leaned back against the wall in the dark corridor.
A soft humming started up, his mother singing to herself. He listened for a few minutes, a flare of anger starting in his chest towards his father. For dying, leaving Mother and him. Mother had always been a delicate soul, and Father’s passing…it was heartbreaking for her. Deeply.
***
Ernest found his niece pouting in her bedroom, in a big chair by the window. She’d been in a petulant mood all evening, since he’d roundly scolded her for her pitiful attempts to charm her cousin Dalton.
She had protested his chastisements. “Uncle, he is smitten by Miss Hayesworth. I’m doing everything in my power, but it is evident that he will not be moved. Didn’t you see him this evening at the Pavilion, cutting in to steal her away from LordNeville?”
Ernest’s anger had sparked. “Of course I saw that,” he spat. “How could anyone miss it? The lad is out of control. But Philippa Kenway knows of his reputation, and will have none of it. That is where you have a keen advantage, my dear. Do not forget that, I beg you.”
“What advantage could I possibly have when I am not Gemma Hayesworth?”
“Gemma Hayesworth this, Gemma Hayesworth that—I am sick hearing that name,” Ernest had exploded. His mood had only worsened when the boy vanished for a good half-hour following that ridiculous dance. And then, Gemma Hayesworth had disappeared as well. And Ernest knew, in his soul, that they must have fled to the privacy of the Vauxhall wilderness. His blood had boiled. And it was still boiling, as he approached Celeste. She lifted her head, noting his expression, and recoiled slightly, eyes widened.
He loomed over her, heart pounding. “Do you wish to live on the streets? To be a wench pleading for two-pence on the corner? I paid for your finishing school and I have been paying ever since your father-my cousin- fell sick and died, for heaven’s sake. And what do you have to show for it?”
Celeste’s blue eyes flooded with tears again as she shrank back into the couch on which she sat. “Uncle! How can you be so cruel to me?”
