Page 44 of A Duke's Overlooked Spinster
“Mother!” Robert’s temper frayed. He pressed his hand to his lips, aware that his voice had been loud. He and his mother had been arguing in hushed tones, trying hard not to awaken Henry and his nursemaid who slept in the room adjoining the parlor. Robert tensed. His mother winced too.
“Son, admit it. You did an idiotic thing. You have compromised your reputation, and quite possibly mine as well. Heaven alone knows who that silly girl will tell. You can’t imagine that she won’t boast about something like that. She’ll be spreading the news around London like a fishmonger selling his wares.”
“Mother!” Rage as hot as the flames raced through Robert and his hand made a fist at his side. “Miss Brooke is not like that. Why on earth would she boast about something that would compromise her reputation even worse than it would mine?”That was all that concerned him—that Miss Brooke could be harmed by what he had done, if anyone chose to speak about it.
“Because she has no reputation to compromise!” his mother hissed back. “What do you think I have been trying to tell you? She is nobody. A scandalous wretch who turned up here by some sort of oversight. She does not belong in this company. She is a hoyden, son. A...”
“Shut your mouth!” Robert hissed.
His mother gaped at him and Robert recoiled, shock hitting him like a fist. He loved his mother despite her overbearing manner, in spite of her spiteful tongue and cruel words. He would never usually speak to her like that, and he instantly regretted it. But she had pushed him beyond what he could accept. He drew a breath to apologize, even as she rounded on him, but before he could say anything, the door creaked open.
“Papa?” Henry, his face pale with a mix of fear and sleepiness, his hair messy from having been asleep, stumbled over the threshold, looking up at his father fearfully. “What’s happening? I can’t sleep.”
“Shh, son,” Robert said gently. He bent down so that he could look into the boy’s eyes, folding his legs under him so that he could reach out and hug his son. The boy’s arms fastened tight around him, his skinny body cold in the chilly room. He was wearing a long nightshirt that reached his ankles, his feet bare on the cold floorboards. “Come. Let’s get you to bed. Did you have a bad dream?” he asked, stroking the little boy’s head.
“I woke up. I heard something. Are there bad people here?” Henry asked quietly.
“No. No, son. No bad people.” Robert glanced at his mother, who had turned her back and was gazing in the other direction where a curtain was drawn back from the window. “You must have just heard the servants. They’re busy tidying the ballroom,” he suggested.
“Is it that late?” Henry asked with a yawn. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
Robert sighed and ruffled the boy’s hair, then picked him up and carried him towards the other room. “I am going to go to bed now, Henry,” he said gently. “I just came up. I was at the ball until it concluded.”
“Was it a good ball?”
Robert smiled, unable to conceal his delight at the innocent question. “It was a wonderful ball, son. Truly wonderful.” Whatever his mother had said, she could not taint or touch the beauty of the moment with Miss Brooke, and Henry’s innocent enthusiasm rekindled that joy. The kiss had been remarkable, warming him within and expressing all the tenderness and wonder that he had been feeling in her presence for so much time.
“Good,” Henry said sleepily. “A story?” he asked as his father carried him into the other room and tucked him into his child-sized bed. Mrs. Wellman had evidently fallen asleep in the chair by the fire, fully dressed, because she stood up when they entered, her face a picture of concern.
“Is all well, Your Grace? I shall sit with him,” she added as Robert settled down in the chair beside the boy’s bedside.
“It’s all well,” he said gently. She looked worried and confused, and he supposed that was not so strange—after all, having her employer in the room in full ball dress after midnight must have seemed more than a little awkward to her. He sighed and leaned back in the chair. “Just a few minutes. Just so that he can settle.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mrs. Wellman said respectfully.
Robert nodded a brief thanks and took Henry’s hand. The little boy was leaning back on the pillows. His face was pale, and he looked a little strained and Robert hoped that he had not heard any of the arguing that had been going on in the room before he entered.
“Once upon a time,” Robert began, trying to think of a story. He did not remember any children’s tales, and he tended to tell brief, silly stories about his hunting experiences, usually about the hunting dogs. They made Henry laugh. “Once upon a time, there was a big horse,” he began. “His name was Russet because that was what color he was. And he was very, very big. Nobody could ride him.”
“Why not?”
“Because nobody was that big,” Robert explained. Henry laughed, as he had hoped he would. His grip on Robert’s hand was still tight and Robert strained to think of something else to make the boy laugh.
“Miss Brooke drew me a big horse,” Henry said sleepily. “I’ll ride him someday.”
“I’m sure you will, son,” Robert said, his voice tight. “I’m sure you will.”
He went on, making up a story about the big hunting stallion and a very small jockey who managed to ride him. Henry drifted off to sleep as he talked, and before he had managed to reach the end of the story, the little boy was breathing regularly and deeply, his face relaxed, his hand unfurled in Robert’s own.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Wellman whispered as Robert walked as silently as he could to the door. “I am sorry I did not hear him wake.”
“There is nothing to apologise for,” Robert said softly. “Now, we should all have some rest.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Wellman agreed and stifled a yawn. She was very pale, and he could see how tired she was, too. He thanked her again and walked through the door and into the parlor area.
The fire was low in the grate. His mother was not there. She had evidently retired to bed, and he sank down wearily into the chair near the fire. He was exhausted. Somehow, though, theargument with his mother had made it impossible to think of rest. His mind was racing, working hard. He threw a log from the small pile beside the grate onto the fire, and reached for a poker, stirring the blaze to life. He watched the flames, watching them waver and move and twine together, casting orange light on the floor and walls. He stared into them, reliving the conversation outside and the moment when his lips touched Miss Brooke’s.
It was beautiful. It is one of the things I will remember forever.The sweet kiss, the way she had gazed up into his eyes, the softness of her body against him. It had been so beautiful. So tender and wondrous.
