“No doubt.” Harry’s expression grew ponderous. “Adam has been doing a lot of uncharacteristic things lately, come to think of it.”
“Has he?” Her quest to understand Adam better had only left her more confused than before. Hopefully, Harry could provide her with some insight.
“Just yesterday, in his book room, in fact.” He gave her an ironic look. “He talked for twenty minutes, at least, about our days at Harrow and his old nurse, Nurse Robbie. He kept asking me why I haven’t dropped his acquaintance. Adam doesn’t talk about things like that. He doesn’t talk about anything remotely personal.”
She’d wanted insight. That was certainly a great deal to think about. Adam didn’t discuss personal things. Persephone had noticed that herself. Apparently, however, Adam had been doing just that—insisting upon it, if Harry was to be believed. It was entirely out of character, and Persephone wondered what had instigated the sudden need in Adam.
She felt certain Adam had spoken with Harry on the topics he had because he needed to for one reason or another. Artemis became that way at times. Generally, she preferred not to talk about the mother she had never known. The subject invariably left her quiet and unusually distant. Persephone suspected that Artemis silently blamed herself for their mother’s death, passing as she had in childbirth. But there were times when Artemis simply had to speak of her, to hear of her. Those times nearly always came when Artemis felt most needy, when she was ill or upset or frightened.
Persephone wondered what it was that Adam needed.
“Barton says Cook is in tears.” It was an uncharacteristic entrance for Adam, who, generally, chose the more formal and impersonal approach. He raised his eyebrow the way he always did when he found something humorous. Adam never actually laughed. Except, Persephone remembered with a secret smile, for the time they’d spent a few nights ago planning a fictitious attack on the neighborhood.
“What did you do to her?” Harry asked.
“I didn’t do anything.” Adam walked to the windows of the sitting room, his back now turned to its other occupants. “She was informed about the upcoming ball.”
“She is that upset about it?” Persephone’s heart sunk.
“She is that pleased about it,” Adam corrected. “She’s been reduced to weeping at the kitchen table.”
“How has the rest of the staff reacted?” Persephone kept her amusement at Cook’s response to herself.
“Mrs. Smithson is acting as urgent as though the ball is this evening instead of three weeks from now. Barton has simply begun grinning when he thinks I am not looking.”
“Three weeks from now?” Persephone rose to her feet as she spoke. “But, Adam, Linus is supposed to be coming in three weeks’ time. Please tell me you haven’t changed your mind about his visit.” She stood watching him, knowing her face had probably gone unflatteringly pale.
Adam looked almost hurt at her words. Hurt? She’d never imagined that Adam could be injured by anything any person said. “Of course not, Persephone.” His eyes connected with hers, and she felt a twinge of shame for doubting him, so obvious was his frustration at her assumption. “I thought Linus would like to be part of the celebration.” Adam looked away from her. “He is a little young to dance at a ball, but he might make an appearance, at least.”
“I think Linus would appreciate being included,” Persephone answered as Adam walked away.
She wanted to be Adam’s friend and, thus far, had managed only to isolate him further. The silence in the room grew heavy. Harry, Persephone noticed, watched Adam with a degree of perplexity that did not bode well. If Adam’s closest friend found his behavior confusing, then Persephone did not stand a chance.
She searched her mind for the right thing to say, the right topic to pursue. Harry had said Adam seemed determined lately to discuss his childhood.
“Would you have enjoyed a ball when you were thirteen?” Persephone asked him.
“He does not enjoy a ball now,” Harry said.
Persephone gave Harry a frustrated look.
“So why the sudden urge to entertain, Adam?” Harry pushed the subject.
Adam paced to the window but didn’t answer.
“You’ve invited Persephone’s little brother. And, now, with the ball, I imagine every family of consequence in the northern half of England will be at Falstone at the same time.” Harry’s comments were not having a positive effect on Adam’s mood. “That is precisely the sort of thing that makes you miserable.”
Miserable? “I don’t want you to be miserable, Adam,” Persephone said, her attention entirely focused on him.
“I will not be miserable,” he grumbled.
He seemed miserable already.
“You will simply make the rest of us miserable,” Harry said. “Perhaps you should call the entire thing off and save us the suffering.”
Call it off? Not extend the invitations? Including Linus’s? Persephone’s eyes were glued to Adam. He wouldn’t actually do it, would he?
“I, for one, am in favor of keeping Falstone as quiet and undisturbed as possible. For then, you will be as quiet and undisturbed as possible, and that is best for all concerned,” Harry continued.
Persephone could feel her alarm growing. Suppose he managed to convince Adam to take back his invitation?
“And I don’t believe any of the invitations have actually been sent yet,” Harry added. “So there should be little difficulty preventing any visitors from actually arriving—”
“Shut up, Harry.” Persephone barely recognized her own voice, choked as it was by a sudden influx of emotion.
Both gentlemen’s eyes fixed on her, shock apparent in Harry’s, surprise mingled with something nearing amusement in Adam’s.
“So help me, Harry, if you talk him into turning my brother away,” she said, her voice unnaturally high, “I’ll . . . I’ll have you put in the gibbet cage!”
