Page 25 of The Duke’s Reluctant Muse (The Untamed Nobles #3)

The last of the early spring sunlight slanted in an orange glow across the dark mahogany wood of his father’s desk. It was his desk now, Ewan reminded himself, the unbidden thought of his father causing his heart to clench in his chest.

He set down his pen, scattering a few errant drops of ink across the ledger he’d been poring over for hours now. Just another little failure to add onto the growing pile. He couldn’t even write as neatly as his father. He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the plush, wingback chair. He flexed the muscles in his neck and shoulders, trying to loosen the knots of tension there, but it was no use.

Maybe he’d ask for a bath that evening. Extra hot. But he doubted even a long soak in a boiling pot would soften the tension he’d been carrying in his muscles. Ever since Father died, he’d not had a moment of true rest.

Five years ago, it was, when his father had died. He’d been in this very room, Ewan recalled with a shudder. The duke had always spent long evenings sitting up in his study. Ewan never did really know what it was his father did all day, having spent his young adulthood in dissolution and merrymaking. After the Duke's sudden death, Ewan unexpectedly became the head of a vast estate, assuming all industrial and agricultural responsibilities. He had no training, no knowledge of what it took to keep a dukedom of this size and importance, no business acumen, and no relationship with all the connections his father had cultivated over the years.

It was a mess.

Never was there ever a man more determined to succeed than Ewan Thorne, however. With nothing more than grit and determination he’d managed to keep the title in good standing amongst the peerage, even expanding upon his father’s business dealings and increasing the family’s wealth and influence year by year.

It was hard work, though. And Ewan was often exhausted by it. He knew that, while he expended all of his energy and effort into keeping his family name respected and spotless, his personal reputation was suffering. He tried to be genteel and amiable, as a duke ought to be, attending soirées and remaining abreast of current social events and family dramas. He did try.

But Lord, how he hated all of it. He hated the meddling mamas and their simpering daughters, the pudgy impotence of men spoiled by too much wealth and too little work, the falseness of it all. If he had his way, he’d never leave Thawswood Manor at all. If he had his way, he’d never leave Isabel’s side.

He was just rising to his feet in order to look for her when a knock came to the study door.

“Yes?” He asked. His voice was rough from disuse, having spent the whole day without speaking a word to anyone. It was becoming a bad habit.

The ornately carved door swung open heavily on its silent hinges, revealing the footman bearing a tray piled high with the post for that day.

Ewan groaned.

”The post, Your Grace,” The liveried footman said, bowing slightly.

Ewan swore at the footman, who flinched. Ewan knew it wasn’t the footman’s fault that he got so much mail, and he felt a twinge of guilt every time his manner and tone elicited a flinch from one of the members of his household. It wasn’t as though he was a brute. He comforted himself by believing that his rudeness and lack of manners was simply an effect of exhaustion and grief, and not a reflection of his true nature.

But as the years went slowly by, he was beginning to fear that he would have always turned out like this. That he had no excuse. That he truly deserved his nickname in London society. “The Beast of Thawswood” they called him. Childish name, and yet it seemed to stick.

”There is a visitor, as well,” the footman said, sounding as though he expected to be reprimanded for it.

“At this hour? Why on earth did you—“ He growled, but was interrupted.

”Now Ewan, don’t shoot the messenger.”

The familiar sound of Daniel’s voice did only a little to calm Ewan’s rising temper.

“Daniel, why are you here?”

Daniel, a handsome, ever-smiling man and longtime companion of Ewan’s, let himself into the study and collapsed presumptuously on the couch.

”Good evening to you too, Ewan. My trip to Rhine went swimmingly, how kind of you to ask.”

Ewan scowled at the footman and dismissed him before returning to the desk and slumping back into the chair. He dropped the pile of letters onto the surface of the desk with an audible thud.

”A lot of friends inviting you?”

Ewan glared at him. It was a look that would cause the mightiest of statesmen or soldiers to shiver, but Daniel was immune to it. He was the only one who was.

”Winter is ending. Everyone is having a damned ball. Soirées, salons, the blasted opera…”

”Ah, there's nothing like the London season, is there?” Daniel asked, contentedly laying back on the couch to dangle one leg over the arm and gaze up at the ceiling.

