“Is the cake not sitting well?” she asked, her hand hovering over the toast rack.
“No, ’tis fine.” He waved it off. “I am frustrated and feel like a clump of muddy straw. You say I need a purpose, but I cannot even piece enough thoughts together to fathom what one might be. Then I look around and you—without all the privileges I had—accomplished all this. What is wrong with me? I fail at everything. Even life. You should have just left me. I don’t know what Mrs. Dove-Lyon was thinking.”
She frowned. “I dislike entitled young men wallowing in self-pity. However, I’m trying to suspend my disgust to understand where this came from. How did you end up like this? What happened to you?”
“Yes, yes, the poor little earl’s son. I simply cannot seem to do anything right.” For the first time, he wished for one success, one right to brag. To impress this self-made woman who he found so attractive. It wasn’t the best reason to want to improve, but perhaps it could be a start, especially if she helped him.
“Says who?”
“My father.”
“What of your mother?”
“My mother died when I was twelve,” he said, his lips twisting at the memory. Her absence had changed everything.
“When was the last time you succeeded at something?”
His brows raised at the barrage of questions becoming ever more probing. Apparently, they were both abandoning society rules on conversation topics this morning. And perhaps the lovely and skilled Isabella had some small desire to help him, beyond her commitment to the Black Widow.
“I don’t know,” he replied after a moment of thought. “All I know is that my father decided it was best for me to attend boarding school after my mother’s death. I begged and pleaded to stay with him, as it meant I’d lose everything and everyone familiar to me. But off I went. Then my marks were never high enough, I’d not learned enough of sports or music,I didn’t measure up to ‘The Earl’s’”—he made quotes with his fingers—“expectations. Thankfully, I met William and Folly there. They are my biggest fans, and more recently, my biggest supporters... saviors...” He trailed off.
“Were you happy before your mother died?” Isabella pursued her line of inquiry.
Mama’s picnics came to mind on the rare days that were both warm and sunny. She managed to coax his father out with them more often than not. They’d spend hours identifying plants and flowers, remaining still to watch for wildlife in the woods, or any number of adventures she thought up. His father had always been a disciplinarian, but when he was with Mama he softened—or rather, she softened him. “Oh, yes. Mama spent a lot of time with me and was very encouraging. The Earl was too, back then.”
“Perhaps,” Isabella mulled, “your father was struggling with your mother’s absence as much as you were.”
“Then why would he send his one remaining family member away?”
“I don’t know. Have you asked him that?”
“The Earl does not discuss emotions,” he scoffed.
“You won’t know unless you try. Even if he does not lead with them, he might be willing to talk about it if his only son asks.”
“It is too late now. He doesn’t yet know I dropped out of Oxford. He’ll be in the boughs when he discovers that. I believe I’ve surpassed the line of forgivable offense. Not to mention my gaming debts.” He shook his head, his belly churning as it did every time he thought of his pater, exacerbating his craving for spirits. “Please, enough about my deficiencies for now. My head and stomach cannot take it.”
“Fine. I expect you to walk the garden for at least a quarter hour this morning. I shall check in with you later,” Isabella said as she rose, presumably to get on with her purposeful day, leaving him to flounder.
After another pot of tea and the abandonment of the topic of his father, his head cleared, and his stomach seemed to like the ginger cake. As upright felt acceptable, he decided to walk while he could.
A servant had put shoes out for him in his room and he slipped them on, glad he’d worn trousers despite not knowing he’d be outside that day. The autumn weather was not fit for breeches, and he had embraced the new trend of full-length trousers for all occasions he could.
Stepping into the small well-manicured back garden, he strolled the rectangular path. He started slow but after a few laps quickened his pace. The fresh air cleared more of the cobwebs from his head, allowing him to ponder his future.
If he could maintain sobriety, come Christmas he supposed he’d have to face a difficult conversation with his father. He scowled. There was no way he was going to ask his father why he sent his son away. Doing so would show weakness, a quality The Earl abhorred. But he supposed he should start learning the earldom.
His thoughts snagged on Isabella. He owed her an apology. She had her own reasons for helping him, of course, but that didn’t give him the right to ransack her house for sherry. He didn’t even like sherry!
Refreshing his memory on the proper way to beg forgiveness, he recited the elements under his breath as he went to find his hostess.
“Penitence, identifying cause, act of contrition. Penitence . . .”
Luke was forcedto wait until the evening meal to attempt his apology, as Isabella had a visitor in her back parlor.
He trudged upstairs and hid in his room to take a nap. A simple walk shouldn’t have left him this feeble, but he needed the rest.
Sitting at the same spot next to her place at the head of the table, he jumped right in, all thoughts of exchanging pleasantries forgotten. “Isabella—”
