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Nora nudged Jo’s arm as they stood side by side facing the stream. She was immeasurably glad to have this one ally. “I will.”
“I wish Mother hadn’t died,” Jo said quietly, her gaze directed at the water, her mouth turned down at the corners.
Nora put her arm around Jo’s shoulders. “I wish that too, but at least we have each other.”
Jo turned a warm smile toward her sister. “We do, and we always will. Even if you aren’t anxious about London, I am. I don’t want to see you hurt again.”
Nora appreciated Jo’s concern more than she could know. She let go of Jo and squatted down to pick up another rock. “It’s unlikely anything like that would happen again—I’ve quite learned my lesson.” She tossed the rock into the stream.
Jo clapped her hand over her mouth. When she dropped it, she said, “You shouldn’t tempt fate like that.”
No, she shouldn’t, but it seemed Nora didn’t know any other way.
Titus St. John, fifth Duke of Kendal, sat alone in his private dining chamber at Brooks’s, the way he always did when he had to be in town. It was one of the few public activities he allowed himself, not that it was remotely public. Muted harmonies of laughter and conversation drifted to his ears whenever a footman opened the door to bring him his meal or replenish his whisky. He didn’t find the sounds inviting. No, he found them largely grating, which some, who had known him in his youth, would find odd. He’d once been drawn to such conviviality like a bird to a bright, fragrant flower.
As a young buck and the Marquess of Ravenglass before his father’s death, he’d taken advantage of everything his title and wealth could offer. He’d gambled. He’d spent exorbitant sums. He’d developed a ghastly reputation as a rake. He’d enjoyed himself immensely until a series of events had knocked him completely and irrevocably off his self-constructed pedestal. Since then, he’d turned his back on all the things that had once defined him.
“Your Grace?”
Titus looked up at the footman who’d entered and saw his stepfather moving over the threshold beside him. “Good evening, Satterfield.”
“Evening, Kendal.” The earl nodded, his nearly bald head shining in the lamplight. “Your mother sends her best.”
His stepmother, but really the only mother he’d ever known. Titus had been just five when she’d married his father, and she’d cared for Titus as if he’d been her own. She’d wed Satterfield nearly seven years ago, after a more than suitable two-year mourning period following Titus’s father’s death.
The footman poured a glass of whisky and handed it to Satterfield, then left.
Satterfield joined Titus near the fireplace, taking the chair opposite him. “Your mother also wanted me to harass you about coming to tea tomorrow, but I’m not going to do that.”
Titus arched a brow at him over his whisky glass. “You just did.”
“Imentionedit. This will save me great heartache with her as I can honestly say we discussed it. Wives are a complicated business.” He gave Titus a meaningful glance that likely tried to communicate,You’d know this if you were married.
Titus’s unwed state was the sole source of strife between him and his stepmother. Every time she wrote to him or saw him in person, she asked when he planned to take a wife. It was an obligatory conversation, one he was certain would take place tomorrow if he went to tea.
“Did she ask you to harass me about marriage too?”
Satterfield chuckled. “No. In fact, I think she’s finally accepted your unmarried state. She’s hiring a companion.”
Titus leaned forward slightly. “Indeed? When did she decide this?”
“One of her friends suggested it recently—something, rather someone, to keep her occupied.”
“Isn’t that why she married you?” Titus asked drily. One of the things his stepmother always told him was that if he took a wife, he wouldn’t be lonely anymore. Except Titus wasn’t lonely; he was alone. They were not the same thing.
“There are certain activities I won’t do, even under threat of torture, such as shopping.” Satterfield shuddered. “Your mother adores shopping. Yes, she goes with friends, but a companion will be ever ready, you see.”
Titus did see, and was quite pleased with this development. With a companion to manage, she would leave Titus alone when it came to marriage prospects. Splendid. He picked up his whisky. “Tell her I’ll be at the tea.”
The door opened swiftly and banged backward against the wall. A young chap, his cravat askew, stumbled inside. “This Fitzpatrick’s room?” he slurred.
Titus took in the buck’s disheveled hair and flushed cheeks and judged him thoroughly sotted. “No.”
A second man, a few years older than the first, appeared behind the young man. He clasped the younger man’s shoulder, his eyes narrowed and disapproving as he dragged him back over the threshold. “Christ, Lyndhurst, that’s Kendal’s room,” he hissed. He glanced apologetically at Titus and muttered, “Sorry, Your Grace.”
Titus nodded. “Do close the door behind you.”
“Of course.” The man, the Marquess of Axbridge, Titus believed, all but shoved the drunken Lyndhurst from the room, then closed the door as quietly as possible.
