Chapter 21 - William
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE- WILLIAM
William yanked at his cravat at the dressing-room mirror.
“Stop that, my lord. I’ve only ironed a dozen of them. At this rate, you won’t have any left to wear to dinner.” Abeer hurried over and adjusted it; William let him. “Any particular reason you’re so nervous?”
“I’m not.” Even as he said the words, William wondered whether they were true. There was a restless energy in his limbs.
Abeer gave a thoughtful hum that plainly said he didn’t believe William. “It’s not because of the English rose who’ll be joining you this evening?”
“I think Rachel’s more like a thorny vine, truth be told.”
His servant lifted a dark eyebrow. “You know of whom I’m speaking.”
“As I’ve said before, there’s nothing between us.”
“Saying so doesn’t make it true, my lord.”
“Yet I’m telling the truth.”
“Then why are you so agitated?”
“None of the cravats fit right. They’re too tight.”
Another thoughtful hum made William clench his teeth.
“Perhaps you’ve gained weight.” Abeer poked William’s midsection. “I’ve noticed you’ve been favoring the sweets as of late.”
William scowled; his midsection was as firm as ever, and they both knew it. Abeer was just trying to get a rise out of him.
“I think you’ve shrunk them in the wash and don't want to admit it.”
Abeer chuckled. “Or perhaps your heart is anxious to see Miss Dahlia again.”
William swatted the man’s hands away, finishing the tidying of his cravat himself. “Typical of you, to think that I’m pining after a young lady just because she’s eligible and within my proximity.”
There was attraction, certainly. He wasn’t blind.
He was a connoisseur of luxuries, and Dahlia Warrington was of extraordinarily fine make.
Beside that, she amused him. She had a dry, quick kind of wit that he hadn’t expected to enjoy as much as he did.
Her blunt way of addressing things was quite rare and refreshing, especially amongst the female set.
But neither of them wanted a romantic attachment. She’d proven as much with the way she repeatedly turned down offers of engagement. And his reasons were so plentiful and obvious, they nearly went without saying.
His sisters, his business, and his estate demanded all of his time, and the Season hadn’t even started yet. He’d need more attention available, not less, when all the single gentlemen started tossing their caps at his sisters’ large dowries.
He and Dahlia were friends. Business associates. That was all.
That was the mantra he’d adopted when the lady very inconveniently popped into his mind at inopportune moments—especially at night when he lay in his massive bed.
Every night, he’d stare at the canopy overhead and try to forget all the little occupational fires he’d yet to put out.
Often, his thoughts wandered…to Dahlia’s throat when she laughed, the dark fan of her lashes against the pale porcelain of her cheek, the light perfection of her figure…
A sharp ripping sound rent the air; the remains of the cravat lay limp in his large hands. William blinked.
“Of course, my lord,” Abeer crooned. “She doesn’t affect you at all.
It’s simply that all your collars have shrunk at precisely the same time, the iron no longer works on your cravats, your pens either produce too much ink or too little, and…
what was it the other day?” Abeer tapped his chin and pretended to think.
“Ah, yes. Your new parchment was too scratchy. But I’m sure it has nothing to do with Miss Warrington in the least.”
“If I’ve been agitated as of late,” he fairly snarled, “it’s because of the unrest in Bombay and the lateness of the most recent shipment of silk.”
“Yes, because the workers in India are usually so satisfied and the ocean tides normally run on a strict schedule. I shall get you a new cravat, my lord.”
It was probably a good thing that Abeer ducked through to the closet, as William was grinding his teeth. He’d recovered nicely by the time his servant emerged with a new scrap of silk in his hands. This time, William wisely turned up his collar and allowed Abeer to assist him.
“Besides, I’d like to see how you’d deal with trying to marry off four sisters en masse without some extra stress.”
“I have six sisters, and they managed to marry themselves off without any involvement on my part. Yours will be much the same, you may mark my words.”
“There had better be a little involvement on my part,” William growled.
“Oh?” He gave a sly smile. “Have you given any thought to asking Miss Dahlia’s brother for permission to court her?”