“Do not forget my crossbow, Persephone.” Adam moved to stand directly beside her. “It would be an efficient means of silencing him.”
“But the gibbet is crueler,” she mumbled, lowering her eyes to hide the sudden sheen of moisture that entered them.
Persephone realized in that moment that despite her determination otherwise, she had her heart firmly set on seeing her brother. Should Adam back out of his offer, she would be devastated.
“I had no idea I deserved such a fate.”
Persephone glared at Harry but couldn’t prevent the slightest tremor in her chin.
“Harry is not nearly persuasive enough to convince me to cancel Linus’s visit, Persephone.” Adam sounded frustrated anew. Persephone listened without looking up. “I have told you before that I do not say things that I do not mean. I told you Linus was coming to Falstone. There is no need for you to worry over that.”
“But there is.” She turned to face him, her own frustration nearly boiling over. “You tell me to trust you, but I don’t know that I can. I don’t know anything about you, Adam. I have no idea what kind of man you are. And that . . . that frightens me.”
“I frighten you?” His voice was low, a troubled look in his eyes.
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It really isn’t,” Harry confirmed.
“Shut up, Harry,” Persephone and Adam snapped in unison.
He smiled as if entirely amused by the situation. “I am happy to see I am a unifying force.”
It was too much. Feeling her resolve crumble, Persephone spun away from them both and began a flight for the door. After one step, a hand caught hold of her wrist.
She glanced back, surprised, confused, and a little concerned. Adam held her there, forehead creased in apparent frustration. “Don’t go,” he said, his voice full of command and authority.
Persephone attempted to pull free, but he held her fast. “Let me—”
“Please don’t go,” he amended.
Persephone ceased struggling the moment she looked into his face. There was that look again, the one she woul
d have sworn came from pain or fear or both. It was subtle, almost lost in the detachment and sense of superiority he exuded.
Sometime along the way, Adam had been hurt, and the pain still clung to him. And in those rare moments when a gentler Adam emerged from beneath the hardened surface, Persephone thought she was seeing who he truly was.
“Now would be a perfect opportunity, Harry, for a timely exit.” Adam didn’t look at his friend. He still held Persephone by the wrist, though not at all painfully.
“Hint taken.” Harry swept an overdone bow before gliding from the room.
“Now listen to me, Persephone Iphigenia.” Adam gave her a very determined, almost fierce look, his tone one that brooked no arguments. “I have faults, like any other man, but I am not a liar. I have promised that your brother will visit you here and no one, not Harry, not anyone else, will browbeat me into going back on that promise. Is that clear?”
She felt her chin quiver even as she nodded her understanding. And in an instant the duke seemed to melt away, and she felt almost as though she were looking at an ordinary man.
“Don’t start crying,” he said, sounding confused and concerned.
With her free hand, Persephone brushed at an escaping tear. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I want to see my brother until I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to.”
Adam seemed to study her for a moment, indecision flashing through his eyes.
“Forgive me,” Adam muttered uncomfortably as he released her wrist.
Persephone shook off the apology. Neither of them moved, but they stood not more than an arm’s length apart, eyes darting around the room, settling occasionally on one another, though never remaining there for more than the length of a breath. It was not a comfortable silence. The air around them seemed jumpy and anxious.
“Have you walked through your garden today?” His voice was almost unrecognizably soft.
“My garden?”
“The hedge garden,” he awkwardly corrected. Adam even looked a little embarrassed.
He thought of it as her garden just as she did, Persephone thought with awe. Did he understand why it had become so important to her? Why she treasured it the way she did? “It has been snowing,” she answered his question.
Adam actually smiled. “This is Northumberland.”
Heavens, he looked so much more pleasant when he smiled. The smile reached his eyes that time. His blue eyes. Divinely blue.
“It will snow for months.”
“In other words, I need to grow accustomed to snow.” She smiled back.
He nodded mutely, studying her the way she studied him. How she wished mourning attire allowed for blue. She felt prettier with blue eyes, and Persephone couldn’t remember a time when she wanted to look pretty more than she did at that moment.
That thought hit her hard. She had to close her eyes against the realization. If Adam continued being kind and gentle, and if she wasn’t very careful, Persephone was in very real danger of developing feelings for him, feelings that went far beyond friendship. A one-sided love was not at all what she wanted.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Adam was speechless. He was never speechless. He had entered the drawing room in anticipation of dinner only to find his mother sharing a sofa with Persephone.
“Good evening.” Mother smiled that pitying smile she always used. “You look a bit unwell, poor boy.”
“I am fine.” Adam paced away from her. He hadn’t actually expected Mother to come to Northumberland for the ill-conceived wedding ball. He ought to have known better. Balls had never kept her at Northumberland, but they had always brought her back: back from Newcastle, back from Leeds, back from London.
“I was just telling Persephone of the wonderful balls we used to have here at the castle.” Mother’s tone turned wistful and reminiscent. “Even the London papers were full of every detail of the evening; who attended, the decorations, the menu. Falstone balls were positively legendary.”
