From his chair by the bookshelf, the older man laid down his book and waited. As if he knew something was wrong. Something more than another fight.
Maybe that’s why Felton was here. He should have come in the first place. Why had he ridden into the village like some sort of mindless, reckless fool?
He’d told himself he was going to find Bowles. Anything to distract from the grief. But instead he’d found that ugly redhead Miss Haverfield was always casting her eyes upon. All the man did was speak a few spiteful, jealous words—and next thing Felton knew, he was beating down on the freckled face.
“Who this time?”
“Scrope something. I don’t know.”
“The gentleman from Oxford?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm. Taking to fisticuffs with gentlemen now, I see? For one who wishes to restore his good name, you do much to sully it.”
“I did not ask for lectures.” Felton wiped the rest of the blood from his lip and wadded the towel. “I merely wished to get cleaned up before I returned home.”
“You might as well stay for dinner.”
“I cannot.”
“More duties to attend to?”
“Yes. More duties.”
The viscount nodded, picked up his book again, and resumed reading.
Felton couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t obey him. He wanted to walk out of this library, with its deep colors and warm smell and familiar silence, and bear his grief as a solitary man.
But he couldn’t. He stayed, squeezing his hands around the bloody towel.
“What is it, Northwood?” Lord Gillingham spoke without looking up. His voice was deep again. Because he knew. He always knew.
“Hugh is dead.”
“When?”
“The letter came today.”
Silence, but it was soothing. Like something cool and soft over something hot and blistered. Wasn’t that always the way of it when he came here?
“Sit down, Northwood.”
He took the seat opposite Lord Gillingham, leaned forward, and faced him. “Mamma wants to die. This is going to—it is going to kill her.”
“She may be stronger than you think.”
“Or weaker.”
“And your papa. How will he manage?”
“As he manages everything else. Pretending it does not exist, talking of anything else, throwing himself into cares of little consequence. But if he loses Mamma too …” The sentence died away unfinished. A knot swelled in his throat.
Lord Gillingham nodded. “You bear many worries upon shoulders so young, Northwood.”
“I can handle them.”
“Yes, Northwood, I think you can. For though they be young, they are strong shoulders indeed. You know why?”
