Chapter 4
Four
Kingston made his way down the stairs, the familiar surroundings of his friend’s estate offering him little comfort that morning.
He headed directly to the morning room where those in residence at Easton Abbey could have their first meal of the day.
He entered the room and stopped short. The room was not empty.
Sunlight streamed through the large windows of the room, casting a soft glow over the polished mahogany table.
The scent of fresh-baked bread and the rich aroma of tea filled the air, a welcome balm after the restless night.
His thoughts were clouded with a growing sense of dissatisfaction—his mind plagued by matters he could not quite shake.
It did not help that he would not be afforded the solitude he usually found in the morning as the Marquess and Marchioness of Easton did not join him early.
He glared at Lord Finley, who was seated at the head of the table, sipping tea with an air of studied nonchalance.
His face, though relaxed, held a certain coolness, as though he were waiting for Kingston’s entrance as one would await the arrival of any important guest. His breakfast had already been served, and the steam rising from his teacup gave off a warmth that seemed to mock Kingston’s current mood.
“Good day, Your Grace,” Lord Finley greeted, his voice carrying the polite but distant tone of someone well-practiced in social niceties. He didn’t stand, but his words were courteous enough. That did not stop them from irritating Kingston. “How are you on this fine morning?”
Kingston nodded curtly but made no immediate response as he seated himself at the table.
He was still deciding what his next words should be, all the while observing Finley closely.
The man was a snake in the grass, and Kingston had no desire to engage in pleasant conversation, especially with everything that had transpired between them.
It was not all Finley’s fault, but he had not been much help either.
He knew his friend and if he had tried he could have persuaded Oakley that the bloody duel was a mistake, that he had misjudged the situation.
A servant quickly approached with a steaming pot of tea and poured some in a cup for Kingston.
He accepted the cup, not taking his eyes off Lord Finley.
He could feel the other man’s gaze on him, steady and unbothered, as he sipped from his own teacup.
"Is there any word on the London Times?" Kingston finally asked. He took a small sip of his tea, his gaze never wavering from Lord Finley’s face.
The Times would be days out of date as it took a while for it to arrive so far in the country, but he still liked to read them.
“I’m certain we can retrieve it, Your Grace,” the footman said smoothly. He gestured toward another servant, who nodded and quickly left to fetch the paper.
Kingston could feel the weight of the tension pressing between them, but it was Finley who broke first, his voice casual, as if the events of the past few days were merely an afterthought.
“I do hope that the injury you received from the duel does not continue to trouble you,” he said, his tone surprisingly sincere, though it carried an undercurrent of something Kingston could not quite place.
“It would be most unfortunate if it caused you any lingering discomfort, especially considering the circumstances.” He cleared his throat.
“I do not want to burden my dear sister over this. She is newly married, as you are aware. She should not have to worry about any discord between me and you.”
Kingston’s jaw tightened at the mention of the duel.
He didn’t want to discuss the injury—not with Finley, not with anyone.
The wound had been painful, yes, and it had taken longer than he cared to admit to heal.
But what irked him the most was that he had been so damn foolish to get into the duel in the first place.
Lord Oakley had fired too soon—an unforgivable breach of honor—and yet, Kingston had been forced to remain silent about it, not wanting to cause a scene.
It still bothered him—more than he was willing to admit.
His irritation grew as Finley’s words sank in.
Was this man truly trying to find some way to make himself appear sympathetic?
To salvage whatever vestige of goodwill remained after the duel?
Kingston took a deep breath, steadying himself.
He would not let Finley’s words provoke him.
He had more important matters to attend to than dwelling on his injuries.
“I am fine,” he said curtly, avoiding eye contact. “It was nothing, truly.” He could feel Lord Finley’s eyes on him, assessing, but he refused to meet the gaze. Instead, he busied himself with the tea, letting the warmth of the liquid soothe the frustration bubbling within him.
“I hope you do not hold any ill will toward me or Lord Oakley,” Finley continued, his voice still carefully measured.
“It was a misunderstanding, nothing more—he cares deeply about his sister and when he thought you had attempted to dishonor her...” His voice trailed off and silence stretched between them.
Then he continued, “I trust it will not affect our future interactions.”
Kingston’s fingers tightened around his teacup, his frustration mounting.
He did not trust Lord Finley, nor did he care to discuss matters of honor with him.
That duel would always be a sore subject for him, and he would not agree to anything.
He still had not decided how he wished to handle the situation with Finley or Oakley.
The fact that Finley thought he could dismiss it with a few words made Kingston’s blood boil.
“There is nothing to discuss,” Kingston replied coldly, leaning back in his chair, forcing his tone to remain even. “The matter is settled.” At least for the moment… Time would tell if he could truly let the matter go or not.
For a long moment, Finley said nothing, seemingly content to watch Kingston simmer.
The silence hung between them like a heavy fog, neither man willing to break it first. Finally, the servant returned with the London Times, placing it neatly in front of Kingston.
The words of the paper were a welcome distraction, but the tension remained.
As he picked up the paper, he could feel the weight of Lord Finley’s gaze, and he knew this conversation was far from over.
“I am glad we were able to have this conversation, Your Grace,” Finley said with a polite smile, but there was a glint in his eyes that Kingston could not ignore. “I will be here for a few more days, and I trust we can leave our past disagreements behind us. For my sister, you understand.”
Kingston set the paper down slowly, meeting Finley’s eyes for the first time since the conversation began. “We will see,” he said flatly. “We will see.”
With that, he turned his attention back to the London Times, hoping that the quiet of the morning would drown out the unease that continued to pulse between them.
He had no desire to eat. His appetite had disappeared when he found Finley in the morning room.
But he forced himself to eat and drink his tea as if being in the room with the man did not bother him.
Kingston’s fingers drummed lightly on the armrest of his chair.
“We will see,” he muttered again, to himself, his gaze returning to the paper, his irritation building with every word that passed between them.
His mind, filled with the painful memory of the duel, refused to be silenced by politeness or perfunctory words.
He could still feel the sting of the injury, the humiliating defeat.
There was too much at stake, too much he could not let go.
He needed to address the matter with Oakley—he could not let it fester, could not let it be forgotten simply because Finley thought he should—because the man did not wish to upset his sister.
But for now, there was nothing more he could do.
Pushing the paper aside, he stood up, his movements deliberate, though he could still feel Finley’s gaze lingering on him. “I believe I’ll take a turn in the gardens,” he said, his voice clipped. “I find myself in need of a breath of fresh air. If you will excuse me.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Finley replied, still sitting with that same disarming smile. “I hope you find it restful.”
Kingston didn’t answer him, instead turning toward the door and making his way out of the room. As the cool morning air hit his face, he allowed himself a moment to breathe deeply, trying to clear his head. The weight of the morning, of the conversation with Finley, had left him with little peace.
As he stepped outside into the sunlight, he was confronted with the sight of the sprawling estate, the gardens that stretched before him, but his mind was too far consumed with everything he had left unsaid.
With each step, he found his thoughts turning back to the duel and the consequences that still loomed over him like a dark cloud.
He would face Lord Oakley. But he wasn’t sure if that would bring resolution.
What would he say? How could he move forward when so much had been left unresolved?
And as for Finley, his words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
There was something else at play here—something more than just family and civility.
Whatever game Finley was playing, Kingston would have to figure it out soon enough.