Chapter 2 #2
“And your boots,” she went on, gingerly stepping around a rock. “They are filthy.”
He glanced down briefly. “The yard is not a drawing room, Aunt.”
She sniffed, unimpressed, and let her gaze travel upward. “And that shirt. Honestly, must you roll your sleeves like a common laborer?”
William kept his tone even. “The men needed direction.”
“Yes, well, direction does not require you to look as though you have been wrestling the horses yourself.”
She stepped around another loose stone, her nose wrinkling again as she surveyed the tools scattered nearby.
William took in a deep breath but did not answer.
“And this place,” she continued, her voice tightening as she gestured toward the stalls and the half-finished repairs. “It is hardly suitable for a duke to spend his mornings.”
“The repairs must be done,” William said, his breath steadying as he spoke.
She ignored that, clicking her tongue clearly unconvinced, her eyes sweeping the yard once more before she prepared her next complaint.
“And Henry! Good heavens, William, the boy spends half his life in this dirt. Horses, mud, shouting men… it is no wonder he struggles with his Latin.”
William’s jaw tightened. “I doubt the dirt has any bearing on Latin, Aunt. The boy is doing fine.”
He knew he wasn’t being entirely truthful, but he refused to give his aunt the satisfaction of admitting it.
“He is doing well in everything except the one subject that matters for a gentleman’s education,” she countered, stepping closer. Her brown eyes sharpened as they moved from the stables to William himself, lingering on the dust on his sleeves, the tools, and the horse shifting behind him.
“And truly, William, look around you.” Her voice thinned with disapproval.
“This… environment. Rough men shouting, animals stamping, mud everywhere. It is hardly the atmosphere in which a child should be raised. A boy of Henry’s standing ought to be learning refinement, not memorizing declensions with the smell of manure drifting through the windows. ”
William’s jaw tightened further, but he still said nothing.
“This rustic upbringing of his is precisely why you must find a wife,” she said, her tone firm and certain. She lifted her chin, her eyes narrowing. “Someone who can run a proper household. A proper mother.”
She stepped closer, brushing another speck of dust from her glove with a sharp, impatient motion.
“Someone who understands what is required of a duchess,” she continued, her voice gaining strength. “You have even more responsibilities now, ever since that woman walked out.”
Her eyes fixed on him, waiting for a reaction.
He stiffened.
Lady Spencer pressed on, her voice rising with each word, the restraint she had attempted slipping entirely. “I still cannot fathom it. Leaving her child because she could not manage motherhood or the duties of a duchess. Ridiculous. Shameful. And you have suffered for it ever since.”
“Aunt.” His voice cut cleanly through her tirade.
She paused, her lips pursed, but only for a moment. Lady Spencer drew in a breath, ready to continue.
“That is quite enough,” William said, before his aunt could respond, his tone controlled.
Lady Spencer blinked, taken aback, then recovered quickly. “I am only trying to make you see reason. You cannot continue like this, William. The boy needs…”
“Enough,” he repeated, sharper that time. He stepped closer, the set of his shoulders unmistakably rigid.
She opened her mouth again, but he did not give her the chance.
“I do not wish to speak of her.”
“But William,” she said, her tone harsh, her voice rising again.
“Not her,” he said, firmer. “Not today. Not again.”
Lady Spencer’s mouth closed, though her eyes still flashed with all the opinions she was holding back.
William turned back toward the stables, the faint stubble along his jaw catching the light as he looked over the repairs again, his expression unreadable.
The conversation was over.
Lady Spencer scoffed, a sharp, dismissive sound, and turned on her heel. Her steps struck the ground with more force than necessary, each one tight with irritation. She lifted her skirts higher than before, pinching the fabric between stiff fingers as though the very air might soil it.
A small puff of dust rose with every step, and she brushed at it with quick, irritated flicks of her glove.
The feathers on her hat trembled with each movement, shaking more violently the faster she walked.
Her shoulders were rigid; her chin lifted in a hard line of disapproval. She did not look back.
William watched her go just long enough to be certain she was truly leaving. When she disappeared around the corner of the stable, the tension in his shoulders eased, though not fully. A familiar guilt settled in. He had spoken too harshly, and he knew it.
I should not have snapped at her.
The thought came with a small pull in his chest. He always reacted that way when she pressed him about his reputation, his son, and his past. He could hear the edge in his own voice even then, sharper than he intended.
But he could not sit through another lecture about the wife who had abandoned them or the future his aunt believed he was failing to secure.
He had grown tired of those speeches years ago.
He exhaled, long and controlled, and reached for his horse’s reins. The animal shifted closer, sensing his mood. William mounted in one smooth motion, settling into the saddle without a word.
He did not look toward the stable hands again. The work would continue without him. He had no patience left for overseeing repairs, not after his aunt’s intrusion and the memories she had stirred.
He turned the horse toward the estate house, the familiar path stretching ahead. The morning air was cool against his face as he rode, leaving Lady Spencer’s taunts behind him without another thought.