While he cared very little for what society at large thought he ought to do, his housekeeper, Mrs. Barnes, had slightly more influence. She had been with the family since before he was born, and had taken a more active interest in him than his own parents had ever done. Though that wouldn’t have been hard.
“Very well, Your Grace,” Chivers replied and backed out of the room.
Opening the letter without any real joy or anticipation, Nathaniel saw what he expected to see in the usual sprawl of seven-year-old Lilian’s handwriting. It was essentially two pages of demands and accusations, and even reading it made him feel exhausted and worthless.
Lilian wanted a new pony, a white one. She was angry that he was always in London. She could swim perfectly well but wasn’t allowed to cross the lake unless he was there, and he never was, so that was his fault. Her governess had told her to write morerespectfully to her father, but Lilian didn’t see why she should if he didn’t care. On, and on, and on…
Had he or Patrick ever written to their parents like that? Nathaniel doubted it. He couldn’t remember ever caring enough to bother. They certainly wouldn’t have troubled themselves to read his letters, let alone reply. So why did Lilian write to him so frequently?
A pang of guilt throbbed briefly through his veins. She had written because she wanted him to write back, and he would have to do so, even though he had no idea what she wanted to hear. Perhaps he would ask Mrs. Barnes what he ought to write to the child. She seemed to know better than him, although she also believed he should find the words himself.
How many times had he tried and failed to write some fatherly letter back to Lilian? It pained him again to think of his stilted phrasing, crossings out, and the amount of wasted paper screwed up and thrown in the fireplace. Lilian could not know this, of course. She would see only the absence of a reply from her father. Nathaniel supposed no reply was better than an ill-formed attempt.
Lilian’s pale, cross little face flashed through his mind. Were all seven-year-olds like her, or had he chosen the wrong nursemaids and governesses after her mother’s death? How could he know?
All I know is that I am ill-fitted to be a father. And less so a husband.
His first attempt at marriage had not been a great success, despite its promising beginning. Nathaniel had chosen a busy, energetic, and very attractive wife who seemed eager to manage his household, delight in their time together in the bedchamber, and otherwise leave him to his own devices. Unfortunately, fate had conspired against them, and Victoria died of childbed fever when Lilian was only a few days old.
Greyhaven Park was dedicated to raising his daughter, and he saw her there whenever he visited, which he realized he had not done very often lately. Lilian might have a point in some of her complaints.
“Haven’t I done enough?” he asked himself, rising and going naked to the window, even though the curtains were open and the gardeners were at work outside.
It was clearly not enough for Lilian, as evidenced by her letters.
With another sigh, he folded up his daughter’s latest note and set it on his nightstand. He was an inadequate father, as his own father had been, and perhaps his father before him. What was he supposed to do about it?
He knew that most people would say he should just remarry and give the child a mother to care for her. However, he could not bear another tiring round of dances, parties, and being paraded by eager mothers and their talented but dull daughters, dressed in their finest silks and ribbons like ponies at a show—each different, yet all essentially the same.
If he hadn’t met his charming buffet thief, he would have considered last night a total failure. The puzzle and beauty of her gave him some comfort for what was otherwise wasted time. He planned to spend today riding, swimming, and indulging his fantasies about all the things he wanted to do with that outspoken young woman with eyes so dark, sweet, and yet impudent.
Unfortunately, a second double rapping on the door told him that the butler had returned.
“I’m naked in here, Chivers,” Nathaniel warned loudly, hoping to deter the man from whatever errand he had come on this time.
“There is a lady here to see you, Your Grace,” Chivers informed him, this time remaining safely on the other side of the door. “What would you like me to do with her?”
A lady? Surely not Lady Mountingdon. Nathaniel really could do without more demands for affection he could not give and nonsense about fainting. Or maybe it was Primrose, come with another invitation to yet another unwanted social event that Patrick might insist they attend.
But if it were either of those ladies, why would Chivers not have said so?
“Who is she?” Nathaniel called back with a frown, tempted to have his staff claim he was not home and send her away, whoever she might be.
“I cannot say, Your Grace. She will not give her name but says that it is most urgent.”
“What does she look like, then?” Nathaniel asked impatiently.
“She is a short young lady with golden-brown curly hair and dark eyes,” Chivers answered. “She said you met yesterday at Mildenhall House. She is wearing?—”
“Show her into my study,” Nathaniel ordered immediately, going to his wardrobe and taking out a shirt and trousers at random.
There was presently only one woman in the world he wanted to see, and it seemed she had come straight to his door.
CHAPTER 7
“Good morning, lovely stranger. I did not expect to see you again so soon, and certainly not here.”
Getting up from the leather armchair, Cecily blinked as the Duke of Greyhaven strolled into the study where the butler had shown her a few minutes ago.
