Page 12 of The English Duke
“I’m afraid Gran is feeling poorly, Your Grace. Whatever shall we do?”
Good manners dictated he offer accommodation, a meal or two, and time for the older woman to recuperate from the journey. He felt as far from good manners as he was from understanding why it was that all of them had descended on him.
Reese would say he was being rude. He was being rude. He didn’t wish them to be his houseguests. He didn’t want them here. He didn’t want his life or his routine disrupted, especially by people he’d not invited to his home.
People he’d tried his best to avoid.
He glanced over to find Martha frowning at him, an expression he found preferable to her look of pity. He was damned if she was going to feel sorry for him.
He was the Duke of Roth, after all. The owner of Sedgebrook, one of the finest houses in Britain. Weren’t those the two points the solicitor had emphasized when Jordan had unexpectedly ascended to the title?
“Of course, Your Grace, the coffers aren’t quite as full as they once were,” he’d added.
Any fool knew what profligate spenders his father and brother had been. What he’d inherited was a ruinously expensive house, a title, and hell all else. The disposition, turning nastier by the day, was all his. Perhaps he did have a reason for it, but the angels of his better nature appealed to him to at least remember his manners.
Stop being an arse.
“You will stay with us, then, at least until you’re feeling better,” he found himself saying. He forced an agreeable expression to his face and wondered if he looked as pained as he felt.
Mrs. York lifted her hand, evidently with some effort, and waved it in his direction.
“We couldn’t possibly be an imposition, Your Grace,” she said weakly.
Josephine smiled.
Martha stared up at the ceiling.
“Of course you must,” he said. “I won’t hear of your leaving until you’re back to yourself. If you’ll pardon me, I’ll go and make arrangements now.”
He wanted away from them. As far away as he could get, knowing that politeness—drilled into him by his nurses and nanny—would dictate he saw them again shortly to ensure they were comfortably settled.
Turning, he made his way out of the room and down the corridor, knowing his peaceful life had been irreparably destroyed, at least for the next few days.
“Your Grace.”
He stopped, halted by Frederick’s appearance.
“The wagon is here, sir.”
The wagon. Oh, yes, the bequest he didn’t want.
“Send it around to the stables, Frederick,” he said.
The sooner he accepted the gift, the sooner the three of them would be gone. With any luck, Mrs. York would recover quickly and yearn for home posthaste.
“Shall I have it unpacked, sir?”
“Yes, but leave it in one of the unused stalls.”
He never went to the stables anymore. Putting the contents of the wagon there would mean he didn’t have to see any of York’s work.
Frederick bowed slightly to him as he always did, taking his look of consternation off down the corridor.
She’d taken away the pleasure he’d felt in his invention. Did she know it? Did the sober and pitying Martha York know she’d single-handedly ruined the whole of it for him?
He didn’t know who he was angrier at, her or York for going and dying on him.
Dear God, please don’t let the grandmother die, too. He could just imagine the chaos that event would induce.
