Page 1 of A Duke's Overlooked Spinster
Chapter 1
The dark eyes of the portrait stared into her own. Sarah gazed into them, her heart twisting with pain, sorrow, and anger at the man whose likeness stared back from the gilded frame. Her father, Ambrose Brooke, Baron Wakeford, was the subject of the portrait. His painted likeness stared haughtily at her just as he himself had eighteen months ago, when he was still alive. His eyes were so dark that they were almost black, matching his hair, which was streaked with gray. His gaunt, squarish face gazed down at her, aloof and cold.
Sarah ran a slim hand through her chestnut brown hair, tucking it behind one ear, a habit when she felt uncomfortable. It was hard to think of departing from Wakeford Hall. It was calm and peaceful at Wakeford, set in tranquil farmland and countryside. The manor stayed almost completely silent but for the coming and going of the staff. The only face—besides the butler and housekeeper—that Sarah saw daily was her father in the portrait. If she was no longer at Wakeford, she would not be able to come into the drawing room and see his picture.
“It will be strange,” she whispered to the painted likeness.
She blinked, closing her pale gray-blue eyes for a moment. She had cherished and harboured a certain bitterness towards her father in equal measure. He had been the center of her life, dominating her time for longer than she could remember. Mama had passed away before Sarah could remember and, as she grew up, Father had taken up more and more of her time; requiring her help with the accounts, with the solicitor, with his correspondence. He had not needed her help—she had known that even at the time. He had simply been afraid of being alone.
Her heart ached as she recalled, vividly and suddenly, the last time that she saw him.
***
Sarah’s gaze was riveted upon her father's countenance, which was beaded with perspiration and rendered a ghastly pallor. His dark eyes were wide, his thin mouth hard with the need not to express his pain.
“Sarah,” he whispered. “Are you there?”
“I am, Papa,” Sarah said gently. Mrs. Holford, the housekeeper, was also there, behind her somewhere near the door of the imposing, over-warm bedroom, but she knew that Father could not see Mrs. Holford because she was too far away, and she, too, forgot the woman’s presence instantly. “I am here.”
“Sarah...I feel strange. Weak.”
Sarah bit her lip and nodded. “It is all well, Papa. All shall be well.” She felt her heart twist again. The physician had said weeks ago that Papa was not long for the world. She and Mrs. Holford had nursed him as best they could, but they had both sensed a change in the last few days. He was too still, too at peace. They knew he was going to pass within the next few days.
“It’s dark, Sarah,” her father whispered.
“The lamps are lit, Papa,” Sarah replied, her throat tight. His eyes were wide, and she knew he was straining to see her. She reached out her hand. He gripped it, tightly, squeezing her fragile fingers.
“I feel strange,” he repeated. “Weary. Sarah, you are still there?” His voice was frightened, insistent.
“I am, Papa,” Sarah said gently. “I am still here. I will stay with you. I promise.”
Her father sighed, relaxing onto the pillow. “I know, sweetling,” he said softly. He rarely called her that. In the last months, with the illness, he had been short-tempered, flares ofirritation making him shout at everyone who came close, even Sarah. “You always have been here for me.”
Sarah bit her lip. She was four-and-twenty, long past the age where she could dream of Seasons and balls. Her father had allowed her a single Season for her debut into society, and then forbidden any more. It was not financial—Wakeford was a rich barony, and they could have afforded more seasons spent in the Metropolis. It was because Father could not bear to lose her.
“I will stay, Papa,” she promised, tears burning in her eyes.
“I know.” His grip on her hand loosened a little, his hand relaxing. “I think I will see Adelia soon.”
Sarah swallowed hard as she saw her father smile. Adelia was her mother’s name. She nodded, unable to speak.
“She is waiting for you, Papa.” She had no recollection of her mother’s face, but the portrait in the gallery showed a young woman with a long oval face and thick honey-colored hair. Her blue eyes were identical to Sarah’s, like her neat, full-lipped mouth and gentle chin. Her mother was there, somewhere, waiting on the other side of life for Papa to join her.
“Yes. Yes,” her father whispered. “I will go to her soon.”
Sarah nodded; unable to speak. She watched as her father leaned back on the pillows, his body seeming to relax. His hand was like ice. His eyes were closed, but then his grip tightened on hers and his eyes opened wide again.
“I should have...let you live your life, Sarah. I was unfair. I was wrong. I am...sorry, Sarah.” He gasped. He was barely able to speak.
Sarah tried to answer, but only a sob came out. She had been angry with her father, had silently resented his hold on her and his insistence that she be always by his side. But hearing him admit it, hearing him apologize, twisted her heart like a physical pain.
“No, Papa. It is all well. Save your strength,” she whispered. Tears ran down her face and she squeezed his hand.
“I am sorry, Sarah,” he whispered.
“I forgive you.”
Her father’s eyes widened, and he made a small, gasping sound. His body tensed, his hand on hers gripping, then letting go. He gasped again and was still.
