Page 1 of The Duke's Sister's Absolutely Excellent Engagement (The Notorious Briarwoods Book 11)

1796

Heron House

“H e must not see me like this,” boomed the Duke of Westleigh. His voice shuddered off the walls.

“He must see you like this,” his wife, the duchess, countered as she stood before him, a soothing presence in the study.

The subject of their discussion, much to their ignorance, stood just outside the room, peering in through a gap between the door and the jamb, his heart palpitating wildly.

What must he not see?

Nestor’s father paced wildly before the fireplace. The room was mostly dark, and shadows danced upon the silk-covered walls and ornate furniture. For a moment, Nestor felt as if this was some scene from a play, as if they were no longer upon the Earth, but in some other world where a demon had got hold of his darling papa. Or that his father was putting on a performance.

His expression had transformed into one of intensity. His body seemed to crackle with an energy that Nestor had not felt or seen before, and he was frightened.

What were they trying to protect him from?

Yes, this all seemed like a scene from one of the plays his dear grandmama loved so very much. He loved plays too, and he prayed beyond all hope that this was exactly that—a scene from a play. But deep in his soul, he knew it was not true. Something was amiss with his papa.

His mother, his darling, beautiful, wonderful mother, strode forward and took his father’s hands in hers.

“My love, it is perfectly all right.”

“It is not all right,” his father countered. “It is never going to be all right.”

“Yes, it is,” she said calmly. “We’ve always known this day would come. It is time to let him see you as you are.”

“But this is not as I am,” his papa protested. “This is some other thing.”

“It is who you are, and we love you just the same,” his mother cut in, not harshly but firmly.

His papa pulled his hands free of his mother’s, and for a moment, Nestor was afraid. Afraid that something terrible was about to happen. His papa seemed so frantic.

And then his father, the great duke, turned from her, placed his hands over his face, and a shuddering sob escaped his father’s throat.

“I wish I wasn’t like this.”

His mother’s face was soft and kind. “But you are, my love, and it is quite all right. You know that this will pass. This feeling will last for a little while, and then it will pass, like clouds upon the sky or a season upon the Earth.”

What would pass? Nestor wanted to call out. What would happen? And suddenly it hit him deep in his soul. If there was something wrong with his father, was there something wrong with him?

“My darling?” a voice said softly.

Nestor jumped and turned and spotted a specter floating in the hallway, silver-like. He blinked rapidly as the figure drifted out of the dark shadows of the hallway. He let out a sigh of relief. It was his grandmother.

“Grandmama,” he called.

“Whatever are you doing, my boy?” she asked.

“There’s something wrong with Papa.”

A strange look danced across his grandmother’s lined but beautiful face, and then she slipped towards him, her grand skirts flitting over the elaborate carpets of the hallway. Quietly but intently, she knelt down beside him and took his small hands in hers, a strange mirroring gesture of what his mother had done for his father just a moment ago.

“There is nothing wrong with him.”

He shook his head, his own voice a rough whisper. “There is. There is. He is not acting like himself.”

“Yes, he is,” his grandmother replied gently, patiently.

He frowned. “I don’t understand. That is not how he acts with me.”

She paused as if trying to decide what she needed to say. “That is true, and he has not had an episode like this in some time. But it’s important that you see him exactly as he is, for all that he is.”

“What is wrong with him?” Nestor rasped, tears stinging his eyes.

“Nothing,” she said firmly and kindly, stroking her thumbs over the backs of his hands. “He is your father. He is my son, Leander, he is the Duke of Wesleigh, and he has grander feelings than most.”

“Grander feelings,” Nestor echoed, swallowing back his fear, and sniffing back his tears too.

His grandmother nodded, her silver curls shining in the moonlight streaming in through the tall hall windows. Her face was easy, unfazed, as if this was normal. Was it normal? He did not know, but suddenly the palpations of his heart slowed, and he did not feel the fear he had just a moment ago. All because of her steady nature.

If his grandmother was not alarmed, perhaps he should not be either.

He licked his lips, then blurted, “But what is happening to him? He is usually so jolly, so calm, so lovely.”

“He is, and he is still lovely, but right now, he is intense and full of emotions, and he will be until it passes. And then he will be very tired, and he may feel a great deal of remorse for having been so wild in his feelings. But your father would not be who he is if he did not experience those things.”

“Does everyone act like that?” Nestor asked softly, even though, in his heart, he already knew the answer.

Slowly, his grandmother shook her head. “No. No, most people do not act like that at all. But it is what makes your father so beautiful, and so unique, and why we all take good such care of him.”

