“It isn’t as though nobody could keep an eye on them. I saw them,” Callum said quickly, springing to Harriet’s defence. His mother made a disapproving moue.
“That is hardly decorous. Anyone could have seen them and noticed how improperly they behaved,” she added. “No, I have entertained that horde of provincial nobodies for long enough. I shall require that they leave immediately.”
“It’s cold,” Callum said tightly. “You cannot make them leave in this cold.” It was a winter’s night. Miss Rothwell would suffer on the coach ride, and what if there were no inn for them to stay at? He recalled how she had suffered in the cold, how she had shivered that day when she fell in the snow, falling into his arms.
“It will be just as cold tomorrow,” his mother began, but she saw Callum’s expression and her posture softened. “I shall require that they depart the manor before breakfast in the morning.”
Callum turned away. “As you see fit, Mother,” he said tightly. “I have been wrong in every respect—I begin to wonder if I know anything at all.”
Callum kept looking at the fireplace. He heard the door open and he heard feet in the hallway and he did not turn around. Whatever his mother did, he would simply allow her to do it. Hedid not trust himself anymore. He had made one choice without any contribution from anyone, and it had proved to be pure foolishness.
He could not believe it. He could not believe that her sweet smile, her care, her gentleness—that it had all been a ruse, a game. He could not allow the weight of that betrayal.
He stood up and went to the door. It would only be an hour before the guests flooded in to relax after the performances. He absolutely did not want to be there. He could not bear the house party, the playful afternoon games, the festivities. He stalked to his bedchamber and shut the door. It was darker in there, the lamp burning low, the fire red embers in the grate. He leaned back and shut his eyes.
Wild plans raced through his mind. He would run away and bestow the manor on his uncle. There was a relative in Ireland—his mother’s uncle. Perhaps he could escape the dukedom, the responsibilities, and the pain that weighed on him.
“Don’t be a fool,” he told himself harshly as he stood up to unfasten his cravat. He opened his wardrobe, took out a thick greatcoat and tugged it on. The horses could do with a visit, and that was the one place where he could find solace and be able to think clearly. As he walked down the stairs, thoughts of Miss Rothwell cannoned into him and he pushed them away with a groan. He could not let himself think of that. Not anymore. He had to think ahead and decide whether to remain the duke and follow his mother’s orders or run away and seek his fortune somewhere abroad. He could not stay and hope that he had, again, been mistaken. However much he might wish to. He had to do something befitting a duke. It seemed he had done so little of that.
Chapter 25
“Papa,” Rosalyn whispered, her hands tight where they gripped together, fingers threaded stiffly through each other, “I do not know what to do.”
“Sweetling, it doesn’t matter,” her father said gently. “Whatever he might think, the duke needed us, but we do not need him.” He reached a soothing hand out.
“But, Papa, it is not about the horses,” Rosalyn whispered. Tears ran down her cheeks. She barely understood it herself. A few weeks before, she would have been relieved if the duke had decided as he had. Standing in an anteroom with Papa, the fire low in the grate, she could not find words. “It is not just about the horses.”
“I know.” Her father breathed out. “Sweetling, I understand. You like the fellow. More than like him, I know. I know how it feels.” He reached for her hand again, and when she placed her palm against his, he drew her into an embrace. He smelled of dust, with a faint undertone of leather, and she wrapped her arms around him.
“It’s just...I do not understand. My sisters overhead him say something, and then it seems as though he never said it at all. And now, because of that foul man and his unwanted embrace, now...”
“I know, sweetling.” Her father let out a sigh. He gazed into her eyes. “But you are still so inexperienced. There are countless opportunities ahead of you. You need not cry.”
Rosalyn shook her head, biting her lip. She understood what her father could see of the situation—that she was young, and her heart would soon mend. But it was not that simple. Even though she had never really met any other men, she knew that the duke was different, that he mattered to her, that heconnected with her in ways that nobody else ever had before. She trusted him.
A knock on the door made her jump. Her father tensed, then relaxed.
“Who is it?” he called.
“It’s me,” Sebastian’s voice called through the wood. “May I come in?”
Her father looked at her, and Rosalyn nodded. He cleared his throat.
“Yes, you may come inside.”
Sebastian’s head peered round the half-open door, another man standing beside him. Rosalyn tensed. It was Lord Winbrook. She turned away, her heart thudding. She did not wish to see his face. The memory of his embrace still nauseated her. She heard her father take a deep breath.
“Lord Winbrook. What do you mean by coming here?” His voice was cold as the snow.
“My lord,” Lord Winbrook said politely. “I came to apologise. I did not intend to compromise your daughter’s reputation. I also wish to offer amends, if I may?”
“I do not know that I can accept an apology from you.” Papa’s voice remained cold. “What amends do you propose to make?”
Lord Winbrook’s voice was grave as he replied. “Since I have tarnished your fair daughter’s reputation so, I can think of only one solution. I ought to give myself to her in marriage.”
Rosalyn’s jaw dropped. She turned to her father, terror making it impossible to speak. He could not do it. He must not. Marriage to that man would be repellant. Unbearable.
“Papa...” she whispered urgently. But her father was already replying.
