Page 12 of To Woo and to Wed
The duke smiled a humorless smile, then continued. “Now that I’ve realizedmymistake”—he paused again, allowing the emphasis on that word to sink in—“it of course stands to reason that it is high time you were considering marriage.”
The words landed like a thrown gauntlet.
“Perhaps I am not yet interested in marriage.”
This was entirely the incorrect thing to say—this much was immediately obvious to West. He was thirty-one years old and he was first in line to a dukedom; he did not have the luxury of waiting to marry until he at last took an interest in the institution. He was expected to produce an heir, after all, and the fact that his father—thanks to West himself—had not believed this to be a possibility was the only reason he’d been granted a reprieve these past several years.
His father, however, did not argue with him. Instead, he gazed around the room, allowing a taut silence to stretch between them; finally he said, almost idly, “I’ve been thinking of selling Rosemere.”
West felt it like a blow to the stomach, as it had no doubt been intended; he pressed his lips together tightly to prevent any pained exhalation of breath. “Oh?” he managed after a moment.
“Yes. It’s turned quite a profit these past few years, you know—it would no doubt fetch a handsome price.”
West did know—he was directly responsible for its prosperity. Rosemere was one of the few unentailed properties that the dukedom owned, and one that his father had gifted to him, upon his twenty-first birthday. His mother had brought the property, which belonged to her family, to her marriage as part of her dowry; West had few, vague memories of the mother who had died when he was only four years old, but he remembered with peculiar, vivid clarity how much she hadloved Rosemere. He had a memory of her laughing as she cut roses from the garden, the sound bright and free, and he felt the strangest lump in his throat whenever he recalled it.
His father, however, had never felt the same—it was a small holding, nothing compared to the grander entailed estates, and he had never paid it much attention. That the duke did not see Rosemere’s value was no small part of the reason that West loved it so much—a sentiment he had endeavored to hide from his father. He had seen, after all, what his father did to things—people—that West loved. But apparently, he had not hidden it well enough.
“I know you’ve spent a fair amount of time there over the years,” his father continued, “but it really seems the sort of home that ought to be for a… family.” He shrugged; that shrug, along with every single element of this discussion, was carefully choreographed. “And since you’ve no intention of marrying…”
He did not need to make the threat more explicit. West understood perfectly well.
His father rubbed his hands together. “I should be off—I’ve a busy day.”
Intimidating underlings, making servants cry, et cetera, West thought darkly.
“Do let me know if you’d like an introduction to one of Altborough’s daughters,” his father added, rising from his chair.
West rose with him, his gaze lantding longingly on the sideboard against the far wall. Was it too early for a drink?
The clock chose that moment to chime the eleven o’clock hour.
Eleven was only an hour from noon. And noon was not really so very early, after all. Was it?
“I look forward to discussing this further with you at dinner this week,” his father called on his way out.
No, West decided. Today, noon was not early at all.
He was nearly finished with his second brandy when Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell appeared in the library.
West blinked at her, then at his butler, Briar, who was bowing himself out of the room wearing an expression of unmistakable curiosity. He glanced at the glass in his hand. Thiswashis second, wasn’t it? He hadn’t lost count at some point, and actually consumed an amount of spirits that would lead to hallucinations?
Lady Fitzwilliam’s gaze followed his and her eyes widened slightly. Belatedly, he realized that—hallucination or not—she was still a lady, and he was instantly on his feet, gritting his teeth slightly against a wince as the sudden motion jarred his bad leg, which was still protesting the morning’s exercise. Fortunately, the two(?) glasses of brandy had gone a long way toward silencing its louder objections.
“Lady Fitzwilliam.”
“West.”
She was always Lady Fitzwilliam to him now, even in his thoughts. He didn’t allow himself the pleasure of thinking of her as anything else. He liked, however—too much, far too much—the fact that, at some point in the past year, she had once again taken to addressing him by his nickname. Everyone called him West, it was true; to do otherwise would have drawn more attention to them in company. But this did not diminish the small jolt of pleasure he got every time he heard her say his name.
“You are at my house,” he said. “Alone.”
“And you are drinking,” she said. “At…” Her gaze flicked to the clock on the mantel. “Noon.”
West resisted the urge to follow her gaze to confirm the time. Was it still only noon? He’d lost track of time at some point while drinking the second(?) brandy, which was a rather more generous pour than the first.
“I’ve had a trying morning.”
“Ah.” She did not inquire further; they no longer had the sort of relationship that would permit such an intimacy. Although apparently they had the sort of relationship that would permit an unmarried woman to call on an unmarried gentleman at his home, unescorted, and—well, no. There was no sort of relationship that permittedthat.
