Page 67 of The Duke's Virgin
I smiled back. “I’ll tell you later. I might need you to take me someplace where I can cry it off, actually.” Concern flashed in his eyes, and I leaned forward, patting his shoulder. “It’s okay, Ricky. Or it will be. I just have to tell my parents something that will surely upset them.”
He looked like he wanted to push, but he didn’t, and I was grateful. As he came to a stop in the circular drive in front of the big house, I took a deep breath and braced myself. I even sat inside the car and let him come around to open the door, something I rarely did. I needed every last second to gather my nerves.
He held out a hand to help me out, then squeezed it gently. “You call me when you’re ready. I won’t be more than ten minutes away.”
“Thank you.” I gave him a grateful smile.
“Of course.” He lingered behind, watching as I made my way up the stairs.
Theo, my parents’ butler, had the door open before I cleared the first step, and I nodded at him. He gave me a stiff smile in return.
The two of us had never gotten along well, not that he’d ever said anything antagonizing toward me. But he had about as much warmth and personality as a dead houseplant—a poisonous one—and trying to engage him in even polite conversation resulted in withering stares. It was as if he wanted to relegate you to the same dead, poisonous houseplant status.
“Your parents are in the small salon,” he said, holding out a hand for my purse.
I turned it over, keeping my muted phone tucked in the pocket of my skirt. My parents had an unwritten rule about cellphones and other devices at the dinner table, but if I had to get out of there in a hurry, I wasn’t hunting down Theo just to get my purse so I could text Ricky.
Without waiting for Theo to escort me, I started through the house. The small salon—only called that because it wassmallerthan the main one—was across from the small formal dining room. Neither the small salon nor small formal dining room was especially small. A party of ten could sit comfortably in either room and had, many times. As I neared, I caught scents of food drifting from the kitchen and breathed a little easier. No nausea. If anything, it only made me hungrier.
“Darling.”
“Hello, Mom. Dad.” I went to where my mother sat and bent to kiss her carefully powdered cheek.
My father rose from his chair and came to drop a kiss on my brow.
“Ma’am.”
The voice behind me was a welcome one, only because I knew what it signified. Turning, I saw Mattie, the head chef, smiling at my mother. “Lunch is ready if you’d like to proceed to the dining room.”
My father held out a hand to my mother, and I trailed along behind them on their way across the hall into the room where three place settings waited. Although only three of us were dining at the large, ten-foot-long dining table, my dad sat at the head and Mom sat at the far opposite end, while I had a place in the exact middle. All other seats had been removed.
It was cold…distant. Just like the relationship we shared. I’d thought about it before, but it had never struck me as hard as it did just then.
I’m not raising my child like this.
“Is something bothering you, darling?” Mom asked as I lingered in the broad, arched entry.
“No.” I gave her a blank smile and circled the table to take my seat.
Our meals were brought out, already plated. Chicken with a lemon-herb butter sauce, sautéed vegetables, a rice pilaf, a salad. Nothing terribly exciting, which was standard for my parents, but I was grateful for that.
One of the staff went to put a glass of white wine at my elbow, and I held up a hand. “None for me, please. Do we have any ginger ale?”
After a brief pause, the young woman nodded. “I believe so, ma’am. I’ll check.”
I felt my mother’s disapproval but didn’t look at her, reaching for the glass of ice water instead.
My father broke the silence, asking her about an upcoming charity gala, which would keep her distracted for at least ten minutes. She barely noticed the drink placed by my plate, and I took a sip before cutting into my chicken.
I kept my attention on my food, not looking up until Mom said my name.
“Yes, ma’am?”
She studied me over the rim of her wine glass. “You’re rather quiet today, even for you.”
“Am I?” Putting my fork down, I reached for my glass of ginger ale, taking another sip. The food I’d managed to consume grew heavier in my belly. I’d eaten almost half, probably could have eaten all of it, but that look on her face made it clear she’d picked up on something, and I knew she wouldn’t let this go until she’d figured out what it was.
“Yes.” She took a drink of wine. “Are you still upset with me over your racing friend?”
