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“We’ll all visit you,” Lady Maggie added.
Lady Eve was positively beaming. “You won’t be able to stop us. Nothing will stop us from making nuisances of ourselves on your doorstep.”
Elijah wanted to ask where all this great good cheer had been previously, when Je
They would visit her in Paris, the lot of them, and bring their children and stay for weeks. They wouldn’t wait ten years to send a few letters, and leave the rest up to her.
Seventeen
Je
“You aren’t subject to ducal decrees, Elijah. I can manage Mama and Papa.”
He paused where two hallways intersected, one leading to the public rooms, one to the family chambers. “That’s not just a mama and a papa you’re facing, Genevieve, it’s also a duke and duchess. They’re used to ruling by divine right, and quelling insurrection merely by raising an eyebrow. I daresay their daughters don’t defy them, though their sons likely have.”
Je
Better than Elijah—and that had been so, so sweet, though one painting did not an impressive body of works create.
“Admitting you paint well will not get you to Paris.” He took her hand and led her down the hallway, his grip firm, his stride determined.
Foreboding edged happiness away. “What are you about, Elijah? Papa himself vouched for my talent.”
Elijah stopped outside the parlor door and dropped her hand. “If you get to Paris, it will be because your family loves you, and only because they love you. I’m counting on it.”
He left her no time to argue or refine on his point—of course her family loved her—before he planted a swift, no-nonsense kiss on her lips, then opened the parlor door and ushered her through.
“Your Grace, if I might have a word with you privately?”
At Elijah’s question, the duke stopped pacing and aimed a glacial stare at his guest. “A word? With you? Most assuredly.” He bowed to his wife and left the room with Elijah, while Je
“A medicinal tot is in order,” the duchess declared. “For both of us, and, Je
Which was exactly what Louisa had warned Je
Je
“What can they be discussing?” Je
“A marriage proposal?” the duchess suggested.
“I doubt it.”
Her mother gave her a considering look from the sideboard. “If Bernward offered, Genevieve, would you choose Paris over him?”
Her Grace was a pragmatic woman, also a mother who would cheerfully kill for her children or for her dear Percival. Her instincts were not to be discounted, ever.
“I did.”
“Oh, my dear, whatever could be more important than love?”
And now the dread moved up, north of Je
The door opened, and His Grace rejoined them, though of Elijah there was no evidence. To Je
“Ah, you’re drinking. My love, might I have a tot as well?”
Something was wrong. When His Grace’s temper was so completely replaced with what looked for all the world like regret, something was dreadfully wrong.
The duchess held her drink out to him. He brought it to his lips but kept his gaze on his wife, as if imbibing courage with the very sight of her.
“Bernward is a ca
Je
Her Grace took one end of a small sofa and Je
“Bernward claims you are not determined on Paris so much because you want to paint,” the duke said. He set his little glass down on the sideboard and turned his back on Je
That was rude, and His Grace was never intentionally rude to his duchess. Je
The duchess’s hand stroked over Je
“Genevieve, Bernward claims…” The duke’s shoulders heaved up and down, slowly, as if he were sorely fatigued. “Bernward is of the opinion that you seek the Continent not because your talent compels it, or not solely because of your talent, but because you blame yourself”—behind his back, the duke’s hands were laced so tightly his knuckles showed white—“you blame yourself for the death of not one, but of both your brothers, Bartholomew and Victor.”
The duchess’s soft gasp sounded over a roaring in Je
“Bernward claims,” the duke went on softly, “you must exile yourself out of guilt, because you are of the daft notion that only your happiness will atone for the loss of your brothers’ lives, though he suspects you disguise these sentiments even from yourself, or you try to. I ca
An ache grew and grew inside Je
When His Grace turned from the cold, dark window, Je
“Oh, my child.” The duchess enveloped Je
Fortunate indeed was the man whose wife had the presence of mind to keep him busy when sentiment threatened to render him… heartbroken. His Grace poured himself a shot of whisky, downed it, and poured another. This one he considered, while across the room Her Grace held a quietly lachrymose daughter, a young lady exhausted by her emotional burdens and by a failure of trust in her parents’ love.
And dear Esther… Percival fished out his second handkerchief—Windham menfolk were prepared for the occasional domestic affray, particularly around the holidays—and passed it to his duchess. She pressed it to her eyes while keeping an arm around the girl plastered to her mother’s shoulder, then gestured toward the sideboard.