“Mother, do not think ill of me, please,” Timothy pleaded, begging her to understand him, but Catherine said nothing. She turned and walked out of the room, looking a little shaky on her feet.
George began to laugh softly, earning a sharp gaze from Timothy.
“It is not amusing, uncle.”
“Is it not? Your mother has never quite understood the ways of the world, Timothy. She has a romantic heart. That is all.”
Timothy sighed as he sat back down in his chair, pushing his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“Drink that up,” George said, filling his claret glass another time. “Trust me, my boy, you are being wise in how you choose a wife.”
Am I?
Timothy felt the question burning within him as there was a tap at the door.
“Come in,” he called to the butler who entered, carrying a letter on a silver tray.
“A message from Lord Herberton, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” Timothy took the letter and opened it hurriedly, desperate to think of something else for a while other than his mother’s escape.
‘Dear Timothy,
Tomorrow is the sailing regatta at Richmond, and I have promised to escort Lady Eliza. Say you will come too? Not only do we need you as a chaperone, but I would be fond of your company.
I also believe Lady Rebecca is to attend, if that helps to persuade you. Say you will come?’
“So, Timothy,” George’s voice made Timothy look up from the letter. “Did you have anyone in mind for who you wish to marry?”
Chapter Eight
Rebecca couldn’t take her eyes off Eliza and Lord Herberton. They were standing so close together with their gazes only on each other rather than the sailing at all, it was impossible to miss.
When did this bond happen?
Rebecca began to fidget with the reticule in her grasp, shifting between her feet as her shoes grew damp from the dewy grass. The more she watched her sister and Lord Herberton together, the more uncomfortable she became.
She is just as I was. Hopelessly falling, without consciousness of the fact I wasn’t falling in love at all but falling toward pain.
“Lady Rebecca?” a familiar voice called to her. Rebecca snapped her gaze away to see the Duke of Frampington approach.
The smile that took over her face at his approach worried her, making it falter on her lips. He was a truly dapper figure today, cutting his way through the crowds that had gathered for the regatta with ease. Dressed in his navy-blue suit with a fine waistcoat, inlaid with moons and stars to resemble the night sky, he turned many ladies’ heads, including Rebecca’s. The color complimented his eyes perfectly, making her flick her gaze repeatedly between his tall figure in the suit and his eyes.
“Have I rendered you speechless?” the Duke asked as he reached her side. “I must say, I rather like the idea.”
“Proud man,” she teased him, narrowing her eyes in mock anger as he laughed. The sound of that laugh made her stand a little taller, her smile growing all the greater.
How nice it is to be the one to make him laugh.
He bowed to her as she curtsied, never taking her eyes off him.
“You have come to chaperone your friend?” she asked, trying to make conversation. “You are late.”
“Apologies, my uncle was somewhat loathe to part with my company this morning,” he said easily, walking to her side to turn his gaze upon Lord Herberton and her sister. As he moved, his arm brushed hers, and she recoiled as if she had been stung by a wasp. “Does my touch hurt you?” he teased her, urging her to shake her head.
“You surprised me.”
You have the potential to hurt, my Grace, of that I am certain.
