Chapter Eleven
Marlow
My butler’s hands were shaking.
The man was the most composed, most rigid servant in all of England. I had never seen a single bead of sweat upon his brow. But here he stood in front of my desk, encapsulated by bright beams of early afternoon sunlight, mumbling—
“I will understand if Your G-Grace would prefer I remained . . . if I did not ask . . .”
I rubbed my temples. Something was wrong with him, and I hadn’t the patience to wait him out. My cat, Cleo, nestled between my boots, purring. She flicked her tail back and forth, and I swear the motion kept me from losing my temper. “Speak, Toole.”
“You have my word, it would have no effect on my work. No change to my loyalty as the woman is the most loyal to the family and to the Crown.”
The woman? “What are you saying? Plainly, for I haven’t the time.
” I needed to meet with my steward in a half hour, and I still hadn’t gone through the stack of papers he’d sent last week.
I had risen to my usual routine—tea in my room, an hour of fencing, then straight to work—but somehow, I was already behind.
“I wish to ask for her hand in marriage, Your Grace. She is a childhood friend and someone I have loved all my life. Her husband has died, and she is left with nothing. I want to look after her.”
My butler wanted to marry? Of all the ridiculous ideas. Did I not keep him busy enough? Where the devil did he plan to live? I rubbed an ache in my right arm, particularly sore after this morning’s fencing.
“Does she have children?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Well, at least there’s that comfort.”
Flick, flick. Cleo’s thick tail sounded on my boots.
Toole wrung his hands further into oblivion.
I blew out a breath. He was a good man. Trustworthy and loyal. But there was a reason servants oughtn’t to marry. It took away from their labor. It distracted them. I’d hired Toole because I thought we’d work together forever, and now he wanted a family besides?
“This is unexpected.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I never thought I’d see her again.
Indeed, it was my mother who brought her predicament to my attention.
We’ve met since, she and I, and the feelings are still there.
I would not ask your permission for any other woman on this earth.
To me, she is perfect. Would you allow it? ”
“Toole, I worry that the woman is taking advantage of you. She married another, and now is stranded, and frankly, sounds far beneath you. Does she not have family she can turn to?”
He shifted his feet. “I do not doubt her intentions. We have a shared past, one that I feel shameful to admit to. I made her promises back then that I was too cowardly to keep. I-I should have been more caring. More forward in my intentions. I lost her then. With your permission, I do not want to lose her a second time.”
Toole fancied himself in love, did he? He certainly seemed determined. “While I understand your desire to wed”—no, actually, I didn’t, but I wanted to keep my butler—“my primary responsibility is to the dukedom and the well-being of the estate. I will have to consider your request.”
He nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. Your consideration is much appreciated.”
I did not have to consider at all—his was a terrible choice. I couldn’t let my butler marry. I needed his full attention here.
“If there’s nothing else?”
“No, no. Nothing else.” He bowed, hesitant to leave, as though perhaps he had something more to say.
My wooden chair creaked as I leaned back, considering this sudden shift in character.
Love made people act quite strange, if love was what he was admitting to.
I knew little of the subject. I’d felt drawn to certain women in my life.
Desired them, certainly. But loved? I wasn’t sure I’d ever allow another person that much hold over me.
Love was not something you could plan, and therefore, it was irrelevant. Love could not build a kingdom or give thousands of people livelihoods or vote in Parliament.
Toole had pledged his life to service, and look what love was doing to him.
I waved him off as he took his leave, but before the door had closed, a hand caught it, thrusting it back open. “Cousin.”
Gabriel’s cherubic countenance filled my doorway. I drew in what I hoped would prove a patient breath and reached down to pat Cleo’s fluffy head.
“What now?”
“What can you do for me? Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” He unbuttoned his jacket and took the seat opposite me. “I’ll get straight to it. I need a little loan.”
After five seconds of silent staring, I realized he was serious. “No. Get out.” How dare the little weasel ask for more than the exorbitant sum I was already gifting him out of pure generosity of heart?
“Hear me out. I am serious this time—”
“Gabriel, I am overworked and overspent, and I do not have time—”
“What I am doing will change things for me, and for our family—”
“—for your ridiculous notions that will no doubt—”
“—and I’ve worked so hard—”
“—lead the family to ruin.”
“—if you’ll just trust me.” He took a long, serious breath. “Just this once.”
