Page 2 of The Duke's Concealed Vow
The duke had scoffed, shaking his head at Rowan with a mixture of distaste and disappointment.
“You are a stubborn man,” he said. “You are also foolish and impractical. Love does not matter when it comes to reigning as a nobleman. What matters is prudence, practicality, shrewdness,and refinement. Your bride should reflect those qualities for the world to see because you should possess them. And she should be elegant, respectable and proper, so that you are reflected well. Waiting for love is frivolous, Rowan. And I have no intention of waiting until you find it.”
Rowan had leapt from his seat, his temper bubbling. He leaned over his father’s desk, glowering at the duke.
“I should like to see you stop me,” he said. “I have made up my mind. And there is nothing you can say or do to make me change it.”
The duke also rose, his eyes now ablaze with anger.
“I can, and I shall,” he said. “I shall see to it that you do not inherit one single coin, and you will be stripped of your given rights to my title.”
With that, the duke had stormed out of the study, leaving Rowan furious and ready to raise his voice. He remained bent over the desk until his heartbeat had slowed. Then, he had marched off toward the main parlor, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the door frame rattle.
Now, as he entered the fourth hour after the argument and the onset of nightfall, the storm picked up in ferocity. Rain pelted the window loudly enough to sound like the glass might shatter, and the wind howled like a pack of diseased wolves. With two more drinks and time to reconsider the words he and his father had exchanged, regret began to take hold. He knew that the duke was looking out not only for Rowan’s best interest, but that of their family’s legacy.
He understood that the dukedom was about more than himself, and that his father, being the excellent nobleman that he was, was simply trying to teach Rowan how to be selfless when it came to the greater good. Rowan did not think he could compromise on his desire to marry a woman he loved. But he was drowning in remorse for the way he had spoken tohis father. As the drink, the fading tension from the evaporated anger and the storm made his eyelids begin to droop, Rowan rested his head against the back of the sofa where he sat. I shall apologise to Father first thing in the morning, was his last thought before sleep claimed him.
***
“Lord Davenroot,” said an urgent male voice as strong hands firmly shook Rowan.
Rowan winced, waving his hands to push away the intruder to his sleep, prying his eyes open to see Lawrence, his family’s butler, standing over him. The man’s dark brown eyes were wide and filled with horror. Rowan blinked, trying to shake off sleep and put a hand on the butler’s shoulder.
“Calm yourself, Lawrence,” he said. “What is the meaning of this?”
Lawrence took a step back, taking time to catch his breath. Rowan waited impatiently for the butler to tell him why he would awaken him in such an improper, unorthodox manner.
“Milord, it is…” He paused, swallowing. “It’s His Grace. He’s…”
Rowan rose at the mention of his father, alarm blossoming in his mind.
“Father is what?” he asked, taking a step toward the butler. “What is it?”
The butler’s face fell and his shoulders sagged.
“He’s dead, milord,” he said. “He was found in the lake this morning by some of the servants that your mother ordered to go searching for him.”
Rowan’s head spun and the butler’s voice faded into a dull, unintelligible echo in his ears. His father was dead, that was what Lawrence had said. Surely, he had to be mistaken.
“What?” he asked, feeling as though he was speaking underwater. “How? Are you sure?”
The butler nodded once, clasping his hands together in front of him.
“We are quite certain,” he said softly. “It appears that he took the boat out yesterday evening, just before the storm started. From the debris that was found of the boat, it appears that the tumultuous waters destroyed the craft, knocking your father into the water. With the wind and rain as heavy and merciless as it was, your father didn’t stand a chance of reaching shore. It was drowning that claimed him, it seems.”
Rowan’s knees buckled and he fell back down onto the sofa. He felt the color drain from his face and fought against waves of nausea that threatened to push bile from his lips. His vision swam, blurring so that no single thing, not even the face of his family’s butler, could be distinguished from another. He simultaneously felt the horrible ache of the loss of his father and the numbness of the disbelief and shock that came with the news. For several minutes, he sat trying to speak. But no words would come, neither to his mind nor to his lips. He was vaguely aware of the sensation of expectant eyes on him. But he had already forgotten who it was that was in the room with him. And he didn’t care. His father was gone. There was nothing that could be of more consequence than that. Not ever again.
When he could regain some semblance of his senses, he rose on his shaky legs and stumbled his way blindly into the hallway and through the manor. He followed the sound of hysterical sobbing and hushed murmurs until he found his mother in the breakfast room. He fumbled his way over to her, stepping on shattered china and crystal, and what felt like bits of food as he reached her side.
“Mother,” he said, choking.
The duchess wailed, flailing her arms in front of her. Rowan did his best to swallow his grief and embrace her. She did notturn the affectionate gesture, but she allowed him to hold her against him as she cried. Soon, the whole mansion was buzzing with the news of the duke’s sudden, tragic death. Before the time lunch would normally be served, everyone employed for the duke’s family had heard the news.
Word traveled just as quickly through Dalenwood, too, it seemed. Rowan counted how many hours passed by counting every three people who arrived to offer their condolences, noting one guest roughly every twenty minutes. The names of the villagers escaped him as soon as Lawrence introduced them, and he only knew that each one of them gave their own variations of platitudes and offers of support and assistance for Rowan and his family. His mother received the visitors with him for as long as she could. But eventually, he had to send for the physician to call in on her and give her something to sedate her for the night.
None of the condolences helped to ease Rowan’s burden, however. He was consumed by grief and guilt, recalling everything that he last said to his father. He had planned to make things right with the duke that day. Now, he would never get that chance. As he lay futilely in bed that evening, he vowed that he would dedicate himself to nothing but his ducal duties. His final words with his father would keep him guarded and closed off from the rest of the world. But he would fulfill his father’s wishes for Rowan’s reign as duke. Every single one of them. From that point on, nothing else mattered to Rowan.
