Her smile faltered, and once again, she was cast in shadows. Had something untoward caught her thoughts? He gave himself a mental shake. Regardless of the curiosity she stirred in him—for surely that was all it was—he needed to keep his distance.
He had troubles of his own to deal with and couldn’t risk allowing anyone close enough to discover his secrets.
“I have to mention what a delight your mother is,” Lady Lillian said, her polite reserve firmly back in place.
“Do you?” He couldn’t help the questioning tone. Nothing she said could’ve raised his reserve more, because his mother’s recent behavior was one of those secrets.
“Your house party was my first social event in London. Or rather, just outside of it. She was very kind to me and made me feel welcome.”
“She is...special.” He refused to discuss his mother with anyone.
“Her sense of humor and zeal for life are contagious.” Lady Lillian shook her head. “She’s quite unusual.”
“Indeed she is.” But grief had taken its toll, and she was no longer the same person she had been. Somehow, he needed to find a way to reverse that while keeping the problem out of the gossip mills. Having people think poorly of her would devastate her.
“I’m sorry to hear of your father’s passing.” Lady Lillian’s quiet words cut through his thoughts and caused a wave of sorrow to wash over him, surprising him with its strength.
His father had been his hero, perfect in so many ways—kind, understanding, strong, honorable. His death over a year ago had been unexpected and devastating. It had sent him and his mother reeling, unfortunately in different directions.
He’d allowed his grief to overcome him for a time, drowning it in drink and women, not realizing how deeply his father’s passing had affected his mother. How could he berate his mother for her behavior when he’d handled his own grief so poorly? But that was over now.
Her current emotional state was his fault. One more mistake to add to his growing list. Among them, the lack of managing their holdings as brilliantly as his father had. He was trying to do so now but found himself questioning every decision. His father had left large steps in which to follow.
Perhaps too large for Elijah.
One problem at a time, he reminded himself. His focus was making his mother well. If only he knew how to go about that.
He’d taken the step of moving back into their family home on Park Lane. She’d welcomed his choice and even updated the décor in his rooms to make certain he was comfortable. But that had only provided a temporary distraction for her. All too soon, her grief had taken over again.
The emotion was easily recognizable as he felt it so often himself.
“Thank you,” he managed, hoping Lady Lillian wouldn’t say anything more on the topic. Speaking of his father was still difficult.
“I must return. Thank you for keeping me company,” she said, the polite words, a dismissal of sorts, wrenching him from his thoughts.
“The pleasure was mine.” He gave her what he hoped was a pleasant smile as he bowed. In truth, he was out of practice.
Color rose in her cheeks, making him hope he’d managed to please her. The light in her eyes caused his chest to tighten.
“Good day.” He guided his horse in the direction he’d entered the park, resisting the temptation to look back at the lovely lady who’d caught his interest. Instead, he forced himself to think of what needed to be done next.
His calendar was now full of social events as he needed to keep a close eye on his mother. She seemed intent on attending as many parties as possible now that a year of mourning had passed. Was it to keep herself busy or another reason entirely that he couldn’t bring himself to ponder?
He rode home, his thoughts on the remainder of the day rather than on if he’d see Lady Lillian at the Heaton’s ball. How ridiculous was it that he even knew who was hosting an event on the morrow?
That was only one of the many ways his entire existence had been upended upon his father’s death. He only wished he was better managing it all.
Thank heaven for the efficiency of the servants at his home, he thought, not for the first time, as a footman rushed down the front steps to greet him and take the reins of his horse.
“Good morning, your grace,” Dobbins, the butler, and so much more, greeted him as he held open the door. Having served the family for decades, his steadiness was a welcome reprieve in Elijah’s reeling life.
“Is my mother at home?”
“I believe she’s in her sitting room.”
“Thank you.” Elijah took the curving stairs two at a time to the second floor where his mother resided.
He tapped on her sitting room door then opened it. “Good morning to you, Mother.”
“And to you, my dear.” She smiled at him from her favorite chair near the window in the rose-colored room. Her dark hair was elegantly coiffed. “What are you up to this fine day?”
Her overly bright expression had him narrowing his eyes with concern at the cause. She wore her usual black paramatta silk in a slight variation of the previous day’s style, her figure still slim. He was beginning to detest the dull fabric though her creamy complexion still glowed with beauty despite the lack of color in her attire.
Each time Elijah looked at her in black, a reminder of his father’s passing screamed at him. Not that he wanted to forget him—anything but. Yet how could she—or he—move past her grief when constantly reminded of the loss she’d endured? Unfortunately, he could hardly argue such things when Queen Victoria set the standard for mourning.
Part of him wanted to protest.
Why couldn’t they celebrate the man his father had been rather than his loss? It was as if those who still lived had to pay a penance for surviving. That made little sense.
But determining proper mourning customs was a problem he couldn’t resolve. He only wanted to assist his mother.
“I went for a ride. It truly is a fine morning.”
