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Chapter Fourteen
A stage where every man must play a part, and mine a sadone.
—Shakespeare,The Merchant of Venice
Nicholas took thestairs two at a time, refusing to glance over the balustrade. If Catherine dared follow, he didn’t want to see her face. He was fully aware of the pain he’d just caused. He entered his chambers and leaned back against the door, accidently banging his head on the wood.Damn!He’d had to do it. It was no different from the battlefield—better it be quick than prolonged.
Pushing from the door, he rubbed the back of his head. The war was far less complicated than the home front. He sat in front of the barren fireplace, pulling at his boot. He paused and sighed. How could he even compare the two? The continent may have been more straightforward, but here, at least, only one life had been lost. Well, physically. He yanked off the boot and threw it at the fire screen.
“Lord Walford, let me!” Isaac squealed in dismay, throwing himself at Nicholas’s feet, quickly and adeptly removing the second boot. Where had the cherub been hiding?
“Your clothes arrived today,” he said, standing, his blond curls bouncing in enthusiasm as he clapped his hands. “Oh, my lord, you do have exquisite taste! A mite somber but absolutely elegant.”
Ah, he’d been in the dressing room. It was good the London tailor had been expeditious. Nicholas could do with a change of clothes, and he certainly did not trust Isaac to find him anything suitable. Even Nicholas’s batman would do better navigating fashion, which was praise that would make Langdon laugh. Nicholas was looking forward to his arrival, although he worried about how Langdon fared. The surgeons had tried to save his arm but in the end had had to cut it below the elbow. Nicholas prayed no infection had set in. Although he’d hated to leave the man, there’d been no choice, for Langdon was not fit to travel. He had been by Nicholas’s side throughout the four years. He missed Langdon’s jovial companionship, not to mention his lack of zeal when it came to a man’s wardrobe.
“My lord, it’s early. Shall I select one of the new jackets and you can rejoin belowstairs? Surely Lord Stratton would like a game in the billiards room.” The man’s eagerness was palpable. Nicholas felt like a doll to be dressed.
“I have no wish to see Stratton or anyone else for that matter.” He stood, stretching, trying to roll the tension from his shoulders. “That will be all.”
“Oh…but…my lord—”
A quick knock at the door provided a welcome reprieve. Isaac scuttled over, opening it to his grandfather. Fredericks did not acknowledge his grandson; instead, he looked directly at Nicholas.
“Your father wishes to see you, my lord.”
“Well, you can tell my father to—” An abrupt cough from Fredericks, simultaneous with a sharp intake of breath from Isaac, cut Nicholas short. He absorbed Fredericks’s censure and the valet’s shock.Damn. Nicholas was to be an earl. It was past time he started behaving like one. “Tell Lord Woodfield I will be down shortly.”
Fredericks closed the door, and Isaac ran and grabbed the discarded Hessians. Nicholas flicked away Isaac’s hands and tugged them on himself, then sat back in the chair. Was there no peace to be had in this house? What did the old man want now?
“Get me a brandy, would you?” A little fortification would not go amiss.
“But your father waits.”
Nicholas glanced up, ready to give the cherub a lashing, but the man appeared genuinely distressed. Nicholas laid his head back on the plush velvet and sighed. “Lord Woodfield will not meet his maker due to my lingering here a few minutes longer.”
“Oh, yes, my lord. Perhaps not.” Isaac ran to the table and quickly poured the drink, scooting back and pressing it into Nicholas’s hand. “But he is formidable when he is angry. My lord hated it so. He was always morose after a visit with the earl.”
Nicholas sipped the brandy. So his brother had continued to feel the old man’s ire. Daniel had always been sensitive to their father’s moods. Nicholas never had gotten it. The old man could be an absolute ass, but he loved his oldest son. Daniel was the image of their mother—all light and goodness, playful, and full of joy. One could say what one wanted about the earl, but he had loved his wife. He’d never sought another woman to fill Nicholas’s mother’s role, despite the fact that he’d had two boys needing tending. Fredericks’s expectant face flashed before Nicholas. He stood. The damn butler held more sway over him than his own father.That is what you get when you hand the rearing of your children over to the servants.
Not wanting to alert Catherine to his presence, he descended cautiously. No sound came from the drawing room. Perhaps she had left for her chambers, although he had not heard her. He paused by the doors. Was she still in there, sitting quietly with her sewing? Had she accepted that their marriage was a shallow imitation of what it should have been? He shook his head. She must know it to be true.
Striding past the library, he ducked around the stairwell to the door hidden behind it. His father’s sanctuary. Nicholas rapped three sharp taps. A muffled noise was response enough for him to open the door and enter the main retiring room. His father stood by the far window, the drapes drawn back, the night black beyond the pane. The old man’s shoulders were slumped, his tall frame oddly fragile.Damn and blast.Nicholas did not want to feel pity.
“Father?”
“You married the chit despite my warning.”
Nicholas stared at the blurred reflection in the window and waited, refusing to rise to the bait.
“We will host a dinner a week hence to celebrate.” His father’s obvious aversion liquefied the word.Celebrate. There was nothing about this situation worthy of celebration. It was untenable that they should invite others to join the masquerade.
“There is no need to hold a dinner. None at all.”
The reflection wavered in the window, then steadied. “There is every need.” His father paused, his back heaving with the labor of breathing. “Stratton has asked it of us, and we will do it. The deed is done. You did not hesitate to take care of that…in every way. You will honor it. For Stratton’s sake.”
Nicholas waited for more, for some indication that his father understood the turmoil of his emotions. Surely he had some inkling of the depth of deception that surrounded all that was good about his love for Catherine, threatening it like a quagmire. The chimera in the glass remained still.
Nicholas surrendered. He had not backed down before an army, yet he could not bring himself to do battle with this old man. It was salt in a gaping wound, but his father was right. Nicholas must honor her. He owed it to the memory of a dream, and he owed it to Stratton, who had always treated him like one of his own.
