Page 1 of Sacrificing the Untamed Lady Henrietta
Chapter 1
The angry patter of rain against the window matched his mood. Patricia left and took their son with her. Why? He watched dark clouds enshroud the sky and heard the sudden gusts of wind rush across the field. The mind-numbing sounds and sights of the storm drifted him away…again.
“A penny for your thoughts?” A sweet voice chirped at him. Ewan turned away from the window to smile warmly and shook his mane of, oft times, unruly chestnut hair.
“I fear you will not be richer for the knowledge,” he replied. The storm beyond the window had reached a near-disturbing crescendo but inside the parlor, a fire burned hotly on the hearth. It created a sense of security inside the manor house despite the pelting rain outside.
“Permit me to judge, shall we?” Patricia replied sweetly, venturing closer. He could see she was yearning to be touched, if only by the tips of his fingers. Fully pivoted, Ewan studied Patricia’s delicate face, his smile faltering only slightly.
“Are you well?” he asked and stepped toward her with some concern. “Would you tell me if you felt something was amiss?”
It seemed that in the flickering light of the candles, she had paled significantly but it was difficult to be certain with the shadows.
“Yes, of course,” Patricia replied quickly and shifted her eyes downward, attempting to shadow the lie from her eyes. “And I tell you all. Do you doubt me?”
“Trisha, my love…”
“Ewan,” Patricia sighed gently, approaching him awkwardly. She stood before him, her pale fingers extending toward his face and the Marquess was forced to meet her eyes. In spite of the annoyance which had plagued him, he softened beneath her kindly gaze and they stared at one another silently for a long moment. “I am well, I promise you. There is nothing to fear, though I know you worry regardless. I worry too—this is new for both of us.” Her smile was broad and genuine, her blue eyes twinkling sweetly as she again looked down, but Ewan knew this time, she stared at her swollen womb.
A scream pierced his visions, blood-curdling and terrifying. He remembered that sound as if it were yesterday. He saw her pale face, scared and ghoulish. He heard her pleas and felt his heart break all over again.
“EWAN!”
He turned, realizing it had not been a scream after all. Someone was calling his name, and Patricia and their son were gone again.
“Ewan, you must stand away from the window! The trees threaten to crash through the panes without a moment’s notice.” The voice did not resemble the twittering chirp he had ringing in his ears still. Ewan felt his jaw lock, but he did not move himself, nor did he indicate he had heard his father. He wished to cling the final wisps of his reverie, but it was too late for that now—the Duke of Everly, Phineas Clark had smashed any fleeting illusion of contentment Ewan had managed to conjure.
“Did you hear me, Ewan?” the Duke insisted. “Stand away from the window!”
“I could not help but hear you, Father,” Ewan sighed, reluctantly turning to regard his elder. “You have a voice to raise the dead.”
The Duke scowled slightly at his son’s almost petulant tone, but he did not comment on the words.
“Come away from the glass,” Phineas said again. “It will grow worse out of doors before the storm calms.”
“I am unafraid of a small bit of rain, Father.”
“Ewan, must you always be contrary? I speak only from concern.”
A touch of guilt sparked through the Marquess’ chest and he did not protest again. Instead, he heeded his father’s warning and moved further into the parlor to claim a seat upon one of the winged chairs overlooking the hearth.
Ewan knew his father was not at fault for his son’s melancholy, yet that did not stop the Marquess from feeling a deep resentment, a need to lash out at anyone who dared approach him.
“Fancy a drink?” the Duke asked, nodding toward Vernon who stood nearby, awaiting direction.
“No, Father.”
“A scotch, Vernon.”
“At once, Your Grace,” the butler answered sonorously, shuffling away to oblige the request.
“Ewan, your mother and I are deeply concerned for you.”
The Marquess cringed inwardly, unsure he had the gall for such a conversation that afternoon. It was one he had endured numerous times over the past months, yet it never grew easier to hear. He had almost learned to anticipate that the discussion would eventually trail that direction, but he remained hopeful at times that it would not.
“Father, I would prefer not to travel this road with you again today. I was quite happy alone in my thoughts before you arrived.”
“Such is the problem, my son. You are far too often alone with your dismal thoughts. It puts quite a damper on the household.”
