Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
" I f you'll just look here, Your Grace, you'll see the geographic region in question…"
Percy took a deep breath in through his nose and tried his very hardest to pay attention. This was the wrong Fitzgerald, he thought with irritation. He'd had no problem at all paying attention to Lady Marina. No, he had found his focus quite captured by the softness of her mouth, the spark in her eye as she'd told him off, or the soft little sounds she'd made as he'd twined his tongue with hers. Kissing her had been so engrossing that it was frankly a miracle that he had managed to recollect that the dinner hour had been approaching.
Sending her off had been an exercise in restraint, though Percy had been telling the truth when he'd told her that he didn't like to rush things. After Lady Marina had left his bedchamber—he smothered a grin at the thought of her brazenness at seeking him out in his private quarters—he'd hurried to dress, rather than dwell on how much less appealing the space was now that she had gone. Much more fun to dwell on where their little game of seduction might go next.
Best not to think about that now, though , he reprimanded himself, wrenching his focus back to Martin Fitzgerald. The man was, Percy had to admit, however begrudgingly, extremely thorough. His plans were sound and tracked every part of his proposed ice import business, including shipping routes, information regarding demand, and calculations regarding how much ice would be saved by the use of Percy's ships. It was a solid proposition and yet, listening to Packley drone on, Percy found himself wishing that he had lingered up in his rooms, even if the lingering scent of Lady Marina's perfume was there to haunt him.
"My proposal, Your Grace," Packley was saying, "is an equal partnership. We would each provide equal capital—yours partially in the form of the ships, naturally—and each reaps equal shares of the profit." He shuffled through the pack of papers, which he had apparently been carrying on his person at all times, to find one with projected budgets and timelines for earning out initial costs.
Despite himself, Percy felt his eyebrow raise. It was an impressive return on investment—though not so impressive that he felt he was being taken for a ride. The principles were sound. He was inclined to agree to Packley's proposition, no matter how irritating he found the man himself.
The scheme would generate Percy some funds, which were no longer as direly necessary as they had been a few years ago, though an increase in income would still obviously be useful. Perhaps he'd finally be able to renovate this residence, which he'd been forced to hold off doing while he funded much-needed repairs and improvements to the surrounding tenancies, settled his father's debts, and paid the inheritance tax. Besides , he thought absently, helping Packley would also help Lady Marina…
As soon as the thought registered, Percy sat up straighter in his chair, suddenly enough that even Packley noticed, stuttering a bit before continuing with his explanation. Percy scarcely paid him any mind. What was he doing ? He shouldn't be considering how his actions could help Lady Marina—especially not his financial decisions. Wasn't that the kind of attitude that had gotten the dukedom in such dire straits in the first place?
"I'll think about it," he said abruptly, interrupting Packley.
Packley paused, mouth open, as if unsure whether this was a promising sign, and therefore something he ought to let lie, or a disappointing one, and therefore worth an argument.
"I'll let you know my decision in a few days," Percy added firmly before Packley could decide which direction to take.
The man looked disappointed but nodded. "Of course, Your Grace," he said. "I appreciate you taking the time to hear me out." He bowed more deeply than was necessary and left the room.
Percy nodded absently after Packley's retreating form, already back in his own thoughts.
Percy's father had been a kind man. No, not kind—soft. He was always willing to do a favor, always happy to give a handout to anyone who needed it. A debt was owed? The old duke wouldn't recall it. A fortune lost? Percy's father would be happy, of course, to lend some blunt until the unfortunate victim got back on their feet—never mind that half the time the "victim" suffered from a loss entirely of their own making.
This supposed generosity of spirit—and wallet—had made the last Duke of Haddington extremely popular amongst his peers. He had been welcomed jovially by all the grand houses of Society, and even more jovially among the less grand ones—because, odds were, he'd loaned them a minor fortune at some point. He was a hero to all and sundry.
Except, of course, to those who depended on him.
Because while the duke had made sure that none of his peers was ever lacking, he'd done so at the expense of his family, his tenants, and his duties.
When he loaned several hundred pounds to a friend to cover a gambling debt, it meant that the roof of Haddington Estate had gone unrepaired. When he had sponsored a distant cousin's daughter's coming out, the tenants did not get their farming equipment modernized so that they could keep up with neighboring estates.
