Page 47 of Her Notorious Rake
But his uncle stepped in his path before he could take more than a few steps. “Where did you go this morning? I needed to speak with you!” Uncle Ernest demanded, eyes flashing.
“Something urgent required me,” Dalton replied, unable to keep the disdain from his voice.
“Dalton, Ernest, please don’t quarrel,” Mother called to them pleadingly.
“Well, I’ve been slighted by my own nephew. This hardly inspires any sort of familial affection, now don’t you think, Adelaide?”
“Don’t speak to her like that,” Dalton whispered, clenching his teeth.
Uncle Ernest turned purple. “Youwill show your uncle some respect for once in your life.”
“And what have you done to deserve it?” Dalton stepped close to him, itching to grab him by the shirt front, march him to the street, and throw him out. And tell him to take his cloying niece with him.
“Deserve! You ask what I’ve done to—I’ve merely been managing your late father’s estate, picking up the pieces of what he managed poorly—”
Dalton stared. “Get out,” he at last managed to whisper, shaking. “Get out.”
Mother began to weep. “Stop it, please!” she cried. “I can’t bear it.” She covered her face in her hands, and Ernest called for her lady’s maid. “Help Lady Blakemore to bed, will you?” he grunted when the girl arrived. Dalton could scarcely breathe still.
He walked over to the Greenhouse window, staring out at the gardens as he tried to return his breathing to normal. He hated to upset mother, to be the cause of her grief. But Uncle Ernest drove him mad. His gall to say such a thing about Father…
It would not be tolerated.
Couldn’t Mother see that Uncle Ernest was a leech? A parasite?
And he had just disrespected Father, in the very house Father passed in…the house he had taken great care to provide to Mother. In Ernest Blakemore’s estimation, Father had been wasting the family assets on Mother, on this home.
He could vaguely recall an argument about it between Father and Uncle Ernest. Though it was so long ago, he wasn’t sure if he’d just been imagining it. Yet, it did seem like something his uncle would make a fuss over. As it was, he’d been struggling to exact his will over the estate, much to Dalton’s chagrin and growing irritation.
Mother insisted it was out of good-will only, though Daltonwas not so sure.
“You,” Uncle Ernest wheezed behind him, “You will not banish me from this house. Do you understand?”
Dalton didn’t reply. Instead, he strode from the greenhouse, letting the door shut behind him loudly, and in long strides walked to the far edges of the hedge-maze, where he stopped to pace back and forth. He did not want to make his family the center of ridicule and histrionics.
He’d done enough damage to the Blakemore name as it was. But to come to an open rift with his uncle would be to cast himself out of London society. After all, Dalton would be eschewed by now if his uncle didn’t remain in good standing with the rest of the Ton. Despite the Blakemore wealth and prestige, his reputation as a determined rake hardly recommended him.
Yet, did it matter? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he did not wish to distress his mother more.
He inhaled deeply several times to steady his racing pulse, and sank onto a nearby bench. That sense of suffocation rose in him, like a fist around his throat, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the panic to ebb. It took a while, but at last he stood and found his way back inside
Mother did not appear for dinner that night, and it was a strained meal. No one spoke, not even Celeste, who tended to chatter when there was a tense silence. Thankfully, this evening she remained quiet, glancing between Dalton and Uncle Ernest several times, a crease between her brows. At dessert, she at last asked him, “There is to be a soiree at Lady Neville’s home, forGemma Hayesworth, evidently. Are you thinking of attending with uncle and me?”
Dalton blinked, trying to clear his head. “When would it be?”
“Tomorrow evening, I believe.”
“For Miss Hayesworth?”
“Rather telling, isn’t it? The man is besotted with the creature, though I can’t imagine why. She’s so quiet, and rather bookish I hear?”
“Oh?” Dalton smiled at his plate.
Down the table, Uncle Ernest sniffed but remained stubbornly close-lipped. “What good could possibly come from a girl who reads books?”
“I read, Uncle!” Celeste cried.
“I don’t mean the scandal papers.” Uncle Ernest sloshed some brandy into his glass and took a long draught of it. “Or novels.” And he gulped down the glassful.
