Page 43 of Falling Into Bed with a Duke
“Where did you get it anyway?”
“My brother. I’m fairly certain Rexton meets his mistress there. You saw him, didn’t you?”
“I can’t say.”
Grace made a moue of displeasure. “All these secrets. I don’t think any good is going to come of all this.”
“Will you still love me if I go through with it?”
“Of course, but if he suspects, why not confirm the truth of your identity and see how things go?”
“I don’t expect you to understand the beating that one’s esteem takes after six years of watching others fall in love or make good matches that aren’t based solely on their dowry. I want a man who looks at me the way my father looks at my mother, the way Lovingdon looks at you. As though no one else was as important, was as treasured. My brother would die for you.”
“He almost did. But in the end, he lived for me, and that’s so much better, Minerva. Do you like Ashebury?”
“Very much.”
“I’ve never known you to be a shrinking violet. If you want him, go after him.” She smiled brightly. “That’s how I got Lovingdon. I’d wager money onyou.”
“I wouldn’t wager much. The odds are against me. He could have anyone. But at least I know he fancies my legs.”
ASHE stood on the top step staring at the dark mahogany door that opened into his parents’ residence. It was silly to refer to it as such. They’d not crossed the threshold in twenty years.
With a sigh, he unlocked the door, released the latch, and gave the wood a hard shove. The hinges creaked and moaned as the widening gap revealed the entryway. Stepping over the threshold, Ashe closed the door behind him, sealing himself in with the memories.
Dust motes danced through the soft light filtering in through the mullioned windows on either side of the door. The air sat heavy, reeking of must and disuse. The silence was thick, a residence abandoned, unloved, unwanted.
It had been his mother’s pride and joy, a symbol of his father’s wealth and station. Even at eight, Ashe had understood the statement made by this exquisite building. Now every piece of furniture was shrouded in white, giving things a ghostly appearance.
His footsteps echoed over the black marble as he approached the stairs. As though he needed the support, when he stopped, he wrapped his hand around the newel post and stared at the sixth step up, the one upon which he’d been standing when he’d seen his parents for the last time, the one from which he’d shouted that he hated them and hoped they never came back.
The pain of remembrance was a sharp jab at the bottom of his breastbone. He imagined he could still hear the hateful words echoing through the entryway, bouncing off the walls and frescoed ceiling. Only they’d followed his parents out, circling about them. Sadness had been in his mother’s blue eyes when she glanced back over her shoulder, before his father ushered her out. What had his mother thought of him at that moment? Probably what he now thought of himself.
Pampered heir, spoiled brat, despicable child.
Those had certainly been his nanny’s words as she’d dragged him back to the day nursery.
He should sell the house, everything in it. Only that course felt like defeat. He was a man now, strong enough to face the past, to deal with it, to move on. This place represented part of his heritage, his history.
He should be grateful that everything he didn’t want to remember had occurred here rather than at the ancestral estate. Although it seemed odd now to think of them as being in London in November. His scoff disturbed the silence. What did it matter after all these years?
It didn’t. With a length to his stride and a quickness to his pace as though he could escape the demons of recollection and regret, he strode into the parlor and was greeted by white sheets covered in a fine layer of dust. It was here in the afternoons that he would be presented to his mother so he could tell her about his day. His time in the park, his riding lessons, his tutoring curriculum. He could still hear the tutor’s proclamation that he was not a bright lad, see the disappointment in his mother’s eyes. But he was bright enough to know that the numbers didn’t behave. When he tried to explain how they played tricks, she would give her attention to the birds fluttering about beyond the window. So he learned to hold his tongue in order not to disillusion her, not to lose her affection.
She would be sorely dissatisfied with him now, in his inability to properly oversee what had been placed in his keeping. So would his father. What he remembered most about the previous duke was his stiffness, the manner in which he could walk while hardly moving any portion of his body, the way he would arch a brow in censure. Ashe had always dreaded when the brow went up. It was usually followed with the words, “Find me a switch.”
He remembered the bite of it against his bare backside and upper legs. Still, for all the coldness and rigidity of his parents, he’d felt unmoored when word came that they were dead. He’d screamed, and wept, and promised to be good if only they’d come back.
But the best behavior in the world couldn’t undo what had been done.
As much as he fought it, his mind traveled to the last time he’d been in this room, standing vigil over his parents’ coffin. So little of them remained that they’d been encased together. Or so he’d been told. He’d sat stoic and silent while mourners paid their last respects. Too young, too numb to truly understand everything that transpired, all the ramifications, he’d been left an orphan, alone in the world, with no close family. Those who had introduced themselves as relatives were unfamiliar. He’d never again seen a single one of them after the burial. No one checked up on him to ensure he was well cared for. No one penned a letter to see how he was getting on. No one inquired as to his health, his safety, his well-being. No one gave a bloody damn.
The morose thoughts threatened to consume him. It was the reason that he’d not taken up residence here. It wasn’t a place of happy memories. Yes, he should sell it.
But he knew he wouldn’t.
IT was a lovely day for a stroll through the park. Minerva was grateful that when Lord John Simpson, brother to the Duke of Kittingham, had called on her, he had suggested they go out. It was a lovelier way to spend the time than sitting in the parlor, where her thoughts bombarded her with doubts. She hadn’t yet decided what to do about meeting Ashebury tonight. If she weren’t drawn to him, she would have no decision to make, but after last night, she found she wanted to experience all that he had to offer. While he might have suspicions regarding her identity, he didn’t know for certain. She rather liked his not knowing for certain.
“—you see.”