She glanced out the window as if she hadn’t yet noticed even though she’d remarked on it. An embroidery piece sat on her lap, but he could see from the pattern that she hadn’t taken a stitch in the past week. The flower petal remained half done. The needlework served as a prop from what he could tell.
“Do you like to draw?” he asked, thinking of Lady Lillian’s remark about preferring drawing over needlework.
She reached for her teacup. “I did when I was younger, though I haven’t done so in an age.”
“Perhaps you should try it again. I understand some find it more rewarding than embroidery.”
After taking a sip, she set down her cup. “Who told you that?”
“Lady Lillian. Do you remember her from the house party?”
She frowned. “I can’t say that I do.”
Her answer had him turning away before she saw his dismay. How could she not remember? She and Lady Lillian had spoken at some length. His mother had enjoyed the conversation enough to mention it to him.
He briefly closed his eyes as the reason stared him in the face. His mother had been drinking more than usual that evening, leaving her memory fuzzy. That hadn’t been the first time.
He turned back, forcing a pleasant expression. “I’m certain you’ll have the opportunity to meet her again.” He looked at her cup, wondering what it contained.
She reached for it once more, which only roused his suspicion further.
Unwilling to let it go, he took the cup from her grasp. “What sort of tea do you have this morn?” He sniffed it, the aroma carrying the distinctive scent of brandy. With a brow raised, he asked, “I thought we discussed this?”
“We did.” Her brown eyes met his and held no apology or shame. “But some days are better than others.”
He released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he set down the cup. How could he argue with that? If truth be told, he’d done his share of drinking—still did—to cope with his grief.
Why did lov
ing and losing someone have to hurt so much?
He knelt beside his mother’s chair and drew her into his arms. The pain in his chest tightening as a wave of grief rolled through him.
He simply held her for a long moment until at last the tension in her body eased along with the lump in his throat. But was the shuddering breath she drew any better?
No, for it threatened the fragile hold he kept on his sorrow. What help was he to his mother if he allowed his own pain to be unleashed?
None.
“I miss him, Mother.” He drew back to hold her gaze. “Life isn’t the same without him.”
Her eyes filled with tears, her lips pursed to hold back her sobs. She nodded.
“But we have each other. Tell me how to help you. You must know I would do anything.”
“Then allow me my tea, Elijah,” she whispered. “’Tis all that helps right now.”
His grief increased two-fold at her quiet plea. He hadn’t been there for her directly after his father’s death. What made him think that his presence might help now?
“For today, Mother. Tomorrow we will begin anew. Together.”
“Each day is its own journey, don’t you think?”
Her words held both truth and despair. Success in living through one day’s grief didn’t guarantee the next. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he agreed at last as he released her. “Are you still planning to attend the Heaton’s ball tomorrow evening?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Surely attending a social function was better than sitting home with a cupful of brandy at her elbow. He searched for a reason to convince her to attend. “You could reacquaint yourself with Lady Lillian if she’s there.”
“Oh?” A spark lit her eyes. “Do you have an interest in her?”
He latched onto the promising light with both hands, regardless that the reason for it was a lie. “I’d appreciate your opinion of her.” He refused to acknowledge how much it hurt that he wasn’t enough to keep that spark lit.
“Of course, my dear. Who’s hosting the ball?”
Elijah forced a smile despite how much it concerned him that she hadn’t remembered what he’d said only a few moments ago.
Chapter Two
“It [drunkenness] is the ‘slippery stone’ that in countless instances has betrayed the foot careless or over-confident, and the downhill-path is trod never to be retraced.”
~The Seven Curses of London
Lillian reluctantly trailed Julia into the bookshop on Charing Cross Road the next day. If only she’d kept her worries to herself, she thought, not for the first time since the previous evening when things had gone awry.
In a moment of weakness and uncertainty brought on by her encounter with the duke, Lillian had raised the topic of hypothetical revenge at dinner. She’d hoped to hear something to bolster her courage to follow through with the task she’d set for herself.
But the conversation had taken on a life of its own. She should’ve known by now that Oliver, Julia, and Julia’s father, the Earl of Burnham, wouldn’t simply discuss the subject, weighing the merits of their various opinions. It had gone far beyond that.
Oliver and the earl had argued about Achilles’ acts of violence performed in anger compared to Odysseus’s planned revenge against his wife’s lovers. Then they’d perused Oliver’s shelves for a book that provided a more in-depth view, only to realize he didn’t have one.
They’d determined more information was needed before they could thoroughly discuss the advantages and disadvantages of vengeance, which was what brought Julia and a reluctant Lillian to the bookshop.
Her sister-in-law’s passion for tracking down books was something of a legend in their family and was what had brought her and Oliver together. Julia viewed any and all quests for the “right” book with great determination, as though each search was a matter of life and death.
“Anyone who doesn’t enjoy reading isn’t to be trusted,” Julia insisted as they entered the shop.
