A Duke’s Overlooked Spinster (The Courting Season #1)

Chapter 2

Robert stared out of the window of the coach. It was a cold, rainy spring day and the flat, green landscape moved slowly past, the leaden clouds hanging heavily overhead. It was cold, dreary and miserable. All he wanted was to reach his destination.

“Son? Son! I am attempting to speak to you.”

Robert turned slowly, moving his gaze from the window of the coach to his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Clairwood, opposite him. Her blue eyes held his own. Coldly blue, like the horizon on a wintry day, her haughty gaze that was accustomed to being obeyed. Robert cleared his throat, keeping his voice hushed. His son, seven-year-old Henry, slumbered next to him, his head pillowed on a cushion against the window of the coach.

“What is it you wished to say?” Robert asked quietly, keeping his voice level. “I did not hear you.”

“No. You were too busy moping.” She sniffed.

“Mama!” Robert snapped, then winced as his son, Henry, stirred beside him, his head of pale blonde hair—just a little paler than Robert’s own—jerking as if he was startled. Robert held his breath, tensing. His son took a deep breath, then exhaled and his head drooped back onto the cushion, sleeping again.

“Mama,” Robert repeated. “You cannot say that. I am in mourning.”

“You are,” his mother insisted firmly. “And I will not have it. This excursion is the ideal time for you to put aside your mourning clothes and think about your son’s future.”

“Mama.” Robert’s hands tightened, fists forming where they rested on his knee. He realized what he was doing and consciously uncurled his fingers. “I cannot simply forget. I do not think you understand what this has all meant.”

His mother said nothing, but Robert could see from her wide-eyed gaze that the anger in his voice had touched her, and he hoped it would put her off talking about the topic, at least for a while.

His wife, Elizabeth, had passed away five years before, when Henry was barely more than a baby. Her name choked in his throat with unshed tears, and recalling her face—which he did often, since Henry was the image of his mother—hurt more than he could describe. His mother’s callous remarks cut deep into his soul. He was not moping—he had forgotten how to be happy. Without Elizabeth, life was simply gray—no light, no dark, just an endless gray tunnel of existing. How could he be aught else but sorrowful when his light was no longer there?

His mother was looking out of the window, and Robert turned to the window on his side of the coach, gazing out. The road passed through forested land, and tree-branches extended out into the road, their pale green leaves narrowly missing the coach, bright against the gray sky. He watched them, the motion of the coach lulling his mind into a strange, half-sleeping state. His mind went over the events of the past week.

The excursion from London had not been his idea. His mother had insisted, and he had only conceded to her forceful arguments when she mentioned that Henry would benefit. Henry was a sturdy, healthy child, but he often withdrew into himself, becoming silent and disinterested in eating or in playing or his lessons. Mama insisted that a change of scenery would do her grandson good, and Robert could not help but agree. He had allowed his mother to persuade him to join a family excursion, setting aside his own desire simply to be at peace in the London house as he could not be in the country manor. He could not be there without thinking of Elizabeth. That had been their retreat, a place for them alone.

Henry stirred in his sleep and Robert turned to look at him. His thin, delicate face was pale, his eyelashes resting on his cheeks, his sky-blue eyes closed. His neat mouth was exactly like his mother’s, his slight, pointy chin as well. An image of Elizabeth flashed into his mind—pale lips parted in that big smile he adored, her eyes twinkling, blonde hair loose about her shoulders as she and Robert watched Henry sleep. He pushed the thought away, a slight sound of pain escaping him.

Opposite him, his mother was staring out of the window, apparently ignoring him. Robert sighed and looked out of his own window. His mother was even more stubborn than himself—that was something he admired about her. She could also be extremely overbearing—something he hoped he never would become—and she was certain she knew best. He gazed out over the view, trying to imagine what the upcoming month would be like.

People bothering me about trivial matters, being hauled into society by Mother and Charles, trying to care for Henry when nobody gives me a second’s peace.

He shivered.

“When do we reach the inn?” his mother asked him, interrupting his thoughts.

“In two hours' time?” Robert ventured. “Mama, you have better knowledge than me of this journey.”

“Mm.” His mother sounded as though she was reproaching him for that, too. “As far as I recall, the first inn is six hours’ travel outside London.”

“Oh. In which case, we should be there in two hours’ time,” Robert replied, tapping his pocket-watch. They had departed London four hours ago, at nine o’ clock in the morning. Henry had been wakeful for the first two hours, chattering excitedly about all the things he wanted to do when they reached their destination. He had soon grown listless and weary, and for the last two hours he had been fast asleep.

“Quite so. Now, I must mention that I expect you to spend time with Lady Amelia, and of course with dear Marina, when we reach our destination. You have not seen her for two years. It would be fitting that you pay her some attention.” His mother sounded reproachful.

“Mama...” Robert tensed. Marina was the daughter of Mama’s best friend, Lady Bardwell, a Countess.

“Son! You must at least spend some time with her. She is quite the toast of society, you know. Well thought-of. And most eligible.” His mother held his gaze with her own.

“Mama!” Robert snapped. He saw her blink in surprise, but he knew that he had not put her off speaking about the topic. She was determined to find a duchess for Clairwood, and she was not going to stop provoking him into anger until she had at least made him dance with someone.

“You hide yourself away for years in that wretched townhouse,” his mother began, sounding hurt. “You never venture into society, and don’t care about how odd people find it. And as for your son...you’re isolating him in that walled-up house. I think...”

