His father’s shoulders stiffened, and his mouth opened to answer.
“I am,” Grayson said before his father could speak. Not like Kingsley.
His father’s eyes flared with pride. “Grayson is the best of sons. You will find none more dutiful than he.” His father hesitated, eyes unsure, before continuing. “My firstborn son, Kingsley, did as he pleased and got killed on a battlefield. I used to think Grayson headed down the same reckless path, but it’s been some time since he’s done anything but make me proud.”
Grayson felt his father’s pride settle on his shoulders like a stifling wool rug or an itchy hair shirt, no, crushing chain mail. He’d never donned chain mail, but he assumed it weighed at least as much as his father’s pride. He steadied his shoulders to carry it better and remembered the days after Kingsley’s death, when his father’s eyes had been full of despair and grief instead. He could carry the burden of his father’s pride if it meant making the man happy. He stood from the chair. “I’m not unaware of my responsibilities. I would, however, like an explanation.” Truthfully, he stalled. Marrying Lady Willow would bring his father the most happiness, but happy wasn’t what Grayson felt when considering the alliance. Determined, more like.
“My daughter must take her place in society,” the duke said. His voice rang with steel. “You need no more explanation than what I have already given. We will be attending the Countess of Stonefield’s annual house party next week. You, Lord Rigsby, will be in attendance as well. By week’s end, you will propose, and by season’s end you will be wed.” He arched his eyebrows, the command clear. He would brook no arguments on the matter. The Duke of Valingford turned sharply toward the door. “Good day.” Then, he disappeared behind it.
Grayson’s father knit his brows together. “The Stonefield house party. Hm.” He turned and stalked toward the window, shoulders hunched. “Can you handle it, my boy?” he asked without turning around.
By it, his father surely meanther. Miss Henrietta Blake, Grayson’s one-time fiancée.
“Perhaps she won’t be in attendance.”
“Perhaps.” He turned his chin over his shoulder, piercing Grayson with a question. “And if she is?”
Grayson’s spine snapped straight. “It will be of no matter. I’m a different man now.” At least, he tried to be a different man.
His father turned fully around and sat in the chair behind his desk, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “You’re not over her, though, and I’m not sure you ever will be. How can you propose to Lady Willow with the specter of the Blake girl hanging over you?”
Grayson flopped back into the seat behind him, leaned forward, propped his elbows on his thighs, and hid his face in his hands, damp hair brushing against his neck. Perhaps his father had the right of it. Everything, even the bloody sky, reminded him of Henrietta. And she likely never thought of him at all. He couldn’t be sure. He refused to inquire. She had, after all, married—or at least become engaged to marry—another man. Pain, anger, longing sliced through him. Funny how the emotions had not dissipated, even a year later. And by funny, he meant damnably annoying.
His father had a point. He must take a decisive step away from what he could never have and toward what he could, away from Henrietta and toward Lady Willow. He stood and turned toward the door. “Miss Blake’s attendance will not affect me or my intentions. You may consider me engaged to Lady Willow.” His chest constricted, his fingers pulled into fists, but a deep breath uncurled the tension mounting in his body. “Are you happy, Father?”
His father’s face lit up, but the burst of a smile disappeared behind a stoic, dukely expression. “I am.” He slapped the top of the desk playfully. “You are wonderful, my boy. The Duke of Valingford is correct, you know. It’s time you join the social world, move in political circles even. You will be a man of influence and must learn to wield that power.”
Grayson’s cravat constricted further.
“No more digging in mud holes at the country estate or climbing on tenants’ roofs. You have real work to do.”
Too bad Grayson preferred the muddy work to the “real” work. He pulled at his cravat. “Of course, Father.”
His father rubbed his palms together and relaxed into the back of his chair. “I’ll soon have a daughter-in-law.” He allowed a small smile to show. “And grandchildren, soon after. Your mother would be pleased were she still with us.” The ghost of past sorrow settled onto Grayson’s father’s frame.
Too much sorrow, but Grayson could make it better.
And yet … children with Lady Willow? Procreation with a woman he’d barely spoken to let alone kissed? He contemplated the act and felt nothing. Keep an open mind, he chided himself. Perhaps he’d find the same soft passion with Lady Willow as he had last year with Henrietta.
He rose to his feet, feeling like a bag of bricks. “I’m glad you will be pleased.” He trudged toward the door, pulling each leg behind him like a broken tree limb.
“Grayson.” His father’s voice stopped his treacly movement.
“Yes?”
“I’m proud of the man you’ve become. Quiet, dependable, steady, and controlled. I used to worry your emotions would undo you as they did your brother. But I know now you are made of marble. A good substance for a duke to be chiseled from.”
Chiseled? Yes. He felt like a collection of hard lines and chips, of cuts and breaks. “Thank you, Father.”
“Oh, and Grayson.”
Grayson swung around this time.
“You’ll need the necklace, my boy.”
Fuck. Grayson only just managed to keep the heated curse locked behind his lips. His father’s face would have paled had the obscenity slipped into the air. The obscenity did not rate as dukely language. But only “fuck” could express Grayson’s reaction to any mention of the necklace.
“Remember to bring it to the house party. I assume you still have it?”