”Have you come merely to sleep on my settee?” Ewan asked irritated as he began to go through the stack of letters.

“Naturally,” Daniel replied. “You know, balls aren’t only about dancing with ladies. Connections are made at them, deals are struck, there’s any number of opportunities you could miss if you don’t attend.”

"Do not expect me to be your ally in the intricacies of gallantry, Daniel.”

Daniel scoffed. “It’s rather the other way around, my dear friend. I have no trouble finding dance partners on my own. It’s you who needs the help.”

It was Ewan’s turn to scoff. Just then he was scanning the frilly handwriting of a Lady Westington who was cordially inviting him to attend a garden party at which all three of her freshly eligible daughters would be showcasing their talents.

Their wares, more like.

“In a time when even the most highly bred parents are more than eager to auction off their daughters to the highest bidder, you’ll find a duke needs little ‘help’ from the likes of friends like you,” he intoned, tossing the invitation into the fire.

”Ah, so we are friends?”

Ewan didn’t deign to answer, going back to the task of scanning each letter and invitation card before likewise tossing them into the fire.

“You ought to get married, though,” Daniel said, sitting up again. His tone had changed. He was being serious.

Yes, it was true. And they both knew why.

“Is your stepmother returning for the season?” Daniel asked obliquely.

Ewan’s deep sigh was all that was needed as an answer. “She does like to be…involved.”

”And Winston?”

Ewan’s half-brother was a sensitive subject and the atmosphere in the study tightened at just the sound of his name. The last time Ewan had been in a room with his half brother, the two had very nearly come to blows.. Even now, his hand ached as he squeezed it at his side.

”He goes where she goes.”

Daniel gave a small chuckle. “Right.”

Ewan didn’t trust his stepmother. She’d never truly loved his father, a fact he’d always been suspicious of, but which had been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt at his father’s death. She’d hardly mourned. Sorrow was an emotion he’d never witnessed in her. After the death of the late Duke of Thawswood she seemed far more annoyed than bereaved.

Annoyed that now the purse strings would be held by himself, and not his woolly-minded and doting father.

The old duke had never been able to say no to Olive, and she’d grown accustomed to a ridiculous, lavish lifestyle. She couldn’t manipulate Ewan like she’d been able to manipulate his father, and her frustration had made her ever colder and more pointed in her contempt for him.

Ewan needed a wife because he needed an heir.

He didn’t like to think about death, but he had to be practical. Isabel’s accident had taught him that tomorrow is never guaranteed, and that people are cut down in the prime of life all the time. Just because he was young and fit didn’t mean that his family title wasn’t at risk of being inherited by his fortune seeking stepmother Olive Thorne and her worthless son, should anything happen to him.

They would never inherit the estate, not if he could prevent it.

”So, which ball are we going to?” Daniel asked after a pause.

Ewan looked down at the invitation in his hand, the last of the stack. He and his sister had been invited to the coming out ball of Lady Scarlett Berrington set for that coming Sunday evening.

“Berrington?” He asked, holding up the card to Daniel.

Daniel shrugged. “That’ll do.”

For the next half hour Daniel regaled Ewan with tales from his trip to Germany. Daniel was, in many ways, Ewan’s opposite. Always eager to get away and experience excitement and adventure, Daniel had lost none of his youthful energy. Ewan had once also been an adventurous lad, but now he felt so old compared to his friend, though they were nearly the same age. How had time had such a strong effect on him, but not Daniel? Why did he feel as though his bones were turning to dust and his heart to stone, though he was still in what should be his prime of life?

Daniel’s high-humored blabbering about his travels began to grate on Ewan, and eventually he managed to persuade the man to peel himself off of the couch and make to leave.

”I will see you again soon, though,” Daniel said as he made his way to the door.

”I’m sure. Goodnight.” Ewan all but shoved the man out the front door.

He needed to be alone with his thoughts for a while. He abandoned the study and went instead to the large library on the second floor. It was nearly always empty and quiet there. The household staff was told to keep away from the library, and it was the one place on earth where he could go so as not to be disturbed.

