Page 21 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
After a few minutes of a whirlwind tale, he could see that Beau was settling. The child’s small hand was resting against Woolwich’s chest as if to keep his father close.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Woolwich said. “I will stay whilst you sleep.”
Beau sighed. “I want to stay here. Grandmama is boring, and so is Gertrude,” he referred to Lady Lamont.
He recalled the way Clara had bent close to his son, her smile wide and welcoming as she’d talked to Beau. There was a purity to how Miss Blackman viewed the world as if she could not see the imperfections—she sought and treasured the wonders it presented instead. Unable to resist the temptation, Woolwich voiced his internal thoughts, “What did you think of the red-haired girl you met today?”
Yawning, Beau curled up closer and muttered, “Nice. She was nice.”
“You’re right,” Woolwich said, lifting the book up again, preparing to continue the story. “She’s very nice.”
She was yet another fine thing, he figured, that would be far too pure for the likes of him.
* * *
The dowager arrivedwith a great retinue of staff, boxes, and valises, and following after her, at a distance, was Lady Lamont. Her wan face glanced up at Woolwich, and she gave him a weak smile before she was ushered off to see her room by the housekeeper Mrs. Manet.
“Beau is well?” The dowager swept forward into the largest sitting room. She was very familiar with the house, having lived there for decades when she had been the duchess.
“Indeed.”
She poured herself a large drink. “I suppose you’d have been informed if he was not.”
“I would never keep anything from you about my son.”
There was a briefly sympathetic look which passed across her face, and then his mother sighed. “He misses you dreadfully. It would mean so much to him if you could stay with him for longer. I know that our arrangement is…”
“I was about to offer to move to Albany. So, you and Lady Lamont would feel more comfortable. Without me being underfoot.”
“I believe my reputation would suffice, and given your son’s well-being is in doubt, the possibility of you seducing my goddaughter seems unlikely. Seduction would be beyond anyone’s thoughts, I would hope.”
“Nevertheless—”
“You cannot run from your responsibility.” Before Woolwich could speak, his mother raised her hand, and he fell silent. “The mourning you embarked on for Annabelle was understandable despite her flaws. But I am not discussing her. It is your son I wish to talk about. His well-being, my grandson, he deserves more.”
“What is this in aid of?” He had a sneaking suspicion she might raise the suggestion of his re-marrying, an idea he had squashed years ago.
“Beau misses you. I see it more and more as he gets older.” There was a touching note of sadness to his mother’s voice as she walked closer and looked up into Woolwich’s face. “Rather than keeping him forever away from you, there should be some unity between the two of you. I will not be here forever. He is unfortunate not to have a mother. Do not deprive him of a father too.”
Woolwich did not reply. A broiling sensation was swirling in his chest. Emotions he had thought suppressed with Annabelle’s death were here again, all of them telling him how he had failed in a new, fresh way. Let down the people, he thought, that he was supposed to protect. Even his mother deemed him a failure.
With a dignified sigh, the dowager moved away, crossing to the sofa and sinking into the plush seat. “In the meantime, you will need to mend the rift between Heatherbroke and yourself. After today’s events, there is no other option.”
“At least on that score, mother,” Woolwich bowed slightly, “we can agree. But I beg, please let me deal with Heatherbroke.”
* * *
Almack’s wasone of the places that Woolwich loathed most in London. It was inevitably crowded, despite how every guest had to be approved by the patronesses. Added to that was the noise these people brought, the pushing and the shoving. He supposed with reluctance he could admit once you were through the press, the interiors were handsome, and the guests dressed in their finest—the men in their sombre black evening wear and every debutante in her dazzling white dress, layer upon layer of the simpering colour. Candles glowed from on high, and their light flashed off the ladies’ jewels, so everything seemed ablaze. Once on or close to the dance floor, the elegance such a scene presented was second to none. For a second, he thought he saw a flash of rich, coppery-red hair, and hastily forced himself to look away.
The dowager squeezed his arm and then let go, giving a wave to Lady Cowper and setting off to impart a few much-needed remarks to the patroness.
In his youth, Woolwich could remember feeling rather impressed by the beauty of such a setting. Fashionable cynicism was what men like him were supposed to express, so any wonder he had felt had to be hidden away.
Next to him, little Lady Lamont let out a small gasp of surprise. Perhaps the sight could at least please her.
“Handsome, is it not?” Woolwich tilted his head to one side to better hear and witness Lady Lamont’s reply, but instead all he could see was that his companion had gone beetroot red. His eyes swept the room, trying to ascertain which young man could have drawn her gaze, but she was paying none of them any attention.
“What is wrong?”
