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Thinking of the late Duke of Gilleton, Gregory felt an intense hatred rushing through his veins. As a child, he had watched his own father drink himself to a drunken stupor every night ever since he learned that his own duplicitous wife had been bedding the old Duke. When his father could no longer bear it, he had called Frederick Bolt out on a duel even though he never knew which end of the pistol to point.
Father was a fool, he thought miserably to himself, thinking of how his father became a shell of himself after that duel. The old Duke had not even granted him a swift death but allowed his father to linger for two more years, wasting away until death finally claimed him, his frail body unable to withstand the ravages of alcohol.
And his own mother? She merely wore widow’s weeds for what would be deemed an acceptable amount of time before falling over herself to rush to her lover’s bed.
“As if he would ever make her his Duchess,” Gregory laughed to himself, thinking of the selfish woman who had given birth to him.
In the end, his mother had died a mere Dowager Viscountess, surviving on a pitiful allowance, courtesy of her son. Gregory would never dream of giving her more than her due, and until her death, she had railed against him, calling him an ingrate as she wallowed in genteel poverty in one of the rural residences.
As for the Frederick Bolt, the eighth Duke of Gilleton, that old rogue had ruined his entire family, but before Gregory could take his revenge, he had the temerity to cock up his toes anddie.
Very well, he could take his revenge on the son, instead.
After all, the late Duke might have toyed with countless women and destroyed numerous families, but there was nothing he loved more than his only son. Gregory would make sure that Daniel Bolt would live a miserable life while his sire looked on from the grave.
“We will have our revenge soon, Father,” he murmured, closing his eyes and leaning back into the chair. “And I will get a wife out of it, too. Don’t you think that is a rather fine deal?”
Soon, he would have Lady Emily Montgomery in his own bed, under his own body. He would have sons with her—as many as she could handle—while Daniel Bolt looked on.
“We shall see how long he can maintain that façade of his,” he sneered. “Who would have thought that stuffy, self-righteous prick would actually fall in love? And that they would both play into my hands?”
He stood up, still laughing to himself as he made his way to his bed, thinking how Emily would soon be joining him in it. Willing or not, he did not care—it was her duty as a wife to submit to him.
He had no doubt that it would be a sleepless night for the Montgomery household as well as His Grace, the Duke of Gilleton. As for himself, Gregory smiled widely, his dark eyes gleaming as he doused the candles.
Tonight, I must sleep well. The old Marquess of Rutbridge will inform me soon enough of his decision.
As long as the Duke of Gilleton held on to his beliefs, Emily would be his.
I must sleep well,he happily thought to himself.I must look the part of an excited groom when old Rutbridge hands his own daughter over to me!
CHAPTER15
“Is His Grace already awake?”
At nearly five decades of age, Joyce Bolton, the Dowager Duchess of Gilleton, still kept a trim figure, her voice soft and elegant with its cultured tones as she addressed the passing maid.
“I’m afraid not, Yer Grace,” the maid responded politely, bobbing in a curtsy.
The Duchess frowned delicately and turned her blue gaze towards the suite of rooms down the hall. More than anyone else, she was aware of her son’s habits. Even if he was kept up late at night, he had never missed having breakfast with her.
This was precisely how she found herself heading steadily to his rooms to see if something was amiss.
The only time he missed breaking the fast with me was that time he was dreadfully ill five years ago,she recalled.And even then, he had tried his very best to make it.
He had ended up sending his valet to tell her that he would be taking his meals in his rooms that day to avoid the possibility of her catching his illnesses.
The Dowager Duchess mirthfully remembered that her son, the powerful Duke of Gilleton, had caught a cold that year from working too hard.
And yet, he had acted as if he was dying of some frightful malady,she thought to herself with a slight chuckle. Little boys might grow up to be powerful men, but in the face of a simple cold, they would revert to their ill-tempered selves.
Just as she was about to leave and head back to the dining hall, she came across his valet, Percy.
“Good morning, Percy,” she greeted him cordially.
The valet bowed politely and greeted her back, “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“I was just on my way to see the Duke, but it seems he is still abed,” she sighed with a helpless smile. “He has not been up all night working, has he?”
