Chapter 16
Oliver never slept in the afternoon.
Dukes didn’t nap. Why would they?
They had far too much to do. He was not a child. But in this particular moment, Oliver did not feel himself. He felt vulnerable. Confused. Off center.
He shot up from Phoebe’s bed.
He gazed down at her as she was still sleeping.
God, she was beautiful. In all his life, he never would’ve imagined that he’d go to a Christmas house party, end up falling in love with one of the ladies there, the sister of his dear friend, propose marriage, and end up in a wee bit of a tryst. With the approval of the family.
It was so incredibly odd. But then again, so were the Briarwoods. He liked it. He shouldn’t, but he did.
It was going to be damn difficult getting over this whole Christmas thing every year. Perhaps he would be able to find a way to whisk Phoebe away to Austria.
Though she seemed committed to being with her family at Christmas, he thought she might like to travel. Yes, he would be able to convince her that going away might be the very best thing.
He didn’t want to have to do this every year, pretend that it was all well, that he could enjoy Christmas.
He’d gotten far too used to just doing the ceremonies of it all and then going up to his room and hiding. He could hide here with her, he thought.
But the dream he had just experienced? It crashed down upon him, explaining why he felt so ill at ease.
He shuddered. It had filled him with dread.
He should have been delighted. He had just asked the most beautiful woman in all of London to be his bride. He had found his duchess. It was an incredible achievement as a duke, and she was wonderful.
But the dream? Bloody hell, he had dreamed that he was standing before his father, who’d had that look on his face.
He had been dancing again, and his father had caught him, and his father had been enraged. Oliver swung his legs over the bed and plowed a hand through his hair, then wiped his hand over his tired face.
This was bad for him.
This whole endeavor.
The only thing that was good about it was Phoebe. He had to remind himself of the fact that he could endure this one Christmas because he had lost a wager, and also because he wanted to please Phoebe, and then he’d never have to do it again. He’d make absolute certain of that.
It was imperative he didn’t have this sort of dream again, a dream he hadn’t had since, well, childhood.
He swallowed and stood. Quickly, he sorted out his clothes, making sure he was presentable.
He went to the basin, poured cold water into it, then splashed his face.
He needed a good walk. He needed to get out, so he headed out into the hall, then down the wide stairs.
Phoebe would no doubt arise soon.
He felt a bit of a scoundrel leaving her sleeping, but surely he could assure her that he wanted her to be well rested for the revelries of the evening. And that was why he had let her sleep.
It was supposed to be a grand evening, for it was Christmas Eve.
He knew how much he’d have to endure. There would be Christmas carols, there would be food, and there would be games.
No doubt there would be more dancing put on by Monsieur Georges and the Briarwood family, who all seemed to love to dance, though he could not.
So, he wound his way down the stairs, stopped in the long hall, peering in for a moment, and smiled as he spotted the children’s tree.
For a moment, he felt pride at the beautiful tree. The feeling was a shock. He’d not experienced that feeling at Christmas since he was nine.
But then at the back of the hall, he spotted a boy there. Young, perhaps six years old. Oliver was not certain. He was quite small, and the boy had decked himself in ribbons and a crown and wings.
He was dancing up and down the hall in twirling steps, jumping and leaping. He spun and laughed and turned. He bounced gracefully on the balls of his toes, the ribbons on his costume flying into the air, the wings shaking, and suddenly Oliver felt a wave of horror.
The boy was going to get in terrible trouble.
Surely, the boy shouldn’t be doing that. Surely, a little boy should not be…
And then he knew exactly who the boy was. He’d seen him before.
He was Nestor’s son, the future duke’s son, the Duke of Westleigh’s grandson.
This boy, this wonderful, perfect boy, was doing something that no duke should do.
He was dancing up and down the hall with utter and complete abandon, his toes pointed, his arms up, his chest proud, and he twirled and twirled and twirled, his costume gleaming in the lowering light.
The candles glowed, their amber light everywhere, and the Christmas tree’s needles glistened a verdant green.
Oliver took a step forward, ready to tell the boy to stop, ready to tell him he must cease before anyone else caught him and he displeased them.
But then someone began to applaud.
“Well done, my son! How beautiful. Please don’t stop. Dance some more.”
The little boy gave an elaborate bow. “Papa, I’m tired, and I must save my energy for this evening’s performance. Monsieur Georges says to practice only a little bit and then not worry anymore, and I shall shine beautifully when it is time.”
“Monsieur Georges is correct,” Nestor said, though Oliver could not see him. He must have been seated tucked out of view. “But it fills my heart with such joy to see you dancing, my son.”
The little boy gave his father another elaborate bow. “Well, I suppose I could do it one more time, Papa. Maybe you could dance with me?”
“Of course,” Nestor enthused. “You know that I love Monsieur Georges, and your mother loves him and the ballet. I sometimes fear that I have lost all of you to it.”
“Never, Papa. You are always welcome there with us.”
Nestor let out a soft laugh. And he crossed to his son, picked him up in his arms, and spun him around and around until his costume gleamed like a star. And then, with Nestor holding his little son in his strong arms, he began to dance.
Not a waltz, not a polonaise, not any of the dances that a duke is expected to know. They were the sorts of steps that were done on a theater stage, steps that had been made popular in Paris.
And Oliver couldn’t breathe. They were steps just like the troupe that had come and performed for his father when he had been a boy of nine years old, and he had been struck with awe.
He had watched as his father had awarded those dancers a prime present, and Oliver had gone home and tried to be just like them.
But all his joy had been ripped away. All his hopes had been trod upon. And here, watching the little boy in Nestor’s arms, two future dukes dancing together, dancing freely, dancing beautifully?
Oliver felt like he was rattling apart.
His throat closed. He whirled on his booted heel and strode down the hallway.
He needed to get out. He needed air. He needed to be away from this house, this terrible place that awoke the most horrible demons within him, and the most terrible memories.
But he couldn’t escape the past, now that it had wakened to life.
Nor could he ignore the truth. His father had crushed him entirely, crushed all his love, and crushed the most tender thing about him.
His heart.