He swallowed then, his throat tightening. “Will I be like that?” he asked.

His grandmother lifted her wrinkled hand to his face and smiled gently. “I do not know. Are you scared you’ll be like that?”

He thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know,” he replied.

“‘I don’t know’ is a very good answer, my darling boy. But I should tell you this. You might be. Leander’s father was not, but his grandfather was like him. But it is the greatest power in the world, my love, to feel things so intensely, and we will love you for it if you are like your father. And we shall accept you just as you are, and you will never ever be alone.”

Nestor drew in a rough breath because, in that moment, he realized that he had felt alone in the dark hall, watching his parents, and he wondered if his father felt alone too. But then as he looked again through the crack between the door and the jamb, and spotted his mother and his father, he realized his father was not alone.

Then, slowly, his grandmother stood and pushed the door open.

“There is someone here,” she said.

His father slowly turned to Nestor. There was a wildness in his look, an almost animalistic gaze. A look of pure horror crossed the Duke of Wesleigh’s face as he caught sight of his son and heir.

“I’m sorry, my boy. I’m sorry,” he rushed, his voice taut. “Did you hear all of that?”

Nestor nodded, but then he replied, “There is nothing to be sorry for, Papa. Grandmama has explained it all to me.”

“Has she?” he asked, choking on his emotion.

“Oh, yes. There is no need to be afraid,” he declared, straightening his shoulders. “It is what makes you, you, isn’t it? It is what makes you so loving and so wonderful and caring. Your…grander feelings. And she said if I am like that too, well, I shall never be alone. And you are not alone.”

His papa was shaking, and his mother, his wonderful mother, slipped her arms around his father.

“You see, my love?” she said.

The duke nodded, hugged her back, and then crossed quickly to his little boy and knelt down.

“I cannot change how I am,” he began swiftly, his dark eyes shining. “And I would not change anything about you for the world. So however we are, I will be there for you,” his father said, even as his powerful body seemed to shake.

Nestor looked up at his father, full of love. “And I shall be there for you.”

“We shall all be there for each other,” his mother said.

“As we always have,” his grandmother added without question.

Standing there, Nestor promised himself that he would not be afraid. He would never be afraid because he was the Duke of Westleigh’s son. He was his grandmother’s grandson. He was his mother’s child. He would never be afraid. Not of this. Not of anything.

An entirely different part of England.

Some years later…

Lady Margery Barret danced about the salon. Oh, how she had loved the performance at the French princess’s house in Cornwall. It had been a whole other world compared to the dreary old parties of England. Though she had been too young to attend, her mother and father, the duke and duchess, had wished her to meet the exiled royal.

The house had been the brightest, loveliest of great houses, simply reveling in its Frenchness.

Oh, she did love England, of course, but her mother and father were so staid, so determined that everything should be perfect and dignified, that nothing could ever sparkle and glow like a French princess’s life did.

That strange but magnificent house she had visited, with it’s beautiful performance by French ballet dancers, had filled her with such joy. And now that she had come back to her rather joyless house, she felt the need to instill her own heart with happiness. And so, she leapt about, attempting to imitate the dancers she had watched.

How she had adored sitting in the audience, surrounded by beautifully dressed people, watching the dancers in their various costumes.

The temporary theatre in the great house had been gilded and magnificent, a feast for the senses! And so, Margery mimicked those dancers, longing with every fiber of her being to be one herself. Oh, she knew that she could never be a dancer. Such a wish was perhaps foolish, but wasn’t wishing always foolish? Wasn’t it good to be a fool sometimes?

Surely, she was allowed to dare to have just a little bit of foolishness in her.

And as she pirouetted and twirled her skirts, swirling them about her legs, she smiled and caught a glance of herself in the room’s long mirror framed with gold. She looked beautiful and she adored it. She beamed at herself and lifted her arms. Then she turned again as her ribbons flounced about her.

“Cease!” her governess cried from the doorway.

Margery’s heart chilled, and ice slithered down her spine. All freedom slipped away from her at that single harsh word, and she stood still on the spot.

“Whatever are you doing?” Miss Brown demanded.

“Dancing,” she said, her insides twisting with apprehension.

“That is not dancing.”

“It is,” she replied. “It is what I saw at the princess’s house.”

“This is not a French house.” Miss Brown sniffed, striding forward, her pale hands clasped before her, her gray skirt swishing in the morning light.

