Page 5 of A Wicked Duke's Arranged Marriage
And after that … he would return home. To the empty mausoleum that his manor had now become. He would return home and sit in solitude. He would forget that Catherine had ever said such a thing as she had.
After all, he had no use of those mortal pleasures any longer. He would never be with another woman. Never love another woman. He would live out whatever time he had left and …
Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?
And what?
Chapter 1
House, rent, and taxes for the first quarter… Housekeeping account from the last page … Price of seed exceeded that of the last quarter by a margin of–
The words went on and on, blurring together as the scratch of the quill filled the otherwise quiet study. One ledger after another was entered and copied, expense reports sat off to the side, and correspondence was sorted accordingly. It was a never-ending, dull monotony. But one that Henry had been prepared for his entire life.
When his father had been the man behind the desk, drumming up all the figures and reports, Henry had thought it to be a grand thing. He had imagined the intelligence it must take and the power his father held.
Only now, doing it himself, did he realize just how tedious it really was.
More so, very likely, because, unlike his father, he didn’t ride out to all of his tenants’ houses on a schedule, checking in on them and engaging himself in the day-to-day business of it all.
His father had known the name of every tenant he had. He had known their jobs and the integral parts they played in the community. He had known their family’s names when someone was sick, what to send … And Henry pushed papers.
He sighed, running his hand down the front of his face as he pulled yet another letter over to him, scanning the brief correspondence and the facts and figures included.
The cost of feeding a family of three was becoming a problem for many of his tenants with the rise in poultry and produce prices. Perhaps that was something he could look further into. An apology of sorts for his seeming indifference.
Or maybe it was too far-reaching.
Henry stared down at the ledgers, willing himself to care more and break out of that rut he had found himself stuck in for the last three years. Ever since Martha–
No.
His knuckles blanched white against the pen that he held, his heart stuttering in his chest at the mere thought of his late wife’s name.
Three years.
How had they passed so quickly?
That cavern of numbness in his chest seemed to expand as his vision seemed to grow sharper, the quiet of the room overtaking all else and–
Laughter?
From outside the closed study door, the faint sounds of children laughing carried through everything else, the innocent joy distracting Henry from his melancholy thoughts.
He rearranged the work on his desk quickly, standing and moving from behind the desk to the doorway in a matter of a few strides.
He wasn’t expecting company. He could think of very little reason for laughter in his home. It wasn’t a regular occurrence – and children? That was an even rarer one.
As he strode from the study into the hall, all his questions were answered, though, the concern falling off of his face, replaced with a smile as he caught sight of the family that Harbuttle was greeting in the foyer.
Three children between the ages of what looked like two and seven swarmed the three adults who stood there, the elegant woman standing just a few paces back looking as amusedas she did frustrated as she cradled the smallest of them all, a babe, in her arms. And bending and trying to catch two of said three children able to walk themselves was a stately looking man, his beard close-cropped and his clothing as finely cut and tailored as Henry’s own.
“What have you let into my home, Harbuttle?” Henry jokingly demanded of his butler as he approached, his lips stretching into a rare grin at the delighted squeals of the children upon the sound of it. “What ruffians are these?!”
“We aren’t ruffians!” The oldest, a boy with shocking blond hair most similar to his mama and bright green eyes, cried out. “It’s us, Uncle Henry! Don’t you recognize us?”
“Us?” Henry parroted, winking at the father as he straightened with a weary sigh. “Is that capitalized, as in the royal We? I was unaware I was to be hosting such high royalty this evening! Pray tell, of whom do I have the honour of addressing?”
“Us,” the second oldest giggled, her brown hair so much more similar to her father bouncing from all the curls put into it as she hopped and skipped her way over to Henry’s knees. “Peregrine, Lucy, Thomas, and Irina, Uncle Henry!”
