Page 3 of The Duke’s Lance (The Duke’s Guard #12)
H elen sighed as she heard light footfalls coming up the stairs behind her. She did not want to argue with Emily, nor did she want to be swayed from her decision to seek a position elsewhere.
“Wait, Helen! Please?”
She paused, gathered her slipping composure, and turned around. “If you are going to continue to batter me with reasons why I should stay on at Wyndmere Hall, please do not. Can you not understand the reason why I feel uncomfortable being a part of Their Graces’ staff?”
“Honestly…no.”
Helen rubbed her forehead, but it did nothing to alleviate the ache this conversation—and situation—had caused. “I know in my heart that I do not belong here. Your father rescued me from starvation after my parents died. If not for his kindness and offer of employment, I would not be standing here today.”
“What does that have to do with working for the duke and duchess?”
“I am not like you, Emily. My father did not earn his title for bravery on the field of battle. He was a laborer, and Mum took in laundry just to put food on the table. Before he died…he left us for another woman. When we heard that he had died…” Helen could not bring herself to continue. Tears welled up and threatened to spill over. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying, or else her composure would completely shatter. She refused to let that happen.
Emily slipped an arm around her. “We grieved together for your parents and my mum. Now you’re helping me grieve for my father, who loved you too. No one else here knew him. You and I are the only ones. Have you forgotten how we shored one another up, one day at a time? We shared our grief. I’m afraid I won’t be able to cope alone.”
A few tears escaped, but Helen ignored them. “You were so wonderful to share your father with me. I loved him too. But you are not alone any longer. You have a man who loves you and would move mountains for you, if you asked him to. Lean on him in your sorrow, Emily—Aiden is strong enough to bear the weight of it.”
The expression on her friend’s face warned Helen that Emily was going to change directions in order to convince her to stay. She had to forestall her friend. “We both know there is no set time to grieve.”
Though the others had been gone for some time, Emily’s father’s shocking death had happened a little over a month and a half ago. The Bow Street Runners and the duke’s men stationed in London were still in the process of locating another witness to what they now knew was not an accidental death.
“Society encourages us to dress in mourning for a year before we go into half-mourning,” Helen said. “How can Society be so cruel as to expect us to wake up months after we’ve lost a loved one and tell ourselves, ‘Today is the last day I will grieve’?”
Emily shook her head. “I know it seems easy for some, yet harder for others.”
Helen had to agree. “I suppose you are right. It has been years now, but I’ll never stop missing them.”
“Neither will I.” Emily tugged Helen toward the nursery. “It will be so difficult knowing that we are apart and grieving, when we could be together, reminiscing over a pot of tea, sharing our stories of what was so special about our parents.”
Helen rubbed a hand over her heart. It actually ached. “I promise I will write to you.”
“A very poor substitute,” Emily rasped.
“Better than to lose contact altogether,” Helen reminded her.
“I suppose.”
“Ladies! I am so glad you are here.” Gwendolyn stood in the doorway to the nursery with her babe in her arms. Two excited little voices, in what sounded like a foreign language no one else understood, babbled behind her.
Emily apologized, “Sorry to be late, Gwendolyn.”
“It was all my fault,” Helen said.
Patrick’s wife smiled at them. “No matter. You’re here now. Come in—the twins are ready for story time before we build castles with blocks.”
Smiling at the notion, Helen and Emily stepped into the happy atmosphere that always managed to lighten their hearts and restore their faith in humanity.
Squeals of delight and more babbling had Helen wondering—was her decision to leave in order to find her happiness too hasty? What if her happiness was here, and she left and no one else offered for her hand? Who then would marry her?
A broad-shouldered, handsome-as-sin Irishman’s voice sounded in her head. “That would be me, lass.” But would it? Could she change her plans and stay on at Wyndmere Hall? If she left and came back, would Eamon O’Malley still marry her?
“I don’t even know the man,” she whispered to herself.
Gwendolyn’s knowing expression was unsettling. “Which one of the duke’s guard are we talking about? Rory Flaherty or Eamon O’Malley?”
Helen bit her lip to keep from blurting out Eamon’s name. She could have saved herself from a fat lip, because a heartbeat later, Emily cheerfully answered, “Eamon.”
Patrick’s wife’s eyes positively danced with mirth. “That one will run you ragged and badger you until you accept him. He did ask you to marry him, didn’t he?”
“Not exactly,” Emily and Helen said at the same time.
“Once an O’Malley makes up his mind to marry, nothing, and no man, will stop him or stand in his way. You’ll have to tell me all about it over tea after we put these darlings down for their morning nap.”
Helen had a feeling there was no escaping the conversation. Patrick’s wife was known to be as stubborn as Emily. There was no getting around it. She sighed and scooped up Abigail, while Emily picked up Richard. “Let’s read a story.”
*
Patrick O’Malley stood in the hallway digesting the snippet of conversation he’d overheard. So his cousin Eamon was finally ready to own up to what everyone else had noticed from the moment Garahan and the others arrived with the duke’s ward. His younger O’Malley cousin had fallen arse over his blockhead in love with the lass. If anyone asked, he would have to admit that Helen was lovely, with curves almost on par with his wife’s. But it was not her looks that had his cousin’s attention. Eamon had no doubt noticed what Patrick had—Helen was loyal and fiercely protective of Emily.
Once Garahan had shared what occurred during their journey to Wyndmere Hall, Patrick was ready to welcome Emily to their extended family with open arms. At least he had, after sorting out the situation with Garahan. It was a bit complicated when Garahan confessed he’d given his heart to Emily, but had not been ready to fight for her because of his vow to the duke and position within the guard. What was it about his brothers and cousins that had them falling so hard and fast in love that they had difficulty accepting it wasn’t just the physical attraction?
Mayhap it was time to give Eamon a push toward the dark-haired lass. He could start with the fact that Helen intended to leave Wyndmere Hall. That just might force his cousin to take action instead of being thickheaded, holding back his feelings for the lass.
There was a lull in the conversation. Perfect time to interrupt . He knocked on the partially open door and was bidden to enter.
Gwendolyn was in the rocking chair with their babe snugged up against her shoulder, rubbing her back. He was sorry to have missed the soothing sight of his wife nursing their babe. He thanked his good fortune, and his perseverance, in chasing after Gwendolyn when she thought she had to leave the duke and duchess’s employ after falling in love with Patrick. A situation similar to Aiden and Emily’s.
Patrick’s gut told him that if Eamon let Helen go, he would regret it for the rest of his days. Not willing to let that happen, he walked over to his wife, bent, and pressed a kiss to her cheek and another to the wisp of hair on top of their daughter’s head. Deidre promptly burped. The duke’s twins jumped up from where they sat on the floor playing with blocks, giggled, and started clapping.
The joy on Helen’s face as she joined in their cheers decided for him. He was going to interfere.