Everleigh knew by the sound of the cane following along with the footsteps that his father had arrived in town.
Everleigh strode to the doorway of his drawing room. He put both palms high on the door frame.
‘Had you already started out before the post arrived?’ Everleigh asked, stepping aside to let his father enter the room.
‘No.’ His father clasped the handle of the cane in one hand and the other held a book. ‘I’d been thinking about visiting, though...with or without your invitation.’ He softly clouted Everleigh’s shoulder with the book. ‘Good to see you.’
Then he put the tome in Everleigh’s hand. ‘I found one of your books in my room. One you used to read a lot, but I wasn’t sure if you still liked it.’
Everleigh looked at the volume. He’d suspected the novel had made its way to his father’s collection, but he’d not minded enough to search it out.
‘Thank you.’
His father walked closer and thumped him on the back this time. ‘It’s—’ His voice choked. ‘But what really means a lot to me, Son, is your accepting Mrs Trimble.’ He sniffed. ‘Your housekeeper is finding her a room. She cried happy tears all the way here. I just kept patting her hand.’
Everleigh lowered his chin. ‘Did you care a sixpence about my mother?’
‘I know I didn’t show it—’ His father’s voice broke. ‘I was young. Foolish. But I did care for her. I really did. She was dazzling. Almost too stunning to be in my path. I was overpowered by the assuredness surrounding her.’
‘You brought your mistress into the house so soon after Mother died.’ Everleigh narrowed one eye. ‘I suspected that you went to Mrs Trimble after Mother’s funeral.’
His father examined the rug. ‘I will only say it was very difficult for me to put your mother to rest. Your grandfather needed you and your brother at that time. I wept a long time that evening. I did not want you to see that.’
Everleigh grunted, but didn’t argue with his father’s perspective.
‘Mrs Trimble was my first love. She wasn’t in a position to marry me. There was a Mr Trimble. He’d just walked out of her life one day and no one knew if he lived or had died. Your mother became my wife. My father insisted that I marry someone suitable and I knew the family home could not remain without the funds.’ He stopped speaking. ‘I thought you’d forgiven me when you invited her here.’
Everleigh thought of the joy he’d heard in his father’s voice when he’d arrived. He pushed acceptance into his words. ‘I have forgiven you. Now. I understand.’
He didn’t feel the same forgiveness for his father’s mistress, exactly, because she’d defaced the portrait, but if it made his father happy to have Mrs Trimble accepted, then he would act the part.
His father walked to the table and inspected all the frills in the room. ‘It looks like a clown died in here.’
‘We were to celebrate my betrothal. Mrs Rush wanted to surprise me.’
Rothwilde paused. ‘Have you seen Miss Darius since you left the estate?’
‘No.’
His father looked around the room. ‘Would you mind if I invited her parents?’ Rothwilde asked. ‘Perhaps tomorrow or the day after. I could ask Darius if his wife would mind if Mrs Trimble shared tea with us. Lady Darius spoke kindly with Mrs Trimble when she visited. I think they might get on. It would mean the world to Mrs Trimble.’
‘That does sound joyous,’ Everleigh said. He put the book on a shelf.
Joyous.
Then he went to the small drawer where he kept the ink, and pulled out a pen, a page of paper, and put it on the table. ‘If you write out the invitation, I can have it sent around. Perhaps they would be able to arrive tomorrow. I’ve another appointment, so I will not be able to make it.’
* * *
Rothwilde went to bed early, as he tended to do, and with a book from Everleigh’s library tucked under his arm. Everleigh sat alone, twirling an empty glass in his hand.
He rose from the chair and went to the window. The darkened houses along the street showed no life.
The fire had died down and the temperature in the room was dropping.
But all he could think of was Vivian.
The kiss. The lovemaking.
He liked Vivian.
He didn’t understand why she demanded love. Love was that drunken feeling that wrung out a person, then evaporated after they’d made a fool of themselves.
It was a nonsensical feeling.
That would make a man keep a miniature of himself at his bedside, as his grandfather had.
He wasn’t waking up with a dislike for Vivian, he was waking with an entirely different problem.
Love.
He’d never experienced whatever he was feeling before. Never. It was consuming him from the inside out. That had to be love. It wasn’t Vivian he was disliking. It was himself. For not going to her. For not begging her forgiveness for withdrawing the proposal. For not courting her. But he still didn’t want to court her.
He wanted to wed her first, then court her the rest of his life.
Everleigh put down the glass.
Love. The type of feeling that would cause a man to make a fool of himself and not care who knew.
It really wasn’t that late. He heard the clock chime. Twelve.
Perhaps she was still awake.