Page 8

Chapter

Seven

A MOTHER’S CONCERN

I was seated at my desk drafting the speech I planned to present before the legislation committee, espousing Lady Rosalynd’s petition for women’s suffrage. Given the original had been consigned to the fire, I had no knowledge of the language she had employed. But I knew the committee. The best way to couch the plea would be to explain how it would benefit them. I doubted it would pass muster, which meant it would not make it to the full House of Lords. But I had to try. I had promised Lady Rosalynd.

Suddenly, a presence made itself known. My butler was standing inside my study door. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I did knock. You have a visitor.”

I’d been so deep in my thoughts, I’d failed to hear it. “Who?” I asked, somewhat annoyed.

Milford cleared his throat. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Steele.”

He’d barely breathed the words when Mother drifted into the room. “Warwick, sorry to barge in like this. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

I rounded the desk and kissed her cheek. “Not at all.” Taking a step back, I gazed at her. “You are looking well.” Whenever we met, which was not as often as either of us desired, I was reminded of how beautiful she was. Her hair had turned silver, of course, but her ice blue eyes still sparkled with life, and she fairly vibrated with vitality. Age had neither withered her nor dimmed her spirits.

A soft smile bloomed across her lips. “Thank you for saying that, my boy. It does take longer to make oneself presentable these days.”

“You are much more than presentable, Mother.”

“Flatterer.” Her lips turned up at the corners. A sign she truly enjoyed the compliment.

I glanced at my butler, who was still standing at the door, a warm expression on his face. He’d always had a soft spot for Mother. “Tea, please, Milford.” Mother was a stickler for observing the niceties. She enjoyed her refreshments whenever she came to visit.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Shall we take a seat?” I pointed to her favorite settee.

As she arranged herself on the seat, she glanced around my study. A smile and a nod signaled her approval. “This room. You haven’t changed a thing.”

“Why should I? I like it the way it is.” I took a seat on the sofa opposite her.

“Even when there’s a decided feminine flair to it?” Many years ago, she’d had the settee and sofa upholstered in her favorite shade of blue to match the color of her eyes.

“Even so. It reminds me of you.”

Her face flushed from my praise. But then she quickly moved on. “Well, at least the books are of your choosing. Your father had no interest in reading. And the bones of the room are good.”

“Yes, they are.” All around, the walls bore shelves of finely crafted wood, each one filled with leather-bound volumes. History, philosophy, law, and politics lined the shelves, spines pressed soldier-straight. The scent of old books and pipe tobacco lingered in the air, blending with the faint aroma of sandalwood from the furniture polish. Above them, the paneled walls rose to a coffered ceiling, the carved detailing there recalling the long line of ancestral distinction they bore.

A knock on the door preceded the entrance of a maid with the tea service. After she placed it on the low table between the sofa and the settee, Mother poured tea and served biscuits for us both.

“Did you receive my note?” I asked before taking a sip of the fragrant tea. “I planned to see you this afternoon.” First thing this morning, I’d sent a missive asking for permission to call on her. No answer had been returned, but then I hadn’t expected one until after noon. It was just about that time now.

“I did. But I have an appointment with the modiste this afternoon. So I thought I’d come to you.” She barely sipped her tea before she said, “We have something serious to discuss.”

Knowing what the topic would be, I rested the cup on the table between us. “Yes, Nicky told me.”

“It’s time you marry, Warwick.” Mother’s voice, usually so composed and measured, now held a quiet plea. She sat before me, her posture stiff.

“You know my feelings on the subject, Mother,” I said, holding her gaze. “I don’t intend to do so again.” I tried to keep my tone steady, but bitterness threatened to seep through. My marriage had left me more scarred than I cared to admit.

Her lips tightened, but her eyes shimmered with concern. “I know how much you suffered, dear boy. Any man would have shattered under such torment—watching someone he loved fade away like that.” Her voice wavered as she leaned forward. “But medicine has advanced in the last decade, Warwick. Physicians now specialize in obstetrics. They can prevent such a horror from befalling you again. The likelihood of a miscarriage is so very slight.”

Memories surged unbidden—the panic, the screams, the helplessness. The scent of blood and the hollow ache of loss. “But not impossible,” I said, my voice no more than a rasp. “I refuse to risk putting another woman through that kind of suffering. I will not gamble with a life, remote as the chance may be.”

Mother’s cheeks hollowed, and for a moment, I saw the pain my stance caused her. I knew she worried for our legacy as much as my happiness.

“And how will the Steele line continue?” she asked, more softly now, as though the question itself wounded her.

I forced a half-smile, bitter and resigned. “I prefer to leave that chore to Nicky,” I managed, trying to inject a note of wry amusement. But the truth hung heavy in the air.

She shook her head, something almost like pity twisting her features. “I wouldn’t count on him if I were you.” The words fell heavily, lingering like the memory of old grief. It seemed we were both trapped—in her case by the fate of our family, in mine by the haunting shadows of a past I could never quite outrun.

“Why not?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.

She drew in a measured breath and looked away, as if ashamed to speak aloud. “He’s ... involved with a married woman,” she said quietly, her voice weighted with sadness. “He won’t be considering a wife of his own anytime soon.”

My stomach twisted. This explained Nicky’s fierce reaction earlier, the tension that crackled in his words. “Who?” I forced the question through gritted teeth.