Sending the servants away also meant that the large room was nearly always cold, and he himself had to start and keep the fire. He enjoyed the task though, and the bright glow of a fresh fire was often enough to calm his anxious nerves. A bit of manual labor did much to ease the mind. As he coaxed a bundle of kindling to grow into a blaze, the scent of wood and fire filled the drafty room and he felt his shoulders begin to relax. Satisfied with the fire, he sat down in a large chair before it, letting his eyes and thoughts rest on the dancing flames.

It had been on his mind for a while now, this need to secure a wife and legacy. It had always been an undercurrent though, relegated to the back of his mind. Now, in the course of only a few minutes, the entire trajectory of his life seemed to have changed. He would find a wife now. This season. The sooner the better, and in fact he ought to have done this years ago. The more he tried to think of reasons why he should put it off a bit longer, the more resigned he became. He had been anticipating another season of skirting as many events as possible and keeping to himself, but now that seemed like a wistful dream.

Thinking about attending ball after ball for weeks, all the fuss and to do surrounding wooing and courting, he groaned and rubbed his hands down his face. He was exhausted just thinking about it. Damn it all, he would need a new attire. And a haircut.

He made a vow to himself that he wouldn’t bother hoping for a love match. He wanted this business done as quickly and painlessly as possible so that he could return to his own hermit-ish ways as soon as he could.

He thought about the stack of invitations he’d received just that day, disdain tugging at the corners of his mouth as he imagined the senders. None of these people liked him. None of them even really wanted him at their parties. He was rude and always said the wrong thing, ruining even the most festive gathering. He wasn’t smug enough to think he was invited to gatherings thanks to his glittering personality.

Everything was about money in the end.

He thought of his stepmother; and imagined the shadowy figure of his future bride.

Especially marriage.

***

The following day Ewan could not avoid a series of errands, and he spent the whole morning in tedious visits to associates. He was worn out by noon and his head had been full to bursting with the idle chitchat and gossip that seemed to serve as the lifeblood of polite society. When he returned to Thawswood, situated on the edge of London just where the city gives way to countryside, it was with the kind of relief one would expect from a soldier coming home from war.

The large, stately home was still and silent when he walked in, stripping off his gloves and coat and tossing his hat onto a bench. He listened, wondering where Isabel would be at that time of day.

He hadn’t seen his sister in almost two days. Despite always being in the same house, it was all too easy to never cross paths with her at all. She kept to her own chambers and the small parlor at the back of the house. The one with the best of the morning light when it streamed through the window. If she wasn’t there, she would be in the garden.

He walked to her parlor first, his steps reverberating through the empty house. In the distance he could hear the faint rustling of activity in the kitchens. The servants had their own life at Thawswood, one that he, with his foul tempers and high standards, was not privy to.

When he found Isabel’s parlor empty, he went to the only other place she would be.

The gardens at the back of the house were damp that time of year, and a fine mist was beginning to fall from the overcast skies, but he found Isabel and her maid in an ivy-enclosed gazebo despite the weather. As he approached, the maid caught sight of him and, silently, she stood and went away a fair distance. She was afraid of him, and always left whatever room he entered. He stifled a pang of contempt for the skittish, silly girl. But she kept Isabel company, which was what mattered.

”Afternoon, Isabel,” he said, sitting down next to her on the bench. The mist would soon turn to real rain, and he worried that the dampness would damage her already frail health.

She didn’t respond to him, but merely met his gaze and gave a small smile.

”You’ll be happy to know I spent all morning crisscrossing the park and finally catching up with all my meetings and appointments,” he said, his tone far gentler than it was with anyone else. He knew that part of Isabel’s melancholy was due to his own deterioration since their father’s death and the accident. He was a different person now. A worse person. She knew it, and he could see that it pained her. He always wanted to prove to her that he was trying, at least.

She nodded.

Isabel hadn’t spoken for two years, not since the carriage accident that had nearly resulted in her death. The damage to her body had been catastrophic, but the damage to her psyche, to her very soul, was deeper. He still held out hope that one day she would speak again, and had made a vow to never stop speaking to her as though she would respond at any time. Just in case.

