“You may go,” he said.
Anderson reached for the ledger.
“Leave the book with me.”
“Your Grace? The household accounts remain here, naturally. But the estate books have always been stored in my office.” He hesitated a beat. “At Rose Cottage.”
“I am aware how my father arranged things. I, however—”
“If you keep the ledger, how am I to record receipts?” Andersoninterrupted, twisting his hands.
“Keep notes.” Harbury sat up. “Or come here and make your entries. But I intend to take a closer look at the records, and I intend to do so at my leisure. So please leave the ledger. And have the documents mentioned in the Lady Day audit delivered to me as well.”
“Is His Grace certain?”
Harbury rose from his chair.
Anderson’s tone, and his mulish, annoyed, distrustful expression called to mind a different confrontation over this same desk. Only Harbury had been standing where Anderson stood now, and Harbury’s father was the one occupying the seat of authority.
I asked you to come up with a hypothetical plan should prices take a precipitous fall. This drivel is what you suggest? Have you no understanding of how to lead?
His father had then made a disgusted sound.
I cannot prevent you from taking my place. God help me, I wish I could.
Harbury leaned forward, steadying himself by placing both fists on the blotter’s smooth surface. In his mind, he heard clattering. He remembered his father had dropped the seal he’d been holding and transferred his grasp to his right arm. Then his father had crumpled. In seconds, he’d been dead.
Harbury glanced down.
The numbers in the book swam across the page, seeming to undulate. He might be sick again, just as he had been that day.
Hecouldn’tbe sick.
His father had died a long time ago. And whether his father would like it or not—whetherheliked it or not—he was now duke. Harbury Hall, Harbury Hall’s tenantsandsteward…they were all under his care.
And his command.
The responsibility was enormous. He had to be sensible. He had to be strategic. He had to shove his memories firmly back where theybelonged, deep in the past. And he had to ignore the deep-seated fear of inadequacy that sprang up whenever he remembered his father’s final moments.
“Harbury?” The kindly query startled him.
He couldn’t place the voice until the lady stepped forward. Cassandra Wainwright.No.Cassandra, Duchess of Harbury.
He met her gaze. Did his eyes appear as raw as they felt? Likely, because her expression softened. For the first time since they’d wed, he recognized the woman whose proposal he’d accepted.
She touched his arm and lifted her brows, smiling a gentle smile as if encouraging him to speak. Her gaze exuded comfort. He took solace in her implied concern.
He cleared his throat. “Good morning, my dear.”
If she was as startled by the endearment as he was, she didn’t let the discomfiture show.
“Anderson, we are finished,” he said without looking at the man. “For now. I will send for you when I have need.”
Anderson neither moved nor replied.
Harbury faced him. “You may go.”
Anderson stared for a moment, then frowned as if confused, shook his head and blinked. An awkward pause followed before he finally spoke.
