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“Hmph, he'll slip up, give it time.” Janet's adoration for the negative epithet 'bastard' was quite well known, but the blonde had made it quite clear how sick she was of it being applied to her man, especially in her own house, and so they all knew not to utter it in regards to him. Not that the Viscountess would do so.
Chapter 8
A precious little smile on the young girl's face, bouncing about with her father's protective arms on either side of her as he held the reigns. Sure, those big cars that rich folks drove looked fancy, but so noisy! No, she much preferred the horsies. Emberglow carried on her casual gallop as a tiny arm reached out, pointing to a field that was the backyard of a big, lovely house nearby.
“Daddy, look! She likes to ride too!” The woman, older than even her own dad, seemed to soar through the air on the remarkable steed. Hair flowing behind her head as she leaned forth, commanding it expertly.
“Evidently so, she seems quite good at that.”
“Can we go that fast?”
“Heheh, we shouldn't be so tough on her, if she got hurt then how would we get around?”
“Aw...” her little arm went limp, coming to rest on her lap. “OH!” They could hear the distant neigh as some small creature in the grass, scarcely visible, ran off while the horse pitched back. The father looked to the horsewoman again, having just taken her eyes off her for but a moment. Amidst the hoofed sounds of Emberglow, they could still hear her shriek as she fell.
“Oh no...” the man spoke lowly, “bad fall.” She'd indeed hit the ground in rather an awkward manner, and the horse moved about slightly on its back hooves.
“AIEEEEE-!” she cried out, her horse having moved backwards in her direction. The father was slowing his horse then.
“Christ! Let’s see if she is–“ He cut himself off as they watched the equine fall back onto the Dowager Viscountess. The older woman did not move when the horse rolled and rose shakily to its feet. Wheeling the horse around to shield his daughter from the sight, he kicked Emberglow into motion, and set out to find a doctor as quickly as he could.
“Oh my God, oh my God, do you think she's alright?” Emma clutched the fair fabric of the Duke of Dawsbury's handsome suit. He drove intently along, the vehicle rumbling and shuddering more than she'd ever experienced before in it. A prominent trail of dust followed them as they headed right back for town from whence they'd came. They had scarcely even pulled off the main road onto her property before someone happened along to inform them of the news.
“I don't know...” he confessed, which didn't help, “... I certainly hope so.”
“Bloody 'it doesn't look good', what bloody good is that bloody bollocks worth?!” Her voice began to hollow as her eyes welled up, rocking angrily beside him as she spoke, her knuckles white on his outfit. “Oh, mother!” The tears and sobbing began to come in earnest.
“I'm giving her all she's got; we'll be there soon, baby. We'll be there in a jiffy.”
“In sh-rt or-r...” she wept terribly beside him her tears falling freely onto the dress he had bought her, onto the dress that, unbeknownst to her, her own mother had cried upon. She had on the luxurious necklace, the ring he'd given her, and they were to show her the new one he'd gotten her, on the 'correct' hand, on the 'correct' finger.
Instead of the terrible happiness and glee that she would be showered with from her stern yet dear mother, she wept harder than she had since her father's passing. A time that was coming to mind all too quickly, and his mention of 'jiffy' brought with it the memory of her mother helping her prepare for her date with him. 'Short order' the woman said, and she hadn't understood the more modern term of 'jiff', short for 'jiffy'. It was 'short order' that Emma attempted to say, only to be made incoherent from her tears.
“That horse, that damn horse. I'll have it shot! Oh mummy!”
“Shh, shhhhh...” he brought an arm up around her, as difficult as it already was to control the wheel at that speed. She needed comforting, and his arm flexed in his sleeve as he stared intently forward. The soothing sounds he attempted to make her were of no help, and he knew it, but he knew not what to say.
“I'll shoot it myself if you like. I've got a pair of dueling pistols, we could give it a proper volley.” Still she wept as the vehicle noisily rumbled along, and aside from a mention of the road having a distinct lack of ants that day, no more a
ttempts at jokes were made.
The Dowager Viscountess was dead. Declared such only moments before their speedy arrival, though had lost consciousness on the way to the hospital herself, consciousness that she would never again regain. Emma cried all that day, and had spent at least an hour at her mum's side, and the Duke stayed at her side the entire time save for when he went to get her a glass of water. The nurse had told her, if she wished to hold her mother's hand, which she eventually did, to hold her left one.
Declan eventually drove her home to let the morticians do their duty. On the way, his own mansion a bit closer to the town than her home, he told one of his servants to gather some supplies, including a few bottles of good wine, and ride to her address. It gave the two time to focus on grieving, meals prepared by the faithful fellow who arrived at her place not long after they did. He stayed with her throughout the night, remaining decent even as the second bottle was uncorked. The servant got a guest room once the duke and his lady had retired for the night.
“Mmh...” he gave a light grunt as he stirred, eyes slowly opening as they sensed light from beyond the eyelids.
“'Morning...” his grieving fiancee gave, rather emotionlessly, and even as a bit of a grunt as well.
“G-... morning.” It would be a mistake to call it 'good', so corrected himself. “Sorry.” He held her from behind, spooning her closely, warmly, however having gotten an erection during his sleep as he so often did, it had been twitching and prodding at her rear. His hips scooted back, but still he hugged her from behind, one arm beneath her pillow to further support her head and the other wrapped around her waist just beneath her bra-clad bosom. He wore his underwear as well.
“No. Please...” she whined. “I... I want you to be close. It has nothing to do with the, um, but...”
“I understand.” He kissed her bare shoulder, scooting forth again, and as inappropriate as it was, he enjoyed the sensation of his erection against her. Silence befell them, grief thick in the air. Her clock ticked quietly on her nightstand, pleasant paintings on her walls, various beauty products lined up before a nearby mirror. He wished to talk, to ask her things, perhaps talking about memories of her mother would help, but he resigned to silence, thinking that perhaps that was the best thing.
It was her first morning without parents, both of them gone and yet at such a young age. The debts of her father had thus been transferred from her mother to herself, but of course money was something that was far from her mind. Minutes ticked by, maybe an hour, maybe two. A knock at the door, his servant's kind voice penetrating the barrier asking if they would like breakfast. She shook her head. He was hungry, but called out that they didn't want any yet, however thanked the man none the less.
Emma began to shudder in front of him before long, a couple sniffles coming.
