“But your brother—”
“Can hardly evict you once you have settled in. Removing his own mother from the property would be more of a scandal than his weak-livered constitution could handle.”
Honora’s lips twisted. “He has turned out to be quite the twit, has he not?”
“And you were always the most formidable of us all. He will not cross you.”
“You truly think so? I thought it was your father?”
Clara shook her head. “Papa anchored us, but you were the one who faced the world. Or theton. Which was the tougher stance, I’m sure.”
“You have no idea.”
Clara returned her cup to the tray. “Let us go to your office. We have plans to make.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday, 7 November 1825
Ashton Park, near the River Kennet
Half-past three in the afternoon
Michael stood inthe doorway and watched his mother use a cane and the help of a footman to settle into a wingback chair near the fire in the main receiving room of Ashton Park. She motioned for the footman to bring a small stool closer, so that her legs did not dangle, which made Michael smile. His mother’s lack of height had long been a subject of teasing in a household where all the men were taller than six feet. Even Beth had a full head of height over their mother. But Emalyn took the humor in style, and footstools and short ladders littered both houses—Emalyn let few obstacles stand in her way for long.
Michael had to admire her fortitude. On July 17, she had a hemorrhagic apoplexy, and the doctors had given her little hope of a full recovery—or even much use of her left side.
But they did not know his mother. As a girl, Emalyn Benjumeda, the daughter of an Andalusian wine merchant, had fallen in love with a young marquess—not a recipe for success in England. But the two of them had been so determined to be together that they had changed the history of both families. Her stubbornness was the fodder for legends. Within a month after her attack, she had been able to feed herself again with her right hand and move around her bedchamber with a cane and the help of her husband.
Now, just over three months later, she could maneuver mostly on her own, and her husband no longer had to carry her about the house, although he still did much of the time. Much of her speech had returned, except for a lingering lisp—all her soft S’s had acquired an H—and the occasional dropped letter. She had come to Ashton Park to organize preparations for the Ashton Park Christmas celebration. Multiple parties and gatherings would lead up to the pinnacle event, the Christmas Eve Ball, and a great deal had to be done before the first guests arrived exactly a month from today.
Michael planned to spend much of his time in the stables.
The Ashton Park butler arrived with a tea service, which he laid out on a table near the duchess’s chair. He made the tea and handed Emalyn her cup, which she grasped carefully in her right hand. Her left hand remained in her lap. She peered at Michael over the rim, then glanced at the chair next to her. “Come. Shit.”
The butler flinched and Michael pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. He crossed the room but declined the offer of tea with a wave. He eased into the chair, which was soft, and warm from its proximity to the fire. Comforting, like the rest of the plush and feminine décor in the room. The primary colors of yellow and blue reflected the winter sun streaming through the tall windows. “Mother?”
“Yesh?”
“I sincerely advise you to avoid using the word ‘sit’ in polite company for the near future. Especially as a command.”
She cackled, almost jostling tea from her cup. “Prude. How was your hunt?”
He straightened. “I saw Lady Clara Durham.”
Emalyn stilled. “Where?”
“The northeast fields. Near the boundary with Beckcott. Her falcon had strayed over our property. She came looking for it.”
“Did you shpeak to her?”
He shook his head. “No. We were too distant. She looked... wild.”
Emalyn took another sip, watching him closely. “How sho?”
“Her hair was loose. And short. She rode astride. And bareback.” He closed his eyes against the vision—the wild goddess who had once owned his heart. And apparently still did. “Like nothing I had ever seen.”
“Clara always went her own way.”