“Mama,” Robert said tightly. “Do not presume to speak to me about the care of my son. Counter everything that I do. Insult me if you must. But do not try to question my ability to care for my own child.” His voice was a whisper, as he struggled to keep his rage in check. Beside him, Henry sighed and stirred.

“Why must you always be so contrary?” His mother began, but before she could say anything, Henry stirred again. He blinked once or twice and then he coughed.

“Shh,” Robert soothed, but Henry was already opening his eyes.

“Papa...” Henry murmured. He turned around, reaching sleepily for his father’s hand. Robert’s heart melted at the small, sleepy voice. He squeezed the small, slight fingers that clutched at his hand, the palms overly hot as if the boy was feverish, though it was just the oppressive warmth in the coach.

“Shh, son. It’s all well,” he murmured. “The coach is going a little faster now. See?” He gestured at the window.

“Papa?” Henry asked sleepily. “How long until we stop? I’m hungry.”

Robert smiled. Henry had slept through the time when he and his mother had eaten sandwiches.

“You can have a sandwich now. There is one for you in the picnic-hamper. With cheese...you like cheese?” he asked. As far as he knew, Henry liked cheese. But then, the little boy’s appetite changed so often that he was not sure if he still held the same preferences as he had a few weeks before.

“I feel strange,” Henry murmured. “My head hurts.”

“It’s the coach, son. It’s stuffy in here. Soon, you’ll be able to run about and stretch your legs.” Robert felt tense. He often felt tense when he was caring for Henry—though he had done it for years, he still felt unsure without the help of Mrs. Wellman, the child’s nursemaid.

“Good,” Henry said in a small voice. He yawned, and Robert watched as his eyelids drooped sleepily. Soon, his breathing was smooth and regular again.

“I am going to rest too, Mama,” Robert said pointedly. “Wake me when the coach stops.”

His mother just looked at him blankly. Robert shut his eyes, turning his head away to face the window. He did not hide the fact that he was deliberately sleeping, evading talking any further about the subject his mother had raised. He had no interest in pursuing a debutante just because his mother wished him to. Besides, he thought as he drifted to sleep, he was thirty years old. While society saw no reason why he should not pursue a young lady of nineteen or twenty, he himself hesitated. Elizabeth would have been the same age as he was, for part of the year a year older. His heart ached and he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for sleep to cloud his mind.

“Son. Son!”

His mother’s voice, a loud whisper, jolted him awake. He opened his eyes, confused at first as to where he was.

“What is it?” he asked sleepily.

“We’re at the inn,” his mother told him.

“Oh. Good,” Robert murmured, feeling a little cross. She had not needed to jolt him so suddenly awake.

He stepped out of the coach, then helped his mother down, and lastly reached up for Henry, who was half-asleep. He lifted the little boy, carrying him to the inn steps.

“He can walk,” his mother hissed as they reached the door.

Robert glared at her, all his suppressed anger from the last six hours in the coach igniting again.

“He is tired,” he said carefully, not wanting to upset the little boy, who was clinging onto his shoulder, his head resting sleepily there. “If I see fit, I will carry him. I will take tea with Henry and you, and then I will go for a walk,” he added. He was seething with anger, and he needed time on his own to calm himself.

“A walk? Do not take too long! The coach will depart in an hour. Son...”

Robert just glared at her and walked into the inn. The innkeeper greeted them, somewhat nervous, it seemed, to be meeting a duke and a dowager duchess. Robert ordered their best two rooms, and tea, then carried Henry up to the upstairs parlor, where he settled his son on an upholstered chair by the window.

“Here, son,” Robert said gently. “You can look out of the window. See? There’s a coach going by. The innkeeper will bring tea and some cake, and then I will go for a walk. Grandmama will stay with you. Does that sound pleasant?”

“Cake!” Henry said, sounding happy.

Robert smiled. “Good. Here’s Grandmama. And I think the cake is here too,” he added, seeing the innkeeper hovering nervously in the corridor.

His mother took a seat at the table, pouring milk into a cup for Henry and helping him with the cake, which the innkeeper brought instantly. Whatever else Robert might think of her, his mother did care about Henry, even if her ideas of what was good for him were entirely different to his own.

“I just wish she would let me be in peace,” he muttered as he stalked down the stairs and out of the inn. He barely even looked where he was going, just followed a track that led down from the inn yard and out across a field. It was a well-worn, narrow track as though livestock were led to pasture there. He followed it away from the inn, walking briskly along until he reached a wide, empty field. He stopped. The empty, stubbly field stretched out under the gray sky. The place suited his mood. He felt desolate, deserted, just like the field was.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered as he stood there. He talked to her sometimes, wishing that she was there to guide him. “I do not wish to do what my mother asks of me.”

Elizabeth’s face filled his mind, her pale skin creased into a frown at her brow, the lines smoothing out where she grinned. She had a lovely smile, spontaneous and untamed. Everything about her was lovely, from her quick smile—and quicker mind—to her pretty fingers. His heart twisted in pain.

He could not even think of finding another woman. Even if he were, somehow, miraculously, to find a woman, he was sure it would not be Marina. He had not seen her for several years— not since before her debut—but he recalled her as shallow and superficial.

Elizabeth—who had been anything but shallow and superficial—was not there to answer, and he stared out across the empty fields. On the horizon, two larks flew, soaring and calling, surprised by something in the field below them. Robert felt his heart twist, seeing their flight. He envied them their closeness, their freedom.

“I shall not let Mama push me into a cage,” he whispered.

That was one thing he could promise himself, Henry and Elizabeth. He would keep his freedom.