Page 3 of A Duke in Her Fate
“And his obnoxious father,” Julian muttered.
Sebastian nudged Ronan as they reached the stables. Already his horse was prepared for him, thank heavens, so he could be gone within two minutes. But he couldn’t climb up when Sebastian gripped his elbow. “Well? What are you going to do?”
“It’s hardly your matter. And hardly mine,” Ronan decidedly shortly. After he wrenched himself free, he climbed into the saddle and offered a tip of the hat to his fiends. “Good day, gentlemen.”
“Friends,” Tristan corrected him.
Julian nodded. “Friends.”
As for Sebastian, he crossed his arms and gave a pointed look.
Ronan snorted but forced a short nod. “Friends. Good day.” And then he skirted the three dukes to make his way to freedom.
Leaving them behind, he buried himself in the crowd as just another gentleman on another horse. There were people everywhere. But no one could place him here, no one cared. For a minute, he let go of the weighty feeling on his chest where everyone settled their expectations for him.
And then he was on the move.
It was a half day ride to his quiet estate outside of London. More countryside than city, he could escape the fumes and the filth for peace and quiet. This wasn’t his largest estate, but it was the easiest to manage as it sat neatly in the middle between London and his country seat in Westvale.
The sun had set by the time he arrived home where he found two stable boys awaiting him in the mews. They doffed their hats and bowed, patiently waiting to accept the reins.
“You didn’t wait long, did you?” Ronan charged them.
Exchanging looks, the boys shook their heads. He saw the lie but his tongue tangled when he tried to think of a way to convince them to be honest. He quietly huffed before handing over the reins. “Feed him well.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” they promised, and waited until he entered through the side door.
Ronan was already in the process of removing his cloak when he stopped short, nearly stumbling over himself upon seeing his butler there in the way. “Good lord! Hobbes, what are you doing?”
“You, Your Grace, are late.” Hobbes set down the candle to help him with his cloak. Then he took the hat. “Approximately forty-two minutes later than you’ve ever been. What happened?”
“Traffic,” Ronan lied.
The older man squinted at him in the bad lighting. Having been with the Ward family since they accepted the twenty years prior, Hobbes knew Ronan better than anyone else. At least, anyone who still lived. His gray hair was neatly combed, and a whisper of a mustache did nothing to hide his frown.
“Whatever need do you have to lie to me?” Hobbes demanded.
Rolling his eyes, Ronan skirted past him. “That’s not your business, Hobbes. Have you a drink ready for me?”
“It’s a warm night.”
“But a chilly ride.” Ronan made his way down the hall to a near side room, feeling more than hearing his butler trail behind him. It only took a second to find the roaring fireplace and tea kettle that awaited him. “Ah. You old fool. Who is the liar now?”
His butler sniffed. “I never lied. I merely said it was a warm night.”
“And yet I want my tea prepared for me when I do arrive home, as I have for the last three years,” Ronan pointed out sternly. The water was boiling so he took the tea kettle away from the fireplace to set up nearby. When his butler came to take over, he threw the towel at the older man. “If you don’t want to do it then you don’t get to do it.”
“I did prepare your tea before,” Hobbes muttered, clearly disgruntled. He didn’t like Ronan doing his work for him. Not that a butler needed to make tea. But it seemed no one else in the household cared to spend more than a second in Ronan’s presence, so the two of them usually wound up here in the evening. “Three cups were prepared. They all went cold in your absence.”
Ronan paused from handling the spoon. “You didn’t drink them yourself?”
The man made a face. “You know I cannot stand your tea. It’s thick and unsavory.”
“It’s foreign,” Ronan corrected him. “And you’re a snob. I needed to drink something. Or do you want to pull out that bottle?”
“No.”
In this estate, there was exactly one bottle. A rich red wine that Ronan had brought back from Italy some time ago. The mere thought made his mouth water even as he forced scalding tea on his tongue. His stomach twisted before the richness slid down his throat like the welcome distraction he meant for it to be. Because the bottle was not supposed to ever be drunk.
