James handed off his great coat, top hat, and gloves to a footman, his eyes locked on the butler. “Where is she?”
“In your study, my lord,” Wilson wheezed.
James ground his teeth, stalking off across the entry hall. Damn foolish to leave the house this morning! He wanted to be here when his mother arrived to head her off. But he didn’t expect them until later this evening. It didn’t make any sense.
Of course. Bloody George lied about their travel plans.
Making a resolution to kick George in the shins when he next saw him, James made his way to the back of the house. A footman stood outside the open door of his study, jolting to attention as James approached.
“Is she in there?”
The footman nodded.
Taking a deep breath, James squared his shoulders and entered.
“Ah, there you are my darling. How good of you to come greet me at last.”
His mother’s tone was icy, even if her words were cordial. She sat behind his desk, blonde hair piled in a stately column of curls, her face flawlessly powdered and rouged. Her armor was firmly in place, and this study was her chosen battlefield. She was ready to draw blood.
“Mother,” he said with a curt nod, going straight to the drink cart. “Can I get you anything?” he called, rattling around as he poured three fingers of whiskey into a glass.
“No,” she replied. “James, come sit. We have much to discuss.”
With his liquid reinforcement in hand, James leaned against the cart. “I don’t need to sit for this. Just say what’s on your mind.”
“Don’t get flippant with me. I am furious with you. I raised you better than to pull such a scandalous stunt before the whole ton! I may be just an over-bearing mother to you, but I am still mistress of this house. I am a duchess—”
“Only until George marries. Then it will be the lovely Miss Nash who claims that title.”
She hissed like an angry cat. “That little tart will never replace me. I will be Duchess of Norland until I die—”
“Incorrect. The moment father died, you became a dowager,” he needled.
Her lips quivered like she was holding in a scream.
“But don’t worry,” he added. “Loss of rank is not completely devoid of perks. As a dowager duchess, you are granted the most comfortable chair at every social gathering. That must be seen as advantageous.”
“I will not be made irrelevant!”
Before he could reply, she let out a few sobs. His darling mother loved crying for an audience. It usually worked on George, but only because crying women made him so deeply uncomfortable. It embarrassed James to admit how many times it had worked on him in the past.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to earn your spite, James. It cuts straight through my heart.” She pressed dramatically on her chest with her glittering fist.
He just rolled his eyes. “Come now mother, you and I both know you don’t have a heart—”
“If I am heartless, it is because the demands of this life ripped it from my chest! Who do you think ran all of this while your father still lived? You think he could manage it on his own? No,” she answered, her tone full of scorn. “No, he was too busy with his bad investments and his risky speculations, his drinking and his gambling and his whores.”
James blinked, wholly taken aback. “What are you—”
“Your beloved father was spending the estate’s money faster than we could bring it in,” she snapped. “I had to secure Alcott Hall. I made the tough choices, James. I kept us in these houses, in this title, in this comfort. You think you are the silent duke?” She scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Please child, I invented the position. I work to secure a title I can never claim. A title both my sons now take completely for granted!”
“I take nothing for granted,” he growled, slapping his glass down. “Since father died, I have done everything to take care of the family as George has been derelict of his duty. We both have suffered. We both have put in work thanklessly for the betterment of a family that does not respect us. I didn’t see you then, and I am sorry for it. But you are not seeing me now—”
“Oh, I see you,” she replied with a glare. “I see a spoiled, ungrateful fool! You are selfish, James. Why can you not just do as I say? I need you to help me keep this all together, and you are determined to watch it fall apart!”
Her words found their marks, sinking deep into his chest, leaving him breathless. He could practically feel the strings tied to each barb. How soon before she began to tug on them? How soon before he was once again dancing to her tune? James was her own dutiful marionette.
He was exhausted. He couldn’t live like this anymore. He took a deep breath and dragged a hand through his hair. “I thought I was doing the right thing by helping you force George down the aisle, but now I see how wrong I’ve been.”
“You know as well as I that he must secure an heir. Otherwise, the weight will really fall on your shoulders,” she challenged. “You think you feel the pressure now? Oh James, you sweet boy, it will break you. You’re far too soft, too weak. You need me!”
More words hit their target. As much as he tried to shield himself, she knew what to say to burrow her way under his skin.
I’m not strong enough. Nothing I do will ever be enough. Too weak. Too caring. Too compromised—
He took a shaky breath and exhaled it. James wasn’t soft. Did Burke not complain about all his hard edges near daily? Part of James wanted to let his guard down. God, he thought of the way Rosalie looked at him in the library, her dark eyes so full of interest…interest in him.
He remembered the feel of her soft lips on his, asking him without words to be let into his heart, into his life. But he couldn’t do it. This was the reality of his life. How could he afford softness when he was constantly on the offensive, battling his domineering mother or compensating for his worthless brother? And when they were not trying his patience at every turn, he had a dukedom to run.
Hold it together. The center must always hold.