“Well, Isabel. What would you think about my getting married sometime soon?”

Her eyes, wide and blue, darted to him in alarm.

He held up one hand. “I ask hypothetically. I haven’t met anyone yet.”

Her response, such as it would have been, was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats coming up the lane. Ewan cursed under his breath.

What is it now? I’ve talked to enough people today.

He could have gone around the front of the house to see who it was, but he already had a good idea and he thought he might as well try to enjoy the last few moments of peace he could expect that season. They’d find him soon enough.

Isabel seemed to feel the same way, sitting very still and letting her pale, tired eyes fall shut for a few moments until the sound of approaching footsteps met their ears. The footman stopped a few steps away and bowed curtly. “The Dowager Duchess and Lord Winston, Your Grace,” he said, without need for more explanation.

“We will meet them in the drawing room,” he grumbled, only just managing to contain a string of curses.

Isabel rose to her feet, looking even more frail and delicate standing than she did sitting down. She was terribly pale these days, and seemed to only grow thinner. He offered her his arm.

“You don’t have to sit with them tonight. You look tired. I will take you to your chambers then face the dragon myself,” he said as they walked unhurriedly back to the house through the misty rain. “Tell that jittery maid of yours that I’ve prescribed you warm soup and a cozy spot by the fire for the rest of the day.”

She squeezed his arm and acquiesced as he led her gently back to the safety and solitude of her chambers. Once he was certain that she could not be bothered, he left the peaceful solitude of her wing of the manor. He gritted his teeth. No meeting with his stepmother and half brother went well, all he could hope for was that this encounter would not last long.

When he entered the drawing room where they were waiting they were both seated and looking altogether too comfortable on the fine French furniture his real mother had collected when she’d been alive. Olive was arrayed in fine, dark purple silk. It was a frock altogether too flamboyant for a woman of her age, he mused. Her sagging neck in that fashionable neckline struck him as ridiculous. Winston, of course, was no better. He bore a self satisfied expression, a pinched aspect to his nose and lips that never seemed entirely in harmony with the finery of his attire.

“We were about to send out a search party,” Winston said.

“You do know how to keep visitors waiting, don’t you?” Olive snipped. “And here we’ve been waiting half an hour!”

“Surely not,” Ewan said with a tight, perfunctory bow. She was exaggerating, because if he’d thought he could get away with making them wait half an hour he certainly would have done so. But he didn’t.

“Isabel isn’t feeling well. I was escorting her to her room.”

“Still ill, then?” Olive asked, her tone not bearing even a hint of sympathy or concern. She’d grown weary of Isabel’s long recovery ages ago, and now seemed to take it as a matter of mild offense that Isabel hadn’t snapped out of her illness yet. As if Isabel was doing it just to spite her.

Ewan gritted his teeth. “She’s growing stronger every day.”

Olive seemed hardly to notice his words, launching instead into a monologue about their journey from the country estate. The roads apparently were very bad, and she spent ten minutes saying so. Ewan remained standing near the window, gazing out at the garden and thinking that if she had to be so unpleasant, the least she could do was be succinct.

“How long are you to stay in London?” He asked, finally cutting her off mid-sentence.

“The season, naturally,” she responded, looking perplexed as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

A grin spread over Winston’s face that didn’t sit right with Ewan. He knew his half brother was a rogue, taking far too much pleasure in the attention of young ladies. The way he crawled out of his hole in the country just to emerge like a snake into the London season each year disgusted him.

“Naturally.” Ewan said.

A tense moment passed, where everyone in that room was silently aware of Ewan’s authority to send the two of them back to the country estate and refuse to host them at Thawswood. Olive gave him an imperious look, as if daring him to do it. To make a scene. She resented the power he had over her since his father’s death, she thought he wasn’t worthy of it. No, she thought that Winston, her own flesh and blood, was more deserving of the title.

Ewan said nothing, though. He was too tired to put up a fight that time. But later that night as he went to bed, he couldn’t sleep. He was overcome with a sense of foreboding that the tense relations between his stepmother, half brother and himself were going to erupt this season, one way or another.