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30
David’s coach, a sleek black conveyance that was exceedingly well-sprung, rolled to a stop before a small, tidy cottage two days’ ride from London. The cottage sat isolated at the edge of a glen outside a tiny village David wasn’t even sure merited a spot on a map. It was as good a place as any to hide from a vindictive duke, especially one known for his cruelty, who might very well kill you if you were found.
David pushed aside the thought of Horace.
But he was unable to push away the distaste rising up inside him. He couldn’t help it. Most of Horace was gone, but not all of him.
He sucked in his breath. The letter Aunt Pen had given him to read from Emelia Warburton, now Kinkaid, had been one of many. Knowing Horace wouldn’t have allowed her to correspond with David and not wishing to give away her location, Emelia had sent the letters to Aunt Pen instead. Dozens of them, even after Aunt Pen had been banned from visiting The Barrow.
Even after reading his mother’s words, knowing what she’d suffered during her marriage to his father, the resentment refused to abate. A hardened bitterness lay bundled up inside him so deep, David wondered if it could ever be dug out.
Aunt Pen had wanted to come, but David had refused. Her need to coddle him had become annoying.
The only person he wanted as he sat, waiting to face his past, was Andromeda.
His hand immediately went to his coat pocket where the butterfly clip rested, a talisman he carried everywhere. He would tell her everything when they were on speaking terms. Then he meant to keep Andromeda naked in his bed for several days. And marry her, of course. Though David wasn’t sure which he’d do first.
Two chickens came from around the side of the cottage followed by a tall, lanky boy of about sixteen. Large feet kicked up the dust in a pair of boots that had seen much better days. The lad was whistling. It sounded like the same improper tune that had spilled from Andromeda’s lips when he’d found her by the stream.
David took it as a sign.
The lad stopped abruptly, finally looking up and taking notice of the coach, mouth popping open before he dashed into the cottage.
A low hiss escaped him. The boy was obviously thebastard.
A familiar flash of disgust unraveled inside, but David successfully pushed it away. It was difficult to ignore the attitudes he’d been raised with, but it was not impossible. Hewastrying. Still, the jealousy David felt at the sight of his brother was not as easily dismissed. Renwick, that was the mongrel’s name—
David inhaled sharply, the control he maintained on his emotions once more firmly in place.
An older woman appeared at the door of the cottage, dressed plainly, with an apron around her waist. She stared dumbly at the coach, waving away the comforting hand Renwick placed on her shoulder, though he continued to hover protectively behind her.
Ren. She refers to him in her letters as Ren.
His mother wiped her hands on the apron around her waist, hands visibly trembling, as she nervously regarded the vehicle sitting in her yard. There was no mistaking the crest on his coach. And Aunt Pen had told her Horace had died nearly five years ago.
David hadn’t written her. His thoughts couldn’t translate into coherent written words.
The footman flung open the coach door, bowing as David stepped out.
“Thank you, Miller.”
If the footman, dressed in the finest Granby livery, was surprised David knew his name, he was too well-trained to show it.
“Jones,” he said, addressing the driver, “we passed a tavern on the way. Why don’t you, Miller, and—” He struggled for the other footman’s name, a lad not much older than the by-blow—
Stop. This was why he’d come here first. He couldn’t run the risk of insulting Andromeda’s bastard brother over dinner one night. She would hate David for it.
“Beets,” the young footman supplied.
“Yes.” David nodded with a sigh. He had a footman named for a vegetable. This was why he’d never bothered to learn their names before. “It’s been a dusty ride up from London. Why don’t you take my trunks to the inn and have an ale?” He’d taken rooms at the village’s only inn, not knowing how long his stay would be. Or if he’d be welcome.Christ,he wasn’t sure he wanted to be here. It felt as if his skin was being peeled off with a blunt paring knife.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The coach rolled away as David and his mother stared at each other across the dust and chickens, neither of them speaking.
The dark hair David had inherited from her was gone, replaced with a mass of silver curls pulled back at the base of her neck. Emelia was still a striking woman. Beautiful, even, despite the hard life she’d led since leaving The Barrow. She and Kinkaid had this small farm and little else. In her letters to him, Emelia had expressed no regret over the life she’d chosen.
Except for leaving me.
