“How much do these horses add to your income?” Lady Helena asked.
Eugenia caught a swift scowl that crossed the Duke’s face, then vanished into a stiff but polite smile. She knew that question was at its most impolite and could not understand why her mistress asked it. Lady Helena should have known better, and she internally wondered why she had.
“Enough,” he answered, and strode toward her.
As they toured the rest of the stable blocks, it grew obvious to Eugenia, and she thought the Duke as well, that Lady Helena had grown quite bored with the horses His Grace obviously loved. Eugenia herself could not have been happier. As the Duke did not seem to object to her questions, she asked whatever popped into her head. The grooms bowed to the Duke and Lady Helena but smiled at Eugenia’s very obvious delight in being among the horses.
Luncheon arrived. The Duke escorted Lady Helena back to the castle, Eugenia gazed back over her shoulder at the prized animals getting their daily exercise by the grooms. She took a deep breath, reveling in the scent of horses, hay and even the manure.
At my first opportunity, I am going back in there. Those babies are so precious!
As if he heard her thoughts, the Duke turned to glance at her over his shoulder, an enigmatic smile on his perfect features.
Chapter 8
Sitting in the solar, her stitchery in her lap, Augusta had begun to lose patience. The Countess of Whitington sat with her, no embroidery to keep her hands busy as they conversed and often stared out the window. Augusta found her behavior rude and annoying and barely kept the acid remarks she was tempted to make behind her lips.
“Are you listening, Countess?” Her tone was just short of acerbic.
The Countess turned her face from the window. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“I asked you twice about your daughter’s abilities to manage household accounts,” Augusta said.
“I apologize. I am not a robust woman, and the journey from London quite took its toll on my health. Yes, Helena is well able to handle her duties to her husband.”
“Let us hope she is more robust than her mother,” Augusta murmured, but the Countess heard her words clearly.
“My Helena is a strong and capable girl,” she said, her tone sharp. “Should she marry your son –”
“Stepson, Lady Whitington,” Augusta said, her tone cool. “Stepson. Please, I beg you, let us be correct here. The Duke is not my son.”
“I apologize, Your Grace. Forgive me.”
Augusta chittered a short laugh. “I fear he is willful, disobedient, headstrong, stubborn.” Augusta gazed out the window. “Forever with his precious horses and hardly running his dukedom in a proper fashion. Why, I was forced to invite you in order to begin negotiations for your daughter’s hand. If I left it up to Maximilian, he would never marry.”
The Countess gazed out the window again, making Augusta’s hand itch to slap her. “That is his decision, I should think.”
“It is his duty to marry,” Augusta replied. “If he does not wish to perform his duties as is proper, then he should step aside in favor of someone who will.”
“Meaning your son, Wilmot.”
“Of course, I mean Wilmot. He has been suitably trained from the cradle to assume command of these estates. His father was the old Duke, and has as much right to his inheritance as Maximilian.”
The Countess eyed her sidelong. “That is an interesting comment, as your son was the second born, not the Duke’s firstborn. He has no rights while His Grace lives.”
“Do you think I am not aware of that, Lady Whitington?” Augusta asked, trying hard not to snap at her guest in annoyance. “I know the laws of primogeniture as well as anyone.”
“Of course, you do,” the Countess murmured. “My apologies.”
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, refusing to show how much the other woman vexed her, yet she still jabbed the needle through the cloth with more force than necessary. “Naturally, Maximilian inherits the mantle of the dukedom,” she said, in her conciliatory tone. “I am merely expressing an opinion. I have not even decided if Lady Helena is a fit candidate to marry into this family.”
She saw Lady Whitington’s noncommittal nod from the corner of her eye, and it made her even angrier. The woman had no backbone at all. “You are probably thinking that it is not my decision, but rather Maximilian’s.”
This time, Lady Whitington did not respond at all but merely gazed at her, her expression politely neutral, mild.
“Maximilian listens to me,” Augusta went on, feigning the same courteous neutrality. “He always takes my advice on the affairs of the estates. I am certain he will beg for my opinion when it comes to your daughter.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