“Heaven forbid if you’re a member of this family and don’t care for books,” Lillian added. “Speaking of family, when will your Aunt Matilda return from her travels?” She had faint hope the change in topic would deter Julia’s resolve.
Lillian had met Matilda at the wedding a year ago and adored her. Matilda’s support had seen Julia through the death of Julia’s mother and the caring of her father in the following years.
“Not soon enough,” Julia said. “She’s fallen in love with Italy. Or perhaps it has more to do with a certain count who resides there, based on what I could garner between the lines of her last letter.” Julia shook her head with amusement as they paused inside the door of the quiet shop, the pleasant musty scent unique to the old books greeting them.
“Lady Frost, what brings you to our establishment this fine day?” the man behind the counter at Aimes & Clarke Booksellers asked.
“Good day, Mr. Clarke. I’m in need of your expertise,” Julia advised.
“Oh?” His brows rose with interest as if he relished the challenge. “Might I inquire as to whether it’s for your husband or your father?”
“Neither. I’m looking for a book on vengeance.”
“Ah,” he said with an all-knowing nod worthy of a sage. “An excellent topic. Are you in search of a story featuring a theme of vengeance or a study of historical uses of vengeance?”
Julia raised her brow at Lillian.
“A story,” Lillian quickly answered. Nothing she’d said had convinced Julia that this excursion to the bookshop was unnecessary. That hadn’t kept her from repeatedly trying to suggest they keep their shopping focused on hats or the like.
“Are you certain?” Julia asked. “I thought your interest was of a more serious bent.”
“Either, really,” Lillian offered at last. Because what else could she say? She couldn’t share that the reason she’d come to London was to make the Duke of Burbridge pay for what he’d done to her friend. Neither Julia nor Oliver would understand.
Throughout the evening, Oliver’s questioning regard had fastened on Lillian several times, the memory of the uncomfortable sensation enough to cause her to shift from one foot to the other even now.
Lillian sorely regretted raising the topic.
All she’d wanted was confirmation whether vengeance equaled justice. To her, it did. Her goal of revenge on the Duke of Burbridge was justified.
Wasn’t it?
She didn’t think a book on the topic was going to eliminate her reservations. In the middle of the night, she’d determined the duke’s behavior was to blame for her uncertainty.
He was...nice. So nice that it was difficult to believe he’d acted as callously as Helena had insisted. That he’d singled her out to dance at a ball. That he’d flirted with her. That he’d gone so far as to write her a love letter suggesting they secretly meet, only to not bother making an appearance. Helena had been devastated by his absence at that rendezvous. Inconsolable, according to her mother.
When Lillian had returned home and called upon Helena to find her deathly ill, she’d been shocked—horrified even. She’d latched onto the reason for Helena’s lost will to live, to fight the illness. Anything was better than the helplessness that had held her in its grip, including anger. The death of her childhood friend couldn’t go unpunished. Not when Helena’s last words to Lillian had been, “If only he could feel half the sorrow he’s caused me.”
Lillian swallowed against the lump in her throat at the memory.
If Burbridge attended the ball this evening, she’d have another chance to observe his actions and come to terms with her plan and better know how to act on it. How difficult could it be to convince the duke to fall in love with her so she could break his heart?
“I have a few for your perusal,” Mr. Clarke advised as he stepped around the end of the counter to show them to the back of the store where the tall shelves blocked out most of the light. He skimmed the rows of books before pulling several from the shelv
es. “Here are two or three. I have another I’ll bring to you.”
The bell above the door tinkled, heralding the arrival of a customer.
“Please feel free to assist that person while we review these,” Julia told the proprietor.
With a short bow, the thin man returned to the front of the store to greet the other customer.
Voices rumbled through the shop as Lillian opened one of the books. Should she simply pick one, so they could continue with their other shopping, or was there a chance something within the pages would truly help?
“Grieving?” Mr. Clarke asked from the front of the shop. “I believe I have a new book recently published on the topic.”
Lillian glanced up in time to see the Duke of Burbridge’s tall form follow Mr. Clarke past the row of books where they stood to the other side of the shop.
Shock stilled her even as a pang of sympathy struck her. She’d seen the pain in his eyes when she’d mentioned his father the previous morning. The idea of him searching for the book himself rather than sending a servant was telling. How was she to seek revenge when she knew he still hurt from the loss of his father? Her plan was growing more complicated by the moment.
The sound of their voices grew closer, and Lillian stiffened.
“Is that someone you know?” Julia whispered.
“A recent acquaintance.”
“Shall we move to the front to greet him?”
“No.” Lillian realized too late how adamant her tone sounded. “I mean, there’s no need to do so. I don’t know him well.”
Julia’s brow rose in question, but Lillian feigned interest in the book she held.
No matter how many times she read the first page, she couldn’t comprehend it. Not with that deep voice a few rows over speaking quietly to Mr. Clarke.
Daring the Duke (The Seven Curses of London Book 7) Page 2
