The Duke's Hound Hated Every Woman He Courted — Until a Young Lady Walked Through the Gate
Chapter 8
Theme:
Font Size:
24px
"He kept a sketchbook," he said slowly. "The last summer. I teased him about it. There was a girl in it, drawn again and again—dark-haired, laughing, leaning on a stone wall. I asked him who she was, and he went red to the ears and said she was no one."He looked at Isolde—truly looked, perhaps for the first time. The girl in those pages had been rounder in the cheek and bright with some private joy; the woman before him had been worn thin by three years of hunger, grief, and Bristol winters."I never knew her face," he said. "I never knew it was you."Isolde, who had come to this house ready to despise him, found she could not look away. "Your Grace—" she began."Julian," he insisted, without lifting his hand from the dog. "If you will permit it. You are my brother's wife."She did not answer. It was not forgiveness yet, but it was the first thing anyone of that name had given her without being asked. And she held it carefully.When the Duke finally rose, his face was changed. The coldness had burned off like fog, and what lay beneath was raw and clear, and very angry—though not at her.He rang the bell. Hobbs, the elderly butler, appeared so quickly that he must have been waiting outside."Hobbs, who has managed my correspondence these three years?""Lord Percival, Your Grace." Hobbs frowned. "On your instruction.""I gave no such instruction.""You told us, in the week after the funeral, that you wished to hear no more names, Your Grace," the old man answered carefully. "Lord Percival offered to relieve you of the burden. You told him—and I remember it—'Do as you see fit.' He ordered every letter sent on to his lodgings in London, and the use of the estate seal besides." Hobbs hesitated. "Three of those letters came from Bristol, Your Grace, in the same hand. I packed them myself."The Duke sat very still. With four careless words, he had surrendered his own voice, and a man had stepped into the silence and used it for three years."Thank you, Hobbs. Ask Lord Percival and every guest in the house to assemble in the great hall in half an hour. No one is to leave. And send a rider to the curate of St. Aldric's; I want the parish register brought here tonight."When the door had closed, he turned to Isolde, and she saw that he was looking at her as though she had handed him something heavier than a ring."The dog," he said slowly. "11 women. I thought he hated them." He rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Think of it: 11 carriages, 11 arrivals. And who stood beside everyone to hand each lady down and make her welcome?"Isolde said it for him, very softly: "Lord Percival."