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ChapterTwenty-Three

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” the Dowager Duchess of Hayward mused from across the table. “Something the matter?”

“What do you think, Mother?” Henry muttered as he stabbed at the lamb shank on his plate, not feeling in the least bit hungry.

“I don’t know,” she said simply as she delicately cut into her own piece of shank, took a small bite, chewed on it a moment, and then swallowed. “I’m not a mind reader.”

“Of course, something is the matter. Why do you think I’m here?”

“I assumed it was to see your poor mother.” She reached for her glass of wine, took a small sip, made sure to swallow, and then continued. “Alone as she is. Nobody to talk to or keep her company. Why else would her only son be visiting after all this time?”

He gave her a look that he knew she would recognize—one of frustration because that was what she was doing. Frustrating him. “You know very well why I am here.”

“Not to see me?”

He stifled a groan. “I told you already, I am sorry it’s been so long. Truly, I am. But I’ve been busy.”

“So they say.” She smirked.

His expression was unamused. “And as I have told you, those rumors are unfounded, Mother. Nothing you have heard about me is true.”

“I should hope not,” she relented, taking another sip of wine, swallowing, then putting the glass down. “Which means that you haven’t been nearly as busy as you claim, so again, I can’t help but wonder why it’s taken you so long to come and see me. I would almost think that you were avoiding me.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“And your wife,” she continued. “I am sure she would appreciate a chance to get to know her mother-in-law better, but try as I might, I can’t see her anywhere.”

“Are we going to do this again?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said simply, completely unconcerned with the rising temperature in the room, the heat building from Henry’s growing temper. “If not now, it might be months before I see you again. So, best to get it all out now while I can.”

“You enjoy testing me, don’t you mother?”

“Someone has to. You may be a duke, but you’re still my son. However ungrateful a son you may be.”

Again, Henry stifled a groan. There were perhaps two women in the world who derived pleasure from teasing and lighting his short fuse. Only two who would dare to. One was close to one hundred miles away, likely wondering when Henry would return to her, likely counting the minutes because he had promised that he would return as soon as he could. While the other sat less than three feet across from him, had a lifetime of experience under her belt, and from the tiny smirk on her lips, seemed to be enjoying herself far more than he was.

Henry’s mother had always been an enigma. Born of the ton, she left it when she fell in love with a member of the gentry, seemingly happy to marry into comparative poverty while leaving behind everything and everyone she knew. Even after all this time, she still acted like a woman of privilege, and to anyone who didn’t know her, they might think that she hadn’t spent the last half of her life living on a farm.

Of course, when Henry’s uncle died and Henry inherited the dukedom, it raised his mother back to her initial social standing. Not that she’d needed the title to act in this way. For her, some things simply never changed. She dressed well. She ate like a proper lady. She was chastising and belittling in ways that were associated with people of privilege. And, most of all, even now, she still fawned over her old life as if it hadn’t been her choice to leave it in the first place.

“Speaking of your wife,” she continued as she pushed her plate away from her, “you’re to return to her on the morrow, yes?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You must be excited.”

“I am…” Henry eyed his mother, certain she was getting at something.

“Married life suits you, then?”

“It appears so.”

“Don’t sound too excited about it,” she scoffed. “That look on your face, one would think you have a funeral to attend tomorrow. Certainly not the look of a man who might be seeing his wife after four days of being away.”

It had been four days of this torture. Four days of his mother prying on his personal life as she sought to uncover a truth or a secret or a scandal that he was hiding from her. He had told her on his first night that his marriage had turned out better than he’d hoped. He had told her that he was rather taken with his wife in ways even he hadn’t imagined might happen. But it wasn’t enough for her. No, no. She needed details.

Details were the one thing he wasn’t willing to give. Partly because he didn’t much like sharing with his mother the main reason that he was enjoying married life so much… that was a conversation he would rather die than have. And partly because, as he had learned these past few days, speaking out loud about something was a surefire way to start rumors, spread gossip, and completely ruin a thing that should have stayed private in the first place.