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“Since the Conquest and through Mother to the Kings of Wessex. Why not throw King Arthur into the legend too?” Edward replied insolently.
Duke Richard regarded his son with dark eyes blazing. The slap which caught Edward across the cheek set lights flashing before his eyes for a moment. Then a flare of anger such as he had never felt before. His hand went to the hilt of his sword before he could stop it, clenching the hilt hard. Edward gritted his teeth.
“I thought you would be proud. I was mistaken. I will take my leave before something is said, or done, that we cannot take back.”
Edward cringed at the memory, feeling a visceral sickness deep within at his arrogance and naivety. His father had been right. He cared not a jot for his King and country. The war had been a way of playing out boyhood fantasies and evading his duty. The family tree traced back to Normandy may have been embellished by previous generations of Boltons, but there was no doubt that the family had been in existence for centuries.
His flippant response would have cut his father more deeply than any sword. Once again the mantra came to him, this time whispered to the empty carriage as it pulled up before the house.
“Forgive me papa, for my callow youth. I did not know. I did not know.”
Edward waited for the footman to open the door before stepping down and striding for the entrance. The butler, Samson, stood awaiting his master’s instructions. A line of servants stood behind him, the battalion of Wrexham Manor. As was his custom when returning to Wrexham, Edward inspected the line, ensuring he gave nods and smiles to the staff as he passed. It was important to show appreciation, whether as an officer to enlisted men, or a Duke to his household.
“How go the preparations?” he asked briskly as he passed the line and headed inside.
The Hall of Wrexham Manor was rightly famous. The five-hundred-year-old oak floor shone with polish. The pale wood panels on the walls were hung with gilt-edged portraits of the Dukes of Wrexham. Before the red carpet of the main staircase stood two suits of armor, used by Duke Ramsay during the Wars of the Roses, when the Boltons had joined with Henry Tudor in his bid for the throne. Ramsay’s portrait hung, larger than the others, beneath the stained glass window above the stairs. Another ancestor whose reputation cast a long shadow in which Edward felt he stood firmly within.
“The Lady Olivia has taken personal charge in your absence and has everything well in hand, Your Grace,” Samson replied.
He was a tall, spare man in his sixties, with a beak of a nose. He was also as much a fixture at Wrexham as Ramsay’s armor.
“Excellent. Where is her Ladyship?” Edward inquired.
“She may be found in the Ladies Drawing Room, Your Grace.”
“Good. Have some lunch sent to me there. That will be all, Samson.”
The elderly servant inclined his head and silently withdrew. Edward strode briskly through the house to the Ladies' Drawing room, in the east wing, overlooking an enclosed rose garden. Olivia was sitting with her niece, Rebecca, in the window, taking tea. There was a resemblance between the two that Edward did not share. Olivia had the heart-shaped face of Edward’s mother, with blue eyes and light, sandy-colored hair. Rebecca was the mirror of her aunt. In fact, seeing them together like this, it struck Edward that Rebecca took after their aunt more than their mother.
“Ah, the wanderer returns. I trust your business in town went well?” Olivia asked, standing as Edward entered.
“Quite well…” Edward trailed off, realizing that his sister had not stood but stared resolutely out of the window. “Rebecca. Do I not deserve the common courtesy of acknowledgment that I have entered the room?”
Rebecca turned to regard him with cool eyes. “If I must.”
“Yes, you must,” Edward said, voice hardening.
She stood and then dropped into a deep curtsy. “My apologies, Your Grace,” she said in a bitter tone.
“What on earth has gotten into you?” Edward demanded. “The semblances of respect simply won’t do. I am Duke. I am head of this family. And even from my own sister, I am entitled to respect.”
“We had a visitor this morning, Edward,” Olivia said, carefully arranging her skirts as she sat.
Rebecca sat more forcefully, returning to her study of the rose garden through the window.
“And who was that?” Edward asked, taking a seat himself.
“Philip Grantley,” Olivia said with a blank face and carefully controlled voice.
“Ah. I did not realize he would be so keen. I wanted to tell you before you met him at the upcoming ball I had planned.”
“Planned? You cannot plan to dispose of me like you do cattle or sheep, Teddy,” Rebecca said.
Edward controlled the anger that ignited at the use of the diminutive version of his name. Only Alexandria had permission to use it. It was a relic of his youth, one in which nothing was taken seriously.
“Do not call me that,” he grated. “And as head of this family, it is both my right and my duty to find you a good husband.”
“Find me a husband? By heaven, it is the nineteenth century. Not the middle ages. We are not living in the days of Duke Ramsay any longer. In fact, we are not even living in the days of our father. You do not have the right to decide which man should have me,” Rebecca blazed, standing up and storming from the room. “I refuse him. I will not marry him!”
