Chapter 1 #2
It was a half day ride to his quiet estate outside of London. More countryside than city, he could escape the fumes and the filth for peace and quiet. This wasn’t his largest estate, but it was the easiest to manage as it sat neatly in the middle between London and his country seat in Westvale.
The sun had set by the time he arrived home where he found two stable boys awaiting him in the mews. They doffed their hats and bowed, patiently waiting to accept the reins.
“You didn’t wait long, did you?” Ronan charged them.
Exchanging looks, the boys shook their heads. He saw the lie but his tongue tangled when he tried to think of a way to convince them to be honest. He quietly huffed before handing over the reins. “Feed him well.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” they promised, and waited until he entered through the side door.
Ronan was already in the process of removing his cloak when he stopped short, nearly stumbling over himself upon seeing his butler there in the way. “Good lord! Hobbes, what are you doing?”
“You, Your Grace, are late.” Hobbes set down the candle to help him with his cloak. Then he took the hat. “Approximately forty-two minutes later than you’ve ever been. What happened?”
“Traffic,” Ronan lied.
The older man squinted at him in the bad lighting. Having been with the Ward family since they accepted the twenty years prior, Hobbes knew Ronan better than anyone else. At least, anyone who still lived. His gray hair was neatly combed, and a whisper of a mustache did nothing to hide his frown.
“Whatever need do you have to lie to me?” Hobbes demanded.
Rolling his eyes, Ronan skirted past him. “That’s not your business, Hobbes. Have you a drink ready for me?”
“It’s a warm night.”
“But a chilly ride.” Ronan made his way down the hall to a near side room, feeling more than hearing his butler trail behind him. It only took a second to find the roaring fireplace and tea kettle that awaited him. “Ah. You old fool. Who is the liar now?”
His butler sniffed. “I never lied. I merely said it was a warm night.”
“And yet I want my tea prepared for me when I do arrive home, as I have for the last three years,” Ronan pointed out sternly.
The water was boiling so he took the tea kettle away from the fireplace to set up nearby.
When his butler came to take over, he threw the towel at the older man.
“If you don’t want to do it then you don’t get to do it. ”
“I did prepare your tea before,” Hobbes muttered, clearly disgruntled.
He didn’t like Ronan doing his work for him.
Not that a butler needed to make tea. But it seemed no one else in the household cared to spend more than a second in Ronan’s presence, so the two of them usually wound up here in the evening.
“Three cups were prepared. They all went cold in your absence.”
Ronan paused from handling the spoon. “You didn’t drink them yourself?”
The man made a face. “You know I cannot stand your tea. It’s thick and unsavory.”
“It’s foreign,” Ronan corrected him. “And you’re a snob. I needed to drink something. Or do you want to pull out that bottle?”
“No.”
In this estate, there was exactly one bottle.
A rich red wine that Ronan had brought back from Italy some time ago.
The mere thought made his mouth water even as he forced scalding tea on his tongue.
His stomach twisted before the richness slid down his throat like the welcome distraction he meant for it to be.
Because the bottle was not supposed to ever be drunk.
“Your Grace?”
“Where is the boy?”
“He’s abed already,” Hobbes reassured him with a glance toward the clock in the corner. “The hour is late. A dinner tray should be ready in your bed chamber by the time you make your way there. I don’t know if he’s asleep yet to welcome a secret visit.”
Ronan frowned. “I wasn’t going to visit him.”
“Not even a peak?”
“No,” he said defensively.
“You’re pacing again,” Hobbes noted.
Shaking his head, Ronan downed the rest of the tea before resuming his walk. “I know.”
“What is it now? The boy?” There was a slightly mocking, scolding tone there that Ronan decided to ignore. The two of them had talked enough this week alone about the entire situation and there was, as he continued to reassure his servant, nothing to be done.
“No. Something new,” he said with a note of irony in his voice. “It appears I cannot escape the rumors in London.”
Hobbes frowned, concern threading his brow. “What do they know?”
“Certainly not the truth.” Finally, Ronan shoved himself into a chair because he couldn’t take the pacing any longer.
Except he couldn’t be still. Whatever calm he thought he could manage simply wasn’t there.
He glared at his fingers as they tapped across the desk, wishing them to be still.
Wishing he could be still. Wishing his heart could be still.
“Oh?” Hobbes widened his eyes with curiosity as he leaned forward. “What is it now?
Ronan felt acid on his tongue. “They think I’m to marry.”
His servant stared, still, and blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t. It’s not worth it.”
“You? Married?”
“To marry,” Ronan corrected him before he could help it.
It’s not like that matters. Nothing like that matters. There are other things that matter. Things I need to… Things I have to stop ignoring.
“How strange,” Hobbes said at last. “Well, perhaps that could be a good thing.”
It was Ronan’s turn to then ask, “I beg your finest pardon?”
“Thank you kindly, but do consider that it would solve a problem of yours,” Hobbes pointed out. He rolled his eyes pointedly toward the ceiling, keeping there a moment, before staring back at Ronan. “What a perfect opportunity it is to fall right into your lap.”
“A perfect opportunity?”
“A godsend, even.”
Ronan glowered at him even as the man hovered. “I don’t even know who she is. I hardly have a name.”
“Who needs a name when you can have yourself a wife?”
That was an awful question of Hobbes, and yet there was no denying it was a partial answer as well.
Even as the butler made way to prepare Ronan another cup of masala chai, something he’d taken to purchasing frequently after his short stay abroad in India, the words lingered in the space of the small study.
It was undeniably a strange situation, Ronan could accept. He’d never heard of a young lady announcing a betrothal to a stranger without his knowledge. Was this some sort of trap? A jest? A lie?
Perhaps a gamble. On whose part it will be, I can hardly say. But…
He eyed Hobbes across the room and grimaced. There were few who could make Ronan do anything he did not wish to do, especially as there was so much he didn’t wish to do. But the butler had an idea and Ronan knew the man would be relentless after tonight.
It is my name, after all, being spread about London. Everyone in the ton will know by morning. Oh blast it. I have to go back and see who thinks she is marrying me.