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“You do not appear to have indulged in spirits this time,” she mused. “Although I cannot say if it is better if you came home drunk or with a bruise on your cheek.”
“Mother.” Daniel did his best impression of being a regal Duke, but he should have known better than to go up against a Dowager Duchess.
His mother merely crossed her arms and regarded him coolly. “Do not trythattone on me Daniel Theodore Bolt!”
He knew she was serious when she used his full name like that.
“Mother, it is well past midnight,” he attempted at reasoning with her. “Can this not wait until morning?”
“Oh. So, youcantell the time!”
The sarcasm in her tone was not lost on Daniel, and he decided that it was better to humor his mother at this ungodly hour than indulge in a battle he would most likely lose anyway. With a heavy sigh, he stepped down, dragging his heels like an errant schoolboy.
His mother smiled triumphantly before calmly turning to the salon where a cheery fire was crackling in the fireplace. There were even refreshments set on the table as if it was four in the afternoon and not the dead of the night.
Joyce Bolt had been waiting for him for quite some time.
“Mother, it is rather late. You really should not have stayed up.”
Her reply was to roll her eyes cheekily at him. It was so childish and so uncharacteristic of her usual gentle elegance that Daniel found himself both surprised and amused.
“I am notthatold, Daniel,” she pointed out wryly, “and I have stayed up later.”
Waiting for Father, he remembered angrily.
“But it has been a long time,” he told her softly. “It has been years—”
“Since your father died?” she supplied. She smiled and nibbled on a bit of pastry, her features so serene there was hardly a ripple of negative emotion. “And yet, his shadow hangs over you still, doesn’t it?”
He frowned at his mother’s words. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, my dear boy,” she sighed, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “It has been very hard for you all these years. But you truly must let your anger and your hatred of your father go. Otherwise, his ghost will continue to haunt you all your life.”
If there was anything that Daniel disliked more than Gregory Pratt, that was his own sire, the very cause for his mother’s sadness. On most days, he wanted nothing to do with the man, but he was saddled with his title and his grand estates although most of them were left in disrepair when Daniel inherited them.
For his mother’s sake, he had toiled to bring back the glory of the estates of the Duke of Gilleton, if only because Joyce Bolt deserved it as the Dowager Duchess.
“How can you not hate him?” he asked her softly. “He has hurt you so badly. His own mistresses even humiliated you in the past.”
She smiled sadly at him. “I used to think the same way when I was younger. I thought that if I was a better wife, if I fought back, if I did this and that…” she trailed off, waving her hand in the air with a bland expression. “But there was no way I could change your father, and it was not my job to. When I realized that, I found peace within myself.”
“You cannot possibly just—”
“Ah…but I did,” she smiled at him. “It was not easy, but I did manage.”
He peered at his mother and found her staring into the fireplace with a serene smile. It was not the carefully practiced smile she wore when she was the Duchess of Gilleton—no, she looked like she truly was at peace, like the ghosts of the past no longer touched her.
“My only wish was that our mistake—his and mine—would not affect you,” she said simply. She glanced at him. “But it seems that your Father continues to haunt you, Daniel.”
He clenched his hands into fists as he stared stonily into the fireplace. “I…do not wish to be like him. But everyday…everyday, I look into the mirror, and I seehim.”
How many times had his peers and those of his father remarked how he looked so much like his sire? To Daniel, it was the farthest thing from a compliment.
“He was a handsome devil, wasn’t he?” his mother laughed softly. “No wonder I was so taken with him as were all the other ladies. But Daniel, you are nothing like your father.”
“How can you say that?” he asked her hoarsely, his features betraying the torment he felt inside.
“Because you live in fear of becoming like him,” the Dowager Duchess told him simply. “Because you intentionally live your life in a way that he never would.” She reached out and cupped his face. “Can you not see? You are far more capable of love than your father ever was. You arenothinglike him.”
