Fighting . . . carousing . . . whoring? When had he come to this? Christopher had always been sensible.
And spoiled.
Her brother Brandon had warned her. Growing up, if Christopher didn’t have his way, there were often tantrums and later just pouting. But he was one and twenty. The time had come for him to be a man, and not one with loose morals.
“Christopher.”
He didn’t budge.
“Christopher.”
The girl came awake and gave a squeal of surprise. Lucy expected her to jump up and run from the room. Instead, the bold puss frowned. “Who are you to bother us?”
