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“How astute of you.” David pulled at his collar again, wondering if he should find another valet.
An angry sniff came from behind him. David didn’t wish to alienate Aunt Pen. She was the only real family he had left.
A small bit of the wound he carried inside him tore open. The damn thing had never completely healed.
“Aunt Pen, I do appreciate all you’ve done. I know you aren’t happy with my decision to wed Beatrice, but she is a good choice for Granby. There are benefits for both parties. I anticipate our union will be highly successful.”
Aunt Pen’s fingers pressed into the back of the sofa cushions, her knuckles going white. “You soundverymuch like your father, touting breeding and business arrangements.” There was an odd note to her words. “Horace would be very pleased with the son he raised.”
“He would have been thrilled at the choice of Beatrice.” David had earned Horace’s displeasure any number of times; the last time had, of course, been the worst. “And my father would have approved of the duke I have become.”
“A dead man’s approval,” Aunt Pen said under her breath.
The pads of David’s fingers slid along the glass. “If there is something you would say, Aunt, by all means, enlighten me.”
“Only that you have a narrow view of the world, nephew. I bid you to remember there are often many versions of the same story, none of which are usually the entire truth.”
David took another swallow, allowing the scotch to burn down his throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Aunt Pen liked to speak in riddles, doing so at the most inopportune times.
“Well.” She cleared her throat. “Much as I’ve enjoyed our discussion, there is much to oversee before the arrival of our guests. Owens has been invaluable.” At David’s look, she said, “Your butler.”
“I know who he is.” David had thought his butler’s name was Bowen. Close enough. Besides, he rarely addressed the man directly, so he doubted it mattered.
“We’ll have a few more guests than I anticipated so I’ve asked that additional rooms be readied. Lady Richardson is bringing her cousins. Two of them. I neglected to inform you earlier.”
David didn’t care who was going to be sleeping in his guest rooms; he couldn’t even recall who Lady Richardson was, so he certainly didn’t care about her cousins. “The more the merrier.”
“We will be slightly unbalanced at the dinner table.”
David wasn’t sure what Aunt Pen expected him to do about it. “Invite Estwood, then. I’m sure he’ll be happy to drink my liquor and eat my food. I believe he’s in London.”
Silence from Aunt Pen. She surely didn’t care to invite Harrison Estwood, because his attendance was bound to ruffle some feathers. Horace haddetestedEstwood, likening him to a parasite.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
The sound of his aunt’s footsteps met his ears before the door shut behind her, and he was finally left in peace.
His eyes lifted again to the painting, appreciating the careful brushstrokes of the artist. Art was something David enjoyed. Like a beautiful woman or a fine glass of brandy. Beauty was what had drawn Horace to David’s mother, Emelia Jones. Emelia had been a baronet’s daughter. Not up to Horace’s standards, but he had pursued her anyway, completely disregarding his own misgivings, so struck he was by her looks. It was only after they were married that Horace found out Emelia’s origins were much farther beneath his own than he’d originally thought. Emelia’s grandfather had been a farmer.
Your mother’s breeding showed itself in her behavior. I raised her up. But in the end, she chose to return to the dirt from which she came.
Emelia fled when David was nine, leaving him to be raised in the coldness of The Barrow with Horace his only companion. The scandal of a duchess abandoning her duke for a common soldier had been enormous. Emelia had never come back. Not once. Hiding with her soldier. To this day, David still had no idea where she was.
As a result, his father drank. Demanded. Instructed. Any respect or scrap of affection from Horace had to be earned. Even now, the desire to please Horace lingered even though his father was several years in the grave.
Thetonhad spoken of his mother for years. How a lowly baronet’s daughter had brought down the arrogant Duke of Granby, leaving him for a man of no wealth or renown. The taunts had followed David to school. Even now, there was always someone whispering at him from behind a fan or gloved hand. Hehatedhis mother for what she’d done to his father. To him.
There was no defense Emelia could give which would allow him to forgive her.
