hated the fact that
he should feel this way at all, that his grandfather should be allowed to have
this effect over him. By the time he reached the double doors leading outside,
Christian had convinced himself that the reason for the summons had to be
Eleanor’s coming-out. The duke was going to refuse it again.
He found the duke sitting in a cane-backed
chair beneath the feathery boughs of a large willow tree. The drooping branches
nearly shrouded him from view. His pale hair was undressed, falling about his
shoulders in thinning strands, and he wore a brocade dressing robe over his
shirt and breeches, slippers of red morocco on his feet.
He had not yet noticed his grandson’s
arrival. Christian delayed a moment in the doorway. He hadn’t been to these
gardens since he’d been a boy, since shortly before his father had died, taking
him immediately from the innocence and freedom he had known in childhood to the
penitentiary role he now held as ducal heir. From then on, Christian’s imaginative
games of pirate and adventurer, even his interest in the wars taking place
overseas, were forbidden, for these were pursuits deemed unnecessary for a
future duke. After all, as heir to the Westover fortune, he would never be
granted the officer’s position he had so often dreamed of as a boy. His
grandfather had made certain of it, filling Christian’s: days instead with
studies of Latin and philosophy.
Stepping further into the garden,
Christian noticed a glass of lemonade and a book— a novel? — sitting on
the table beside his grandfather. It appeared that the duke’s attention was
wholly taken up with watching a bird picking at the ground a space away.
Christian wondered if his eyes were deceiving him. A novel? Bird watching?! His
grandfather, the distinguished Duke of Westover? The burning feeling in his
stomach began to curdle. There was no longer any doubt about it; something was
definitely wrong.
Christian came to a halt several feet away
from the duke’s chair, stood tall and straight, and bowed his head respectfully
as he’d been taught as a boy.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
Elias Wycliffe, the fourth Duke of
Westover, turned in his chair to regard his grandson and only living heir.
“Christian,” he said in his
usual dispassionate tone. When Christian made no attempt to converse further,
he added, “You received my message, I see.”
Again Christian remained silent, which
prompted the duke to say after an awkward moment, “Thank you for taking
the time to come.”
Christian abandoned his stance for
another, one slightly more defensive. “Haven’t I always come when you’ve
summoned me, sir? I wasn’t aware I had any choice in the matter.”
Christian watched his grandfather’s
expression darken as it always did whenever they were together, and he wondered
how they had come to be such adversaries. It had been this way so long now, he
no longer could recall it being any differently between them.
“I will make this brief and come
straight to the point. Christian, I have summoned you here to tell you that it
is time for you to fulfill your part in our agreement— the first part of it,
that is. I have made the necessary arrangements for you to marry.”
It was a statement Christian had always
known he’d one day hear from the duke, still he couldn’t quite temper the
breath-stealing impact that came immediately after the words had been spoken.
For nineteen years he had known this day would come. At twenty, even at
twenty-five, he had anticipated it. But as time had passed on without mention
of it, Christian had begun to think that perhaps the old man had forgotten the
bargain he’d made with his grandson so long ago. He should have known better;
the duke had simply been biding his time, waiting until he knew Christian would
be occupied with the arrangements for Eleanor’s coming-out before delivering
the blow he had been waiting so long to give.
Christian didn’t move for several moments
as
he should feel this way at all, that his grandfather should be allowed to have
this effect over him. By the time he reached the double doors leading outside,
Christian had convinced himself that the reason for the summons had to be
Eleanor’s coming-out. The duke was going to refuse it again.
He found the duke sitting in a cane-backed
chair beneath the feathery boughs of a large willow tree. The drooping branches
nearly shrouded him from view. His pale hair was undressed, falling about his
shoulders in thinning strands, and he wore a brocade dressing robe over his
shirt and breeches, slippers of red morocco on his feet.
He had not yet noticed his grandson’s
arrival. Christian delayed a moment in the doorway. He hadn’t been to these
gardens since he’d been a boy, since shortly before his father had died, taking
him immediately from the innocence and freedom he had known in childhood to the
penitentiary role he now held as ducal heir. From then on, Christian’s imaginative
games of pirate and adventurer, even his interest in the wars taking place
overseas, were forbidden, for these were pursuits deemed unnecessary for a
future duke. After all, as heir to the Westover fortune, he would never be
granted the officer’s position he had so often dreamed of as a boy. His
grandfather had made certain of it, filling Christian’s: days instead with
studies of Latin and philosophy.
Stepping further into the garden,
Christian noticed a glass of lemonade and a book— a novel? — sitting on
the table beside his grandfather. It appeared that the duke’s attention was
wholly taken up with watching a bird picking at the ground a space away.
Christian wondered if his eyes were deceiving him. A novel? Bird watching?! His
grandfather, the distinguished Duke of Westover? The burning feeling in his
stomach began to curdle. There was no longer any doubt about it; something was
definitely wrong.
Christian came to a halt several feet away
from the duke’s chair, stood tall and straight, and bowed his head respectfully
as he’d been taught as a boy.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
Elias Wycliffe, the fourth Duke of
Westover, turned in his chair to regard his grandson and only living heir.
“Christian,” he said in his
usual dispassionate tone. When Christian made no attempt to converse further,
he added, “You received my message, I see.”
Again Christian remained silent, which
prompted the duke to say after an awkward moment, “Thank you for taking
the time to come.”
Christian abandoned his stance for
another, one slightly more defensive. “Haven’t I always come when you’ve
summoned me, sir? I wasn’t aware I had any choice in the matter.”
Christian watched his grandfather’s
expression darken as it always did whenever they were together, and he wondered
how they had come to be such adversaries. It had been this way so long now, he
no longer could recall it being any differently between them.
“I will make this brief and come
straight to the point. Christian, I have summoned you here to tell you that it
is time for you to fulfill your part in our agreement— the first part of it,
that is. I have made the necessary arrangements for you to marry.”
It was a statement Christian had always
known he’d one day hear from the duke, still he couldn’t quite temper the
breath-stealing impact that came immediately after the words had been spoken.
For nineteen years he had known this day would come. At twenty, even at
twenty-five, he had anticipated it. But as time had passed on without mention
of it, Christian had begun to think that perhaps the old man had forgotten the
bargain he’d made with his grandson so long ago. He should have known better;
the duke had simply been biding his time, waiting until he knew Christian would
be occupied with the arrangements for Eleanor’s coming-out before delivering
the blow he had been waiting so long to give.
Christian didn’t move for several moments
as