“Watch yourself.”
Kenneth merely shrugged then. “Deny it all you like. But you made a new beginning for yourself, old friend. You’re married. You have a chance now to put it all behind you.All of it.Don’t let your past interfere with the life you’ve built for yourself now.”
Benedict closed his eyes, taking a slow, shaky breath as he rubbed his hand over his brow.
“I only care for my son,” he said, his voice hard, firm, and final. He looked his friend dead in the eye, the whiskey burning a clear path down his throat. “And that’s all.”
After a few more drinks and quiet conversation, Benedict climbed into the carriage and knocked sharply on the roof with a clenched fist.
“Ealdwick, and quickly,” he commanded the driver through the small hatch.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” the driver called sluggishly, clearly waking up from a catnap.
The carriage lurched, and the heavy wheels began to roll over the uneven dirt track in the dark.
Benedict sank into the plush, velvet cushions, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The ale and the whiskey, combined with the late hour, had settled into a dull ache behind his eyes. He was impossibly rattled, but even more tired.
Don’t let your past interfere with the life you’ve built for yourself now.
Kenneth’s parting words, delivered with infuriating calm and a knowing smile, had been the final blow.
He had a good life. A safe life. A manor, an estate, a title, a son, and now, a wife. All the requisite pieces of respectability were painstakingly collected and arranged.
Unlike the legacy his father had thrown at him. Benedict had done it all for Oliver. He would not let the same fate befall his boy. Oliver would not need to trudge through such murky waters. The marriage to Isla, a woman who asked for nothing and expected less, was the last, most crucial block of the wall he had built around his son.
But it still irks me…
He leaned his head back against the leather, the whisky-induced heat starting to fade and replaced by a cold, sharp dread.
The carriage slowed, turning up the long drive. The silhouette of Ealdwick Manor loomed in the distance behind the luminous full moon and the ink black sky.
He knew she would be there. In his house, in the room adjoining his bedchamber.
The carriage stopped with a final, smooth jerk at the main entrance. Benedict took one more steadying breath, then shoved the heavy door open.
“Good night, Your Grace,” the driver said, touching his hat as he strolled out.
“Yes,” Benedict managed, his voice rough even to his own ears as he gave him a pouch of coins. “For your trouble at this hour. I know you have a young grandchild.”
“That is most kind, Your Grace! Thank you!”
Benedict didn’t look back. He strode toward the door, his boots as heavy as his heart as he went up the steps.
The grand hall was silent and dark, save for a single lamp left burning on a table near the grand staircase. The soft light cast long, shifting shadows that seemed to mock his agitated state.
He shucked off his greatcoat and tossed it onto a nearby chair. As he moved toward the staircase, a small noise drew his attention. Not from the floors above, but from the library, a room never used at that hour.
The door, usually closed, was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of warm light escaping from the gap. He hesitated, then walked toward it.
He reached the door and pushed it open just enough to see inside. He expected to find a drowsy footman banking the fire or perhaps a maid finishing some forgotten chore.
Instead, he saw Mrs. Callahan.
“Your Grace,” she murmured from a leather chair. “I heard you come in. I was just waiting for a moment of quiet before retiring for the evening.”
Benedict felt an unexpected wave of annoyance, his drink getting the better of him. “Waiting you say, Mrs. Callahan? You need not wait up for me. I am a grown man and Duke of this manor.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I just happened to be taking a moment to myself; I did not mean to indicate otherwise.”