If only I had not trusted his whims over and over and over again for the past five years, dumping money into his frivolous investment schemes and business ideas. If he wanted me to take him seriously, he ought to drink less and do more for the family. Take a heap off my plate.
“No. That is final.”
“Please, Marlow. I cannot do this without you behind me.”
“You shall have to find another way. Toole!”
Gabriel gritted his teeth. His jaw tensed. “Why not?”
I stared hard at him. He did not truly wish to know what I thought. Not even Cleo could calm that rage.
“One last loan,” he pleaded. By the look on his face, for once it actually cost what was left of his pride to beg.
Toole popped his head back through the door. “Your Grace, you are needed in the drawing room urgently. Her Grace insists.”
I rubbed my face with both hands. “I am not available for calls. Please take Mr. Brennan instead.”
Gabriel frowned.
“She insists, Your Grace.” Toole stepped back, holding the door open.
Which was worse—Gabriel’s begging or Mother’s urgent-but-not-truly-urgent request?
I had no time nor patience for either. But I would rather not add my mother’s wrath to my already suffocating day.
Both fists thudded on my desk, and I pushed up to rise.
Cleo bounded from the room. A quick moment was all I could spare.
“Marlow.” Gabriel started to follow. “What do you say?”
“Now is not the time, Cousin.”
“It has to be, or I will lose this opportunity. Please.”
I waved him off with a hand, striding around the corner and all the way down to the drawing room, where the double doors were open fully.
“There he is!” Mother had been watching for me. She did not look particularly bothered, but she was an expert at hiding her feelings. She had taught me well.
Georgiana sat between her and Maggie on the settee wearing a faded green muslin.
Blonde curls pinned high atop her head, and that same Society smile turning her lips.
I’d only known her for a short time, and yet, I could already see it on her face—careful stoicism.
The rigid way she sat. Something was indeed amiss.
“Good afternoon,” I greeted them.
Lady Jersey and her sister-in-law sat opposite them, eyeing me with clear interest. “Lady Jersey. Mrs. Marcus. How are your families?” We’d seen them briefly last evening, and I wondered what had prompted them to come. Georgiana, perhaps?
“All well, thank you, Your Grace.” Lady Jersey looked back to Georgiana and Mother. “But we are eager to hear more about yours.” Both women seemed keen to engage her in conversation.
But my mother was unusually reticent. “Sit, Your Grace. Join us for tea, won’t you?”
“I have a meeting in half an hour.”
“Sit.” The only indication my mother gave of the serious nature of her intentions was the slightest tremor in her throat. So, I obliged her. I took the oversized chair beside her settee.
Georgiana took an empty teacup from the cart. “May I?” she asked, and I grunted my approval as I started to fill a plate. Small sandwiches with ham and cheese, early strawberries from the hothouse, and cakes. “Sugar?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, taking the cup from her. I liked my tea with just a dash of cream. I helped myself, and my mother frowned. I supposed I was acting a bit the heathen. “Thank you.”
Georgiana lifted her teacup to her lips to hide what I imagined was a laugh at my frustration.
She looked different. Brighter. Was it her hair? A new face cream or rouge? I could not account for the change, and it bothered me to distraction. Something about her was so familiar now.
And I rather liked watching the crease on her cheeks appear when she smiled.
Maggie cleared her throat and drew my attention. She stared hard at me and widened her eyes with an obvious Are you unwell? as she’d done a hundred times when I was in a particular mood. It meant, You are acting strange. Be pleasant.
I did my best to oblige by frowning less.
“The Waymonts’ party was a success, was it not?” Lady Jersey asked the room. The women murmured varying degrees of agreement. “Your Grace?”
“Very diverting,” I added, taking a bite of sandwich. I hadn’t eaten since early morning, and fencing had sparked an appetite in me.
“I did not see you dance all night.”
I frowned. I supposed I hadn’t, busy as I was introducing Georgiana to the masses. “I was more social than usual in other regards.”
“I overheard many disappointed young ladies.”
Deuces, what did they want from me? Talking or dancing or some undisclosed combination of both? “I am sorry to hear it. I shall . . . have to dance more in the future.”
Georgiana’s eyes flicked to mine with evident humor. Was I that obvious? Could she tell I didn’t mean it?
Lady Jersey’s smile was all pride for having my assurances. “I shall tell them. There is much excitement having you here this year. Even with your . . . friend.”