Page 46 of Her Notorious Rake
“Do you think she’ll accept your suit?”
“That’s what I came to speak with you about. On my way out, I ran into Lord Neville, and it set me thinking.”
“Dalton thinking! Nothing good ever comes fromthat.”
Dalton waved his hand, trying and failing not to laugh. But the next moment, he lowered his tone, heart sinking. What if Theodore agreed with him, that it would be in Gemma’s best interest to step back for Lord Neville to freely court her?
It would sting, but he’d accept it. He needed to.
“My reputation is not what it should be. And Gemma—Gemma is…” he exhaled slowly. “Gemma is everything. She deserves only happiness, and I am the bearer of grief. I am troubled, and I drink more than I ought. And my past would only haunt us, would it not?”
Theodore was silent for a long moment. At last, he drew in a deep breath, rising and leaning one arm against the mantle as he studied the flames. A frown settled on his brow. Dalton held his breath, tapping his fingers on his knee faster and faster.
Finally, Theodore raised his head, peering at Dalton curiously. “Grief is what set you on your path of destruction. But you’ve let it hold you captive long enough. It is time you seek happiness. And it is evident you desire to better yourself. You may still be a true gentleman yet.”
Dalton chuckled sadly. “But isn’t it too late for such a turn?”
“That is for your choosing. And your choosing alone.”
“Not very enlightening of you,” Dalton grumbled.
“Ah, yes. I am your source of enlightenment, your conscience. Aren’t I?”
“So it would seem.” Theodore returned to the settee across from Dalton’s, and seated himself on it, leaning forward. “What do you believe your father would tell you?”
Dalton rubbed his hands over his face. Why did he feel weary all of a sudden? A bone-deep weariness that for a moment gave him a glimpse into what it must be like for Mother, lost in her melancholia. “He would tell me that I am the master of my own ship, that I must always strive to do better.”
“There’s your answer.”
“Gemma is an angel, full of this eagerness, this hope. And me, I’m a cynic. A jaded cynic who is lost at sea.”
“A cynic who sees the light,” Theodore corrected him, grinning.
“Am I an utter fool? Is this folly?”
“It could be, if it weren’t evident that Gemma and you are star-crossed.”
Dalton groaned, laughing. “I didn’t know you were capable of sentiment.”
The two men continued chuckling for a little while, until Dalton rose at last. “I’d best return home to check on my mother. She has been in poor spirits again.”
“For that I am sorry. Pay her my respects, will you?”
***
Dalton found his mother dozing in the greenhouse, in a cushioned chair with blankets draped over her lap. She roused when he approached, pushing aside some of the hothouse flower leaves to sit down in the chair across from hers.
“You’ve been gone nearly all day, and poor Ernest has been worried sick. Why do you insist on tormenting him so?”
“Tormenting,” Dalton clenched his teeth. But he swallowed down his harsh words about Uncle Ernest, focusing on his mother instead. “How do you fare today?” He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek and she smiled sadly.
“Oh, I am weary, as usual. I tried to read the scandal sheets that were sent out this afternoon, but I can’t seem to stay awake. The physician gave me a new variation of his tonic, and it makes me rather languid.”
Dalton frowned, leaning over to pick up the small brown glass bottle on the table beside his mother’s chair. It didn’t have a label on it or anything to indicate its contents. With a frown, he decided he’d consult the physician about this tonic. Whatever it was, it wasn’t helping much with Mother’s melancholies.
“Dalton!”
He nearly dropped the bottle when his uncle’s voice rang out sharply through the peaceful greenhouse. Setting the bottle down carefully, he rose, balling his hands into fists. “Uncle.” He bowed and started to exit the room through a back entrance that opened onto the gardens and hedge maze.
