Sitting back in his chair, Adrian seemed perplexed by the situation. After a decade of solitude, he had likely forgotten how to accept gifts, and had almost certainly forgotten how to pretend to like a gift for the sake of sparing feelings.
He glanced at the boys and, with a sigh and a mutter of “I do not have time for this” he opened up the box.
“What is it?” he asked, dipping a hand inside.
“Shortbread,” Isaac replied eagerly.
Adrian raised an eyebrow as he withdrew one of the messy biscuits, the icing a sea of white that had lost any discernible pattern.
“Theydidlook like snowflakes when we iced them,” David said, chewing his lip. “The cook wanted us out, so we couldn’t wait for them to cool.”
Looking as if someone had just put a live snake in his hand instead of a delicious, buttery biscuit, Adrian took a hesitant bite and began to chew.
His face transformed. A thawing of his suspicion and confusion, the creases of his frown smoothing out, his eyes widening just a little as he swallowed the first mouthful. Another bite followed… then another, and another, until the biscuit was gone.
Without a word, he picked up his cup of tea and sipped, tilting his head as if assessing the flavors.
Then, to Valerie’s utter delight, he dipped his hand back into the box and took out asecondbiscuit.
“They are not the worst biscuits I have ever had,” he said, brushing crumbs off his desk as he finished the second. “Your efforts were not in vain, gentlemen. Thank you.”
The children frowned, exchanging a look of bewilderment. How were they to know that the duke was congratulating them when he said it in such a way? Would it have killed him to be complimentary, or did he truly not know how to be?
Valerie rolled her eyes, translating for the children, “That is high praise from him, boys. I told you he would like them.”
“Yes,” Adrian said stiffly. “They are pleasant.”
In an instant, the boys’ faces brightened, the pair of them whispering excitedly to each other, words that Valerie could not quite decipher. Perhaps, they hoped they might be permitted to stay even longer. Perhaps, they were just glad that the duke had enjoyed their creations.
She caught Adrian’s eye as he brushed the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Her throat bobbed, imagining how sweet his lips would taste if he were to kiss her now. As if reading her mind, he lightly licked his lips, his gaze never faltering.
The sound of footsteps snapped her out of her wayward trance, her head twisting toward the door as Mr. Jarvis stepped inside.
For a moment, the butler frowned at the unusual scene, before turning his attention toward the duke. “The butcher’s boy hasjust arrived at the kitchens, Your Grace,” he said. “He has informed us that some men from town are beginning to clear the snow on the road. Progress will be slow, but it is expected that it will reach our section of the road in two days.”
Adrian gave a small nod. “Well, gentlemen,” he looked to the boys, “it seems you will be returning rather soon. I do hope that Miss Wightman will have everything arranged by then.”
As the boys’ faces dropped, so did Valerie’s stomach. Two days was not nearly enough time to prepare for a party. Not one of such importance. After all, the undoing of the Blackwall curse relied upon her getting it right.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Snow fell inside a bedchamber that Adrian never entered anymore, flakes drifting down from the rafters, covering the floor in a glittering layer. Little piles of it formed tiny hills, a draft blowing spindrifts across the room.
The bedchamber had not changed, but the year had, rolling back to a time in which his mother and father had been alive.
They stood there in the strange, snowing room like actors waiting for their prompt. Adrian’s mother was young and beautiful, dressed in a ballgown, as if they were just about to leave for the evening. His father wore only his shirt and trousers, his tailcoat and cravat thrown over the back of a chair, a half-drunk bottle of brandy suggesting the reason for his state of undress.
Adrian was in the doorway, his line of sight indicating his age; he was shorter than he was in real life, in the present day. And if he had been himself, at thirty-three years of age, he would not havebeen lingering in the doorway; he would have been in that room, putting himself between his mother and father.
His mother was smiling, a strained and unnatural smile. But as her gaze turned toward Adrian, her smile softened and her mouth opened as if she was about to call him to her.
Before a word could leave her lips, Adrian’s father raised his hand and struck her, hard, across the face.
“No!” Adrian heard himself roar, his legs propelling him forward.
He threw himself at his father as his mother staggered back, but the drunken, cruel man whirled around at the last moment, strong hands grabbing Adrian by the collar.
His father shook him, the man’s black eyes glinting with menace. “Monster,” he seethed. “Despicable monster. Look at you—scarred because you are weak, because you are pathetic, because you are no son of mine. You should have died on a battlefield. You should never have been born.”