No, anything soft in James had been chipped away long ago. Burke might believe there was something left, but he was wrong. James was all hardness now. Walls and walls and walls of cold, hard stone.
He met and held his mother’s cold gaze. “I’ve been your puppet, mother. You’ve manipulated me. You threaten me and belittle me when every day I am fighting for this family. But you don’t see me—”
“Of course, I see you—”
“You don’t see me,” he said louder. “You claim everything I do as your own—”
“I birthed you and I raised you,” she cried, stepping closer until her jasmine perfume filled his nose. “Whatever your successes, they are mine. You are my creature, James!”
Before another word could be spoken, George strolled into the room. “Look who I found,” he called in a sing-song voice. “Oh dear…are we quarreling?” He glanced from one to the other. “Shall we come back later?”
“Of course not.” Their mother waved her hand for him to enter.
James glanced away from the door, needing a moment to school his features, knowing exactly who trailed behind his brother.
His mother was ready with an admonishment. “Miss Harrow, why did you not come to me the moment I arrived?”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t know,” came Rosalie’s soft voice. It touched James like the stroke of a feather down his spine. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning, his face still turned away. He moved over to the sofa and sat down heavily.
George sank onto the sofa across from him, a little smile on his face. “Yes, I found her in the library…on her knees.”
James glanced from George to Rosalie, a tightness coiling in his chest. Her cheeks now matched the soft pinkish purple of her gown.
“George, don’t be crass,” their mother snapped.
“How is it crass to say she was on her knees?” he replied with a chuckle.
“I was retrieving a book,” Rosalie added. “I didn’t hear any commotion in the house until His Grace found me.”
She was working very hard not to look at James, for which he was grateful…and annoyed. They’d yet to speak alone since that moment on the stairs. He’d been avoiding her. If he was hurting her with his distance, he didn’t care. It was better this way.
“Well?” his mother huffed. “Is someone going to start talking? I think I deserve an explanation.”
“Hmm…I think we all do,” George added, his tone mockingly somber.
James was going to add a punch to the ribs to the shin-kick George had already earned. “Miss Harrow, you can go. This is a family matter—”
“I will say when my ward is dismissed,” his mother snapped.
“She had nothing to do with this. She was dragged into my plans against her will—”
“Are you saying you kidnapped her?” George asked. “A midnight kidnapping from a duke’s ball, a carriage escape to London, heavens what an event. Your life is the stuff of novels, Cabbage.”
“Don’t call her that,” James snapped.
His mother turned. “And what do you call her, James? Tell me plainly: do you intend to marry her?”
Rosalie gasped as James sputtered. “What—no—”
“You ruin her in the eyes of good society, making her useless to me as a ward. What else is left that you either marry her, or cast her out?”
He could see the look of horror on Rosalie’s face. “Nothing happened between Miss Harrow and I,” he declared. “Anyone who dares to impugn her honor will answer to me. I asked her to accompany me because I knew I would help to plan the party for George—”
“Don’t you spit that lie at me again, James,” his mother cried.
“It is no lie. The date is set, the invitations sent. On Friday, all of society will see I made no lie. She planned it all with Mrs. Robbins, leaving me free to do the other work that brought me to Town.”
“Oh, yes? And what work might that be?” George said with a raised brow.
“You have never once questioned my business affairs,” James countered, his eyes narrowed at his brother. “I do your job, and you’re happy for me to do it. I will not answer you now, since I know your present curiosity is only rooted in seeing me discomfited in Miss Harrow’s presence.”
Their mother took a step closer. “And what is this nonsense I hear about you placing her in the bachelor’s corridor? Have you no sense of propriety?”
James dragged both hands through his hair, not daring to look at either George or Rosalie. He didn’t want them to ruin this ruse. “Bloody hell, mother. How many times in how many ways must I say it? I do not care about Miss Harrow. I stuck her in the bachelor’s wing with only Renley and Sir Andrew for company because I thought it is what you would wish.” He pointed a stern finger at her. “Six rooms remain for the ladies and all six are necessary. Miss Harrow’s comfort is certainly secondary to that of a marchioness, am I correct?” He raised a brow, waiting for her response. When she just scowled, he added, “Put Miss Harrow wherever you like. Hell, give her my room. Put her with the servants, set up a cot in the conservatory by the pineapple plants. I do not care.” He was careful to enunciate each word.
Next to him, Rosalie’s stillness spoke louder than a scream. Damn, but he hated himself sometimes.
His mother spun around to face Rosalie. “Well, I want to know what compelled you to agree to my son’s ludicrous schemes. Why did you not come to me directly? You have been my ward for less than a fortnight, and already you have distressed me and embarrassed me so greatly—”
“I am not your ward.”
James had to blink twice, unsure if he saw Rosalie’s lips move. But there she was, chin raised, eyes glistening with tears, staring down his mother glare for glare.
His mother narrowed her eyes. “What did you say?”
Rosalie dared to take a step closer. “I said I am not your ward.”
