Page 12 of A Duke in Her Fate
And yet she did seem to have it, didn’t she?
Perhaps I will wait. Just a little while.
CHAPTER 5
Stretching his legs after supper was a preferred habit of Ronan’s that he had started within the last couple of years. He couldn’t quite recall how it had begun, or he simply didn’t wish to remember, and only tried to use the time to sort out his thoughts.
“It’ll snow again.”
A duke is never alone. Wasn’t that what Father taught me? I cannot be too peeved, I suppose, since I invited him.
He sent a dour look to Hobbes trailing alongside him with a small booklet and pen. Half a mile from the house, they had slowed their conversation as he grew lost in thought. The butler has been polite enough not to interrupt him until now.
Noting the way the old man was slowing down and limping, however, Ronan restrained the sigh. “Let’s turn back.”
“You usually go twice as far,” Hobbes said with a frown.
They both knew the older man would deny any knee pain, so Ronan muttered, “I’m tired and it’s cold. The nursemaid can carry on as they always do.”
“I shouldn’t like to disrupt your usual schedule. You don’t need to mind me.” Hobbes gave a hard nod before starting forward––away from the house.
This time Ronan rolled his eyes. He stuffed his hands into his coat but trailed behind as they picked the walk back up. Tall as he was, and being duke, he typically chose a long stride that had him ahead of the nursemaid.
“Down, down, pwease!”
Chuckling, the nursemaid obeyed her little charge. “All right, then. Cap first and there we go! Look at you.”
They were several yards ahead, those two. He paused to watch as the young boy jumped three times and clapped his hands. Those blond curls of his bounced just as high. The boy saw him and waved before immediately growing distracted with a bird flitting by right off the path.
“How did matters fare this morning?”
Tearing his gaze from the boy, Ronan eyed his butler. Whatever softness started to settle within his ribs grew firm. Most of thetime, Hobbes knew better than to ask invasive questions. This one sounded innocent. But there was a glimmer in his eyes and they both knew. They knew what Ronan had gone to do that morning.
So he turned away. “London is dreary as ever.”
This was one of the smallest estates he owned, only comparable to his London townhouse that hadn’t been inhabited for over four years. This one, Golden Corner, was a large cottage with eight bed chambers. It was the first property his father had purchased once he was given the title for his accomplishments with his gold mines in three countries.
Wealth made on blood and pain and darkness.
Each mine had been visited by him first in his youth and then once he came into the title. Both times, he had sworn never to go back. He had since closed down one of them when two shafts collapsed, killing twelve people. The other two were adapted for better safety conditions. He had considered closing them. Tried, even. But there was so much legal tape tied up with the Crown that he couldn’t make it happen. All he could do was try to manage them better. But all of it had left a mark on him. Everything within his family had marked him.
Ronan’s past had drained him, bit by bit, weighing him, until dreary was his entire world.
“Both of us know I did not speak of London. I meant your conversation with the young lady who insisted upon a betrothalthat was never formalized or established by you,” Hobbes reprimanded him in a gentle scolding tone. “You’re a clever lad. You would have discovered her name and home quickly enough. Did you speak to her? Resolve the matter?”
His lips twitched before he could help it. “You haven’t called me a lad in years.”
“Because we have a new lad in the house. Master Ollie.”
Together they turned to the two-year-old Oliver who was laughing as he ran from his nursemaid. The harried woman glanced back at them with worry before charging after him with his cap in hand. Already his ears were red with the chill but he didn’t seem to mind.
An absolute scamp. Just like his mother. Only he doesn’t like me as much. Why doesn’t he like me?
“We do indeed,” Ronan murmured, hating himself for keeping his distance. But Oliver never cared for him when he came around. The boy always tucked himself into Anne, the nursemaid, but never him.
“A charming lad, our Ollie. You should go to him.”
“No, Anne has him sorted.”
