Page 80 of Unraveled By the Duke
Celia had been drawing, but no image that began to emerge under her pencil brought satisfaction. Her window sill, which had become her customary seat, was strewn with aborted sketches. Most had the same subject.
“Is that His Grace?” Peggy asked with curiosity, picking up one of the papers.
“An attempt to capture his likeness, though I am unhappy with all,” Celia said.
“I think you drew him to a tee, Your Grace. That hard quality he has—hard as nails made of granite, I always thought—you captured it perfectly, I’d say.”
Celia picked up one of the sketches and examined it critically. “I do not think so. I mean, I see the hardness, but I disagree that it is his prime quality. It is simply the image he projects, though I cannot fathom why.”
“He wasn’t always like this, Your Grace. He was a sweet boy when his mother and father were together. If you ask me, his mother’s passing was what hardened him. He was never the same after that, poor lamb.”
Abruptly, she seemed to recall to whom she was speaking and about whom. She colored to the roots of her gray hair and hurriedly tidied up the discarded sketches.
“I am so sorry, Your Grace. I quite forgot who I was talking to for a moment there. Clean forgot. It’s your manner, Your Grace. You’re very personable, like talking to someone of my own station. If you don’t take offense at that description.”
“I don’t, Peggy. Please don’t worry,” Celia assured her, helping to gather up the sketches. “I would like to keep these for now. Please put them on my bedside table, and let me read this message.”
She took the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded it.
“Lady Hyacinth has invited me for dinner this evening at Cheverton!” she exclaimed.
“Very good, Your Grace. Should I tell the boy that you accept and to wait?” Peggy asked.
Celia considered for a moment. Alexander had not spoken to her after the carriage had arrived at Finsbury, though he had earned glares from his stepmother. He was now at Cheverton. She wondered how he would react when she arrived for dinner.
But then I have been invited. I am not imposing as I did previously. The Dowager Duchess likes me, and her stepson liked me. Then disliked me. Then liked me again. Oh botheration! Why will the man not decide how he feels once and for all, then explain it to me in unambiguous terms?!
“Yes, you may, Peggy. Then, return to help me prepare.”
“Alexander, whatever is the matter? You look positively done in!” Hyacinth exclaimed in typically blunt fashion at the sight of her stepbrother walking through the front door.
“Really, Hyacinth,” Violet chided. “Please try and avoid using slang. I do not think your governess educated you to speak so.”
Alexander ran a hand through his hair.
Clearly, I look as I feel—exhausted. I do not know why I feel so. It has hardly been a physically taxing day.
“Thank you, Hyacinth,” he returned wryly. “I do look forward to coming home.”
“I was educated not to use slang, Mama. And I learned it from my contemporaries. It is the way of things among the young,” Hyacinth said airily.
“Well, it is not the young who make the rules; it is the old. And this old woman does not like it. Kindly refrain.” Violet swept through the hall, divesting herself of her hat and gloves, putting the latter inside the former and tossing it to a waiting servant. “The trip to the Gallery has quite whetted my appetite. I will be in my studio, should anyone want me. I hope no one does until dinner.”
The servant nodded and hurried away.
“I am glad you’re home, Xander. But you do look tired,” Hyacinth noted, hugging her stepbrother.
Alexander relished the embrace for a moment, innocent and simple as it was.
It was a relief to understand a relationship completely. He loved his sister, and she loved him. He would and was doing anything and everything to ensure that she got the best start to her social life.
Alexander knew that Hyacinth would do everything in her power to help him. In fact, if she realized the lengths he had gone to for her, she would insist on having no debut in order to spare him. Even though she knew that it would be social suicide and condemn her to spinsterhood.
“I do believe I am tired,” Alexander sighed.
They walked through the hall in the direction of the staircase.
“Then you should rest. Will Celia be joining us?” Hyacinth asked.
