Chapter 28

Despite Anthony’s assurances, Trent retreated to Hawthorne House instead of returning to his own lodgings.

Griffith looked up from his desk and grinned before looking back at the ledger in front of him. “Someone didn’t come home last night. Or should I say someone finally went home last night.”

Trent grunted and walked to the dart board to pick up the handful of darts. Griffith had installed the board several years ago, after he and Anthony became friends. No matter how much Griffith practiced, though, Anthony could still beat him soundly. Trent wouldn’t admit to any aspirations of beating the marquis—at least not until he was considerably more proficient than he was now—but it was nice to have something to do when he came round to bother his older brother.

Juggling the darts in his hands, Trent walked across the room until he was even with Griffith’s desk. The heavy fragrance of Griffith’s preferred morning tea still hung in the air, letting Trent know he really was disturbing the normal way of things with these morning visits.

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

He let the first dart fly, frowning when it embedded in the outermost ring of the board. “I saw Anthony this morning.”

Griffith glanced at the clock. “You’ve been busy. Rough night?”

Only a brother would dare to give a duke the look Trent gave Griffith. Even then it probably wasn’t as scathing at Trent wanted it to be. His experience at giving strong, harsh looks to people was rather limited. “You could say that. Anthony’s decided you’re probably as woefully uneducated as I was so he intends to have a talk with you before you marry.”

“Sounds delightful. Why are you here, then?” Griffith ran a finger down a column of numbers in the ledger before dipping his quill in the inkpot and jotting the sum at the bottom of the page.

One more reason Trent would make a terrible duke. Numbers took him forever to deal with. Though they might not if he spent as much time with them as Griffith did. He wasn’t willing to find out.

He threw another dart, pleased when this one landed a bit closer to center. “I’m here because I think he’s wrong.”

“And you’re basing this on . . . ?”

Trent threw two more darts in quick succession, one of them pinging off the metal hanger and the other one smacking into the wooden wall below the dart board. “He thinks I love my wife.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Griffith set the quill down on the desk. “And you don’t?”

The remaining two darts clattered across Griffith’s desk as Trent dropped them so he could pace. Considering the frequency with which he had been indulging in the habit lately, he was going to need new boots by the end of the week. “I don’t know. How can I? I’m not even sure I knew she existed two months ago. And now she’s here and she reads and hates carrots and would rather be living in the country. And I can’t believe I’m saying this but I’ve actually considered taking her there. I don’t know if that’s love or a sense of obligation because I’ve muddled the only marriage either of us will ever have.”

Griffith sat back in his chair, folded his hands over his middle, and stared at his thumbs.

Trent stopped pacing and braced his hands on his brother’s desk, leaning over until he could skewer the larger man to the chair with his gaze. “Why haven’t you married yet?”

That one infuriating eyebrow winged upward. “Why do you think?”

“Because you’re an exacting perfectionist and there isn’t a woman alive who would put up with having to keep her teacup three inches from the edge of the table at all times?” Trent pushed off the desk and resumed pacing.

Griffith tried to frown, but the edges of a grin crept through. “I don’t make anyone else place their cup that way.”

“Ah, yes, but we aren’t married to you. We can ignore all your little personal rules. She’ll have to live with them.” It was well known in the family that Griffith liked things a certain way. He thought through everything, even the order in which he ate his meal. Trent had made the mistake of asking him about that once and had to sit through a bewildering discussion on how the flavors of different foods interacted and how some tastes lingered on the tongue, altering the experience of future bites.

“In a way, that’s true.” Griffith picked up the quill and ran his finger along the edge of the feather. “I have a plan for selecting a wife. It will happen soon enough, but I’ve already decided that when I marry her, I’ll love her.”

Trent scoffed. “It’s not as easy as it sounds. Believe me, I’d be eternally grateful if I could just point to Adelaide and say ‘I love her’ and have everything fall into place. But I don’t know how she thinks or what makes her happy. We’re not connected like Ryland and Miranda or Colin and Georgina. Even Mother and Lord Blackstone have that certain thing about them when you look at them. That look that tells you they know each other inside and out. Isn’t that what love is? It’s what I always imagined I’d have. I remember Father quoting bad poetry to Mother and making her laugh all day long as she remembered it. I wanted that. I was going to take my time like Father did and have the next epic love story.”

He collapsed against the wall, his voice growing small as he acknowledged out loud for the first time the death of the only dream he’d ever allowed himself to have. “That was the plan.”

Griffith sighed and set his arms on the edge of the desk, one thumb rubbing along his forefinger. “Trent, you didn’t give your life to Jesus to follow your own plan. You have to follow His plan, and for whatever reason He gave you Adelaide and you accepted her. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“How do you make yourself love someone, Griffith? And I’m not talking about the good Christian kind of love, where we extend charity and grace and forgiveness. That’s the kind of love that keeps us from using our social clout to shun people like Lady Crampton.” Trent placed his hands on Griffith’s desk and leaned forward, this time pleading for help instead of glaring him into submission. “Griffith, how do I love my wife?”