The woman was the perfect picture of austerity and economy in all her movements. She was immensely dignified in her speech. It was why she had been chosen by Margery’s mother to try to tame Margery’s wild spirit, and her spirit? Well, in truth, it had been tamed for years, ever since she was quite small, but every now and then, a bit of that spirit would burst out.

She’d thought she was alone. How very silly of her to think as much. But despite her apparent silliness, she lifted her chin. “It makes me happy.”

“Dancing like that makes you happy?” her governess challenged, as she made her way around the ornately upholstered chairs and beautifully polished tables.

Margery nodded.

“Then you are on the path to sin,” Miss Brown replied most seriously.

She swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“Women who dance like that are sinners. This is not Versailles. Versailles fell due to its decadence. You are not French. You will not behave like the ladies of the French court. You are English, and you will remember it.”

She flinched. How could she ever forget?

“I like how the French behave and how they dance,” she said, daring to defy her governess for a moment, knowing that she might pay for it later.

The governess crossed to her slowly. “Then we must teach you how to dance properly.”

“I don’t want to be taught that,” she snapped.

“What don’t you want?” a voice called from the doorway.

If she had felt icy before, now she felt terror. Margery’s mother was there in her beautiful silk gown, her hair coiled atop her head, and disdain dripping from every word.

She almost never saw her mother.

Much like her father, they were always out, always entertaining, always doing the work of a duke and a duchess. And the work of a duke and a duchess was not to raise a daughter. No, that work was given to an army of servants.

“Mama,” she rushed. “I—”

“Are you defying Miss Brown, girl?” her mother demanded cooly.

“No,” she denied.

“You are , and now you are a liar ,” her mother returned.

“I only wish—”

“It does not matter what you wish.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed and she pointed to herself. “It matters what I wish, what your father wishes, and you will do as you are told and behave as we see fit.”

Her mother arched a brow. “And Miss Brown is correct. You will not dance like a loose opera girl. We took you to meet the princess so that you could see a bit of culture and see what the world was like. The French court brought its own demise about with its vanity. Now, it seems we shall have to lock you up for a while, until you come to your senses, and I think the governess is right. We shall have to teach you how to dance properly . Get ready to do your minuet.”

“But…” Margery felt most confused. She loved the minuet. It was graceful and wonderful and made her feel free. She’d always loved dancing. She’d always excelled at it. How could this be a punishment?

So, warily she nodded and crossed to the large carpeted area before the imposing fireplace. Her governess crossed to the pianoforte, sat down, and began to play. And, as instructed, Margery began to dance her part of the minuet.

As always, it was easy and she felt light. She beamed as the joy of the quite demanding but beautiful dance slipped through her.

“Stop,” her mother ordered.

The governess stopped playing, and Margery stopped dancing.

Margery froze, confused. “What is it, Mama? Am I not dancing beautifully?”

Her mother’s look was cold. “ Too beautifully. With too much emotion. You dance as if you have sin in your soul, as if you were meant to be in the theatre. Well, you are not meant to be in the theatre. You are the daughter of a duke. No more smiling. No more emotion. Simply dance as if it is beneath you, as if this is merely something you must do, not something you enjoy.”

Margery swallowed, but she did enjoy dancing. She loved it with every part of her body. She started again, trying to be a bit more staid, but the music filled her soul and made her body feel as if it was soaring again as she made the pattern of the minuet.

“Stop,” her mother called more coldly than before.

And then she realized that this was her punishment.

Her mother made her start again and again and again, until she was nothing but a wooden doll going through the motions of the dance.

As the joy of the dance was sucked from her, tears stung her eyes and her body began to ache. Her limbs hurt as she repeated the movements over and over until she danced, not like a living, loving girl, but like a dead thing, hitting each note, hitting each step perfunctorily.

The music came to an end, and she prayed that her mother would say they were done.

Her mother remained standing, unyielding, judging. “Better,” she called. “Do it again.”

Margery let out a cry. “Please, Mama. I wish to stop.”

“Not until you can show me that you can dance without becoming emotional. I don’t wish to see a single feeling cross your face. Not even now. Look at you! You are ruled by your emotions still. You must never let what you’re feeling cross your face. You must be cold because that is what it means to be a duchess. That is what it means to be a powerful woman, to take anything that is done to you and not let the world see how you feel, to not betray your inner life. And I do not wish to see a naive, foolish girl gamboling about the salon ever again, and I will certainly never see it upon a ballroom dance floor. Do you understand?”

No more feeling? No more passion? Not in life? And certainly not in dance? Could she do it?

Margery lifted her chin, blinked the tears out of her eyes, and said, “Yes, Mama. I understand.”

“Good. Now, dance again.”