By the time Percy had inherited, the dukedom had been nearly destitute. Percy had been forced to claw his way back from the brink of bankruptcy.
"Oh, Percy, just in time," said his mother, walking past the study door. She smiled at him warmly. "Dinner is just about to be served."
Percy stood, extending his arm to escort her.
She looked well, his mother, relaxed in a way that only served to deepen Percy's ire over his father's memory. Much as Percy had loathed his father's desperate, foolish, pathetic need to be admired by Society for his generosity, he hadn't realized how deeply his father's profligate ways had affected his mother, as well.
Idiotically, Percy had assumed that his mother had been blind to her husband's faults. But now, looking at her, she looked five years younger than she had during the final years of her husband's life. Percy could only conclude that the dowager duchess had been just as concerned about—and had felt just as powerless regarding—the dukedom's financial situation as Percy had been.
He felt a rush of affection towards his mother as they headed towards the dining room.
"Thank you for organizing this party, Mother," he said, bending his head a little bit down towards hers. "I truly appreciate all the work you've done."
In public, Percy's mother was the consummate hostess. She had a talent for making sure everyone at an event felt special, comfortable, happy. In private with her son, she rolled her eyes and scoffed in a most unladylike manner.
"Don't lie to me, Percy. You're not any better at it than when you were three years old and swore you hadn't been into the jam cakes, even when you were bright red and sticky."
If Percy had a pound for every time he'd been reminded of this jam cakes incident—never mind that when it happened, he had been so young that he'd pronounced his own name Perthy —he wouldn't have needed to work a day to restore the dukedom's coffers. When Percy was an adolescent, the story had annoyed him to no end, but in this moment, it felt like a sign of his mother's abiding love.
"Very well," Percy said, chuckling. "I confess that I likely would have preferred a quiet week without all the fuss." Even as he said this, though, it rang somewhat untrue. Maybe yesterday that had been true, but today he was unwilling to give up his flirtation with Lady Marina, even if she was a liability that tempted him into potentially unwise decisions. He smiled at his mother. "I do appreciate the work you do to keep the household running. I don't wish for you to think it goes unnoticed."
He caught the sly look his mother sent him out of the corner of her eye a split second before she heaved a dramatic sigh.
"I have no choice, alas," she said, a false weariness suddenly suffusing her tone. "I am the only duchess to be found in these parts, never mind that I am but a mere dowager. If only someone—my beloved son, perhaps—had the means to secure a newer, younger duchess, who could lift these burdens from my weary shoulders."
"Very subtle," said Percy dryly, though he couldn't contain his smile. "You missed your calling on the stage."
His mother smiled, dropping her put-upon expression, and stepped in front of Percy, forcing them to pause outside the dining room. She reached up and gently touched his face. "You know I only wish for you to be happy, don't you, my darling?"
Percy's expression shifted into a frown, face moving against the softness of his mother's glove.
"I am happy," he said. What did he have to be unhappy about?
But his mother did not seem convinced. She looked at him searchingly.
"Content, I think," she said, half to herself. "But not happy. I want more for you." She let her hand fall.
Percy was about to argue with her, to say that he truly was happy and that she had nothing to worry about, but Lady Marina chose that moment to come down the stairs in a lovely sage green gown that hugged her decolletage in the most arresting fashion. The sight of her stole the words from his mouth, stole the breath from his lungs.
Perhaps she was a liability. Perhaps she put him at risk of thinking like his father had, something Percy had sworn—to himself and to his friends—that he would never, ever do. But she was a beautiful liability, a glorious risk.
All Percy had to do was make sure to remember that this was nothing more than a flirtation. A diversion, for the duration of the party.
One he intended, however, to enjoy to the fullest.
The dowager duchess turned, following her son's gaze over her shoulder.
"Hm," she said, a high, speculative noise. Apparently, Percy had gotten that particular verbal tic from his mother. It was decidedly less pleasant to have it used against him.
Hastily, Percy took his mother's arm in his again, and turned them towards the dining room.
"Let's go into dinner, shall we?" he asked hurriedly, trying to pretend even to himself that he did not notice his mother's suspicious smile.