“I don’t tell tales out of school,” she said, eyes lowered. “You’ll have to speak to Nicky himself if you want a name.”

I surged to my feet, unable to remain still, not with fury and disbelief coursing through my veins. Pacing the length of the study, I demanded, “Why would he do something so reckless? It would surely bring a scandal to our family’s good name.”

Mother’s voice softened, as though she pitied both my anger and my brother’s plight. “He doesn’t see it as wrong, my dear. He’s blinded by love. He truly believes it will all work out somehow.”

“Work out?” I hissed through clenched teeth. “He can’t possibly believe the woman would seek a divorce and run off with him. We cannot allow this. The notoriety would stain the Steele name beyond repair.”

Mother’s hand trembled, causing her teacup to clatter in its saucer. “The lady’s husband is a brute,” she said, her voice catching as though it pained her to admit. “He beats her ... regularly.” Her face contorted with old sorrow, and for a moment, I feared she’d be lost to memories best left buried. “If your father hadn’t?—”

I bit back a groan of regret. “Please, Mother,” I said, softening my voice. “Don’t torment yourself with the past. I didn’t intend to stir those old ghosts.”

She pressed her lips together and gave a tight nod, as if banishing unwelcome recollections. “You’re right,” she said, her tone strained but determined.

My thoughts swirled with anger. “A brute who harms his wife. There must be something I can do.”

“No,” Mother said firmly, something fierce and protective sparking in her eyes. “Nicky would never forgive you if you intervened. The husband already suspects an affair. If you involve yourself, you’ll prove him right. God knows what he might do to that poor woman in retaliation.”

I drew back, my hands fisting at my sides. “How long has this been going on?” I asked, stunned by the lengths my brother might have taken without my notice. “He’s only been in town for a month.”

Mother’s gaze met mine, filled with a sorrow that went bone-deep. “It started last year,” she said softly, and in that moment, I felt the crushing weight of all I didn’t know. How had I missed that?

“If that’s the case,” I said, my voice low and taut, “the affair won’t last long. I’ll make certain he understands what a grievous error he’s making.”

Hope flickered in her eyes as she leaned forward. “You’ll speak with him, then?” Her voice trembled slightly, as though my mere words could lift the weight pressing against her heart.

“Of course.” I clenched my jaw. “Did you doubt I would?” I leveled her with a steady look, trying to reassure. But would I be able to sway my brother’s dangerous course? At the very least, I had to try.

“Thank you,” she whispered, relief softening her features. Then she broached her favorite topic once more. “As for the other matter...”

I let out a harsh breath, my patience stretched thin. She would not rest until I gave her the answer she craved, no matter how firmly I refused. Gritting my teeth, I crossed to the sideboard, seized the decanter, and poured a generous measure of whiskey. The amber liquid caught the light as I swallowed it down in one long, desperate gulp.

“There is a candidate, Warwick,” she said, her tone gentling as if that would soften my resolve. “You’ve already made her acquaintance.”

I forced a thin, humorless smile. “I’ve met countless women, Mother.”

She pressed on, undeterred. “Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven. You know her brother, the Earl of Rosehaven.”

I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them, determined to steer this conversation away from marriage. “Yes, I’m aware.” Desperate for a distraction, I asked, “What happened to her parents?”

She paused, voice quietening as if to honor the dead. “They perished six years ago in a terrible carriage accident. They were returning from a social event when the bridge they were crossing collapsed beneath them. The next day, they were found, clinging to each other.”

I grimaced, the tragedy weighing heavier than I cared to admit. “At least they died together,” I said, the bitterness in my tone betraying what I truly felt. No one deserved such a fate.

“That calamity left their children orphaned,” Mother continued softly. “Lady Rosalynd, barely eighteen, gave up any thought of marriage. Instead, she remained at their Yorkshire estate to raise her younger siblings. Her first season was her last.”

“She’s content with her life,” I said, trying to sound detached.

“How can you be so certain?” Mother asked.

I kept my gaze fixed on a point beyond her shoulder. “She told me she doesn’t wish to marry.”

“You broached the subject with her?”

“No. She volunteered it on her own.”

“Her grandmother, the dowager, said as much,” Mother replied, a trace of disappointment lacing her words. “A shame, really. She’d make a splendid mother.”

I stiffened at that gleam in Mother’s eyes. I knew that look too well. It was the same one she’d directed at me before my betrothal. “She won’t abandon her siblings, and I have no intention of marrying.” My words were flint and stone, striking sparks between us.

“There’s her sister,” Mother pressed, voice smooth as velvet. “She’s making her debut this season. Malleable. Fertile stock. There are nine children in that family. Can you imagine? She’d give you heirs.”

Pressing my lips together, I shut my eyes again. “No,” I said, final and firm.

Mother sighed, rising to her feet in a graceful flutter of silks. “Just think about it. That’s all I ask.” Her voice had lost none of its persistence, yet it softened with maternal affection. “I’m off to the modiste.”

For a moment, I hesitated before kissing her cheek. Despite the vexing nature of our talk, I could not deny her the small comfort of that familiar gesture. “Thank you for coming,” I managed, though annoyance still simmered beneath my cordial tone.

She studied me, her forehead creasing with a small line of worry. “You are looking after your brothers, aren’t you, Warwick?”

I drew back and straightened my shoulders. “Do not fret, Mother,” I said quietly. “I am keeping an eye on them.” Even if neither wished me to do so.