“Of course not,” he spluttered. “Besides, Dahlia doesn’t have brothers.
She has brothers-by-law. If someone wanted to marry her, they’d have to ask the Marquess of Salisbury for permission.
Doubtless, the man grows tired of answering such letters.
He probably has a stack of forms already signed and waiting—his steward probably just checks a box next to ‘Yes, you may’ or ‘Certainly not’ and sends it back without bothering the fellow at all. ”
“My mistake, my lord,” Abeer said smoothly. “It’s clear you’ve given the matter no thought, as you say.”
William huffed a sigh and barely refrained from rolling his eyes.
He should have known better than to discuss the matter.
Once Abeer had an idea in his head—especially a romantic one—he was all but impossible.
It was best just to ignore the notion until it went away—much like how he dealt with his own fleeting thoughts of Dahlia Warrington.
“Are my sisters ready?”
“How would I know, my lord? I’ve been helping you.”
William pressed his lips together. Perhaps Abeer was right—he was stressed. Normally, his servant’s willfully obtuse answer would have amused him. This evening, he had to stifle an urge to throttle the man.
“Will you please go and check if they’re ready?”
Something in his tone must have hinted that William was very close to the edge indeed, for Abeer gave a knowing smile and a short bow, then left to follow his instructions.
William looked in the mirror and sighed. His cravat still wasn’t precisely right, though Abeer typically dressed him to perfection. And his hair—William resisted the urge to smooth it with his fingers; he settled for frowning at it instead.
The workers’ unrest in Bombay must have him more vexed than he’d previously realized.
However, Abeer was right—unrest was not a novelty in his business.
Most likely it was affecting him so because he was further away than he used to be.
Yes, that was it—he felt antsy and unsettled because he was half a world away from the problem.
Not to mention the responsibility he felt toward his eight sisters’ happiness. It was more pressure than he’d realized, being the head of household. Thankfully, he regularly received letters from his aunts and the governesses in Paris. At least his four youngest sisters were comfortable and happy.
Winifred was obsessed with her painting—to which William had written instruction that she was never to be alone with a painting instructor, not for a single instant. Painters were a flighty, romantic lot—the only thing worse than his sister marrying an artist would be if she took up with a writer.
Rose enjoyed exploring Paris and the surrounding countryside.
She was always dragging her chaperone and lady’s maid to museums and places of historical note.
Charlotte spent much of her time in dance—here, William gave the same instruction for propriety with instructors as he had Winifred—and attending the ballet.
Sweet Alice spent most of her time with her books. That was a thankfully safe pursuit.
William wouldn't have felt confident as to the validity of the reports and his sisters’ safety if his aunts weren’t supervising.
Louisa and Enid were identical—not only in appearance, as they were twins, but also in their cleverness and their fastidious natures.
They would have helped his sisters during those dark years, except that Richard had run them off at the outset.
William had to stifle the urge to yank at his collar again.
He turned from the mirror, resolving that he looked fine enough to dine with his sisters and the Warrington Misses.
Rachel had been threatening to bring one of her pets as of late.
She didn’t strike him as the type to back down—even from a challenge she set herself—so he might be dining with taxidermy.
On a whim, William absconded to his study.
He could hear his sisters going down to the parlor—Beatrice was chiding Claire about something that had happened in the park the other day, but he couldn't make out precisely what.
He knew he should join them, but he poured himself a small finger of his favorite whiskey and stared morosely into the fire instead.
Most people would say it was natural that he might be feeling a bit overtaxed.
He'd returned to London abruptly, and ever since he'd been exceedingly busy—sending all of his sisters to Paris so he might sort the mess of the estate and their family home.
The only break he'd had the past year was a hunting trip to the countryside that had been cut mercifully short by the Duke of Canterbury's marriage and the ending of Beaufort's engagement.
But the truth of it was, William loved his work.
Being busy energized him. His businesses were humming along quite nicely, and he was investigating several opportunities for expansion—one of his favorite pastimes.
The house was spectacular. His sisters—both the ones in London and those currently in Paris—seemed content enough.
So why was it that he felt so…unsettled?
Typically, he thrived on change and new challenges.