“And completely pointless,” Adam added under his breath. He knew his father had staged the monumental entertainments solely for Mother. She’d left anyway.
“I am certain our ball will be far less elaborate.” No apology hung in Persephone’s tone, no disappointment, merely a statement of fact. Adam was grateful for that. Somehow he couldn’t bear the thought of her being disappointed by her wedding ball, or anything else for that matter—especially by him. If she asked, he would give her the most extravagant evening she could imagine.
“Oh, but it could be,” Mother said to Persephone. “A few changes to the menu, perhaps a more involved decorating scheme—”
“No,” Persephone interrupted. “My tastes are far more simple, I assure you. Mrs. Smithson and I have discussed the menu and the preparations, and I am quite satisfied.”
“Satisfied and pleased are not the same thing,” Mother pointed out.
Was she displeased, then? Adam looked over at Persephone from the corner of his eye. She did appear a little flustered.
Adam moved to the window. The informal drawing room overlooked the north garden and tower. It was the only area of Falstone permitted to run wild. He’d always liked it, the one part of his home that never felt contrived.
“I am both satisfied and pleased,” Persephone insisted.
Adam wondered if she meant it. She was precisely the sort of person who would accept less than what she wanted in order to please another, in order to have peace and harmony. He didn’t want her settling. He didn’t want her merely contented. Adam wanted her to be happy. He wanted Falstone to be her home. He wanted her to have everything she wished for.
Rubbing his forehead with his hand, Adam let out a long, silent breath. “I sound just like my father,” he said to himself. For the first time in his life, Adam wasn’t at all certain he liked the idea of having inherited one of his father’s traits. Father had spent Adam’s early years catering to Mother, trying to give her everything she wanted. In the end he’d been left lonely, and, Adam realized with some pain, Father had been broken, undone by her defection and his own inability to please his wife.
Now Adam was attempting to do the same thing. He meant to keep Persephone at Falstone through bribes, entertainments, visitors, whatever he thought she wanted. “It will never work,” he told himself. “It didn’t before, it won’t now.”
“You really must let me help with the next entertainment,” Mother was saying when Adam’s ears returned to the ladies’ conversation. “I could recommend a few individuals whom you should consider including.” Her enthusiasm grew with each word. Adam felt himself stiffen with tension. “Friends of mine who are simply delightful.”
Mother’s friends walking the corridors of the very home they’d pulled her from? After all Father had done, after all the time Adam himself had spent praying, begging her to stay, Mother was suddenly so willing to be at Falstone? And she wanted to bring with her the sort of people who had pulled his family apart when Adam was only a child.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice stern enough to cut through their conversation.
Both ladies looked up at him. It was the perfect opportunity to end all of Mother’s schemes. He could tell her that there would be no other entertainments once the blasted ball was over.
But something in him felt five years old again, running to the front doors because Mother had returned, promising to be a good boy if only she would stay for a while. He would cling to her skirts and beg her to tell him about her excursions and to come to the nursery to read to him. Father would smile at her and greet her with a fond kiss on the cheek and tell Mother how happy he was that she had returned.
Sending her away would feel like letting Father down, which made no sense. Father was no longer there. Neither was that tiny boy, yet Adam could clearly see the pain in his face as his mother had slipped away again.
“Excuse me.” His voice emerged softer than before. He walked back to the door of the drawing room.
“But dinner,�
� Mother protested.
At least she’d left off the “my poor boy.”
“I am not particularly hungry, Mother.” Anger gripped him, but he could not explain exactly why.
“You are ill, you poor—”
“I am not ill,” he snapped. “I am simply not hungry.”
“But skipping a meal is not good for you.” Mother used the tone she had employed when he was still in the nursery.
“Adam is perfectly capable of deciding what is good for him,” Persephone said, a gentle scold in her voice.
“Thank you, Persephone.” His tension only grew as he stood in the doorway. “Excuse me, ladies.” He offered an abbreviated but strictly appropriate bow and left the room.
Only two weeks remained until the ball. In the week since Adam had proposed the mad scheme, he had more than once regretted it. But as he’d told Persephone, he was a man of his word. There was no question of calling it off.
Every invitation extended had been accepted—except for the Jonquil family, they being still in deepest mourning over the passing of the earl—so the ball would be precisely the sort of crush London idolized and Adam despised.
He stood in the middle of his book room, having arrived there without even noticing the path his feet had taken. Just as automatically, Adam’s eyes turned to the portrait of his father and himself. What had happened to “Dukes do not depend on people” or “We are better off without her?”
If they had been so much better without Mother around, why had Father tried so hard to keep her there? Adam stared at the portrait as if it would answer. She’d left anyway. And Father had died a frustrated and lonely man, despite Adam’s attempts to be something of a balm. It hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t been enough for either of them.
Mother had left him. Then Father had, too. And Persephone, he felt certain, would be next. How often he had told himself that he didn’t care, that he needed no one? He was no longer a child begging for his mother’s affection or his father’s approval. He didn’t need it anymore.
Adam muttered a curse and stormed across the room to the French doors. It was too dark to see Persephone’s garden, so standing there was pointless, and yet he didn’t move away.
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