Adelaide had enjoyed Hyde Park from the seat of Trent’s curricle, but she adored it on foot. The Serpentine sparkled like a sea of jewels, and this far from Rotten Row she could hear the birds instead of the clatter of carriage wheels and snorts of horses. She lifted her face so the sun could reach past the rim of her bonnet, enjoying the heat on her skin when she felt chilled to the bone. It wasn’t the kind of cold that came from the wind or wearing a dress that was too thin. The chill seemed to actually be coming from her bones, making her numb to everything.

She stepped on a rock, the sharp point digging through the thin sole of her slipper and proving at least one part of her could still feel something. With a yelp she danced sideways off the rock, stepping on her hem and nearly tossing herself nose first into the water she’d recently been admiring.

“My lady!” Her maid rushed forward, but Adelaide righted herself first, though not without smudging the bottom of her dress in the dirt and grass.

She frowned at the stain, knowing it wasn’t the first dress she accidentally marked. As she walked away from the Serpentine she watched the smudged fabric dance above the toe of her slipper. A slipper she suddenly realized had lost its decorative bow somewhere along the way.

“Rebecca?”

“Yes, my lady?” The maid scurried from three paces back to Adelaide’s side. Trent’s unorthodox staff must be rubbing off on Adelaide since it even crossed her mind to suggest her maid stop walking so far behind her.

“How many dresses have I ruined since we came to London?”

“Completely ruined? Only two, my lady. I was able to fashion repairs on all the others.” The maid sounded almost proud of Adelaide for ruining only two dresses. There was something rather ridiculous in that, considering Rebecca likely didn’t have more than four or five dresses in her entire wardrobe.

Adelaide restrained the urge to sigh. “And how many shoes?”

Rebecca beamed at her. “Oh, I’ve been able to fix all but one of those. I remembered to request extra ribbons from the cobbler this time.”

Adelaide reached the top of a small rise and stopped to look around the park at all the people who seemed to have their life under control. “Hats?”

“I rearrange the feathers and ribbons sometimes, but we haven’t lost a hat yet.” The maid bit her lip. “Please don’t ask about the gloves.”

Adelaide knew better than to ask about the gloves. Her mother had started buying gloves in mass quantities almost as soon as Adelaide had gotten old enough to wear them.

No wonder things had gone so badly last night. Adelaide was a klutz. She’d never really had to admit it before, though she was fairly certain everyone knew it. They’d been wealthy enough and her mother had liked to shop enough that her wardrobe destructions were never that noticeable. There was always another dress, another pair of shoes, another hat, fifteen more pairs of gloves.

But there wasn’t another Trent. She couldn’t shove her husband into the ragbag and get another because she’d messed this one up.

It was time for Adelaide to grow up and stop blaming her upbringing for everything.

Perhaps it was even time to stop trying to make everyone happy.

Her mother wanted her to be socially ambitious and popular. And to be honest, the skills she’d acquired growing up—of doing whatever was expected of her and disappearing whenever she wished—would probably stand in her in good stead if she wanted to pursue such a life. But she had only to look at her parents to see the cost of living life that way, a cost she wasn’t willing to pay.

But what did Trent need her to be? Despite his claim to the contrary, he enjoyed being social. He spent time at the clubs, taking her out for rides and meals and ice treats. He needed someone poised, capable, and polished who could attend the horse race with him one day and the opera the next with a sophisticated soiree in between. She knew now that she could handle herself in all of those situations, could interact with numerous people as long as she didn’t have to start the conversation. The only problem was that she did so while looking like an oafish simpleton.

Trent hadn’t asked for this marriage. The least she could do was give him a wife who was a real lady. A wife who rose to the expectations created by the women who’d already filled his life.

She strolled along, trying to figure out what ladies did that she needed to learn. Elegance and poise such as Georgina possessed was a necessity. It was doubtful that young lady ever returned to the house less presentable than when she left it. Wit, such as Miranda and Lady Raebourne utilized, would certainly be an asset. The way both of them and even Griffith were able to turn conversations and politely handle people with a turn of phrase was a skill she desperately wanted to learn. Could such a thing be learned? Could any of them teach her?

With renewed purpose, Adelaide trod across the park and hailed a hack to take her and Rebecca back across Mayfair. There was only one thing, one person, all of those women had in common. And the very thought scared her until her mouth turned dry.

At least three times she raised her fist to stop the driver and have him turn around. Each time she took a deep breath and whispered a pleading prayer for strength before letting the driver continue. Rebecca sat in the other seat in wide-eyed silence, occasionally glancing out the window as if to discern where they were going.

Finally the carriage stopped at another town house, and Adelaide was presenting her card to another butler. Her entrance this time was immediate and welcoming.

Adelaide waited in the drawing room, determined not to run. Less than five minutes passed before she heard someone enter behind her. She whirled around, pasting a smile on her face that she hoped looked confident and friendly instead of reflecting the ill feeling that was growing in her midsection. “Good afternoon, Lady Blackstone. I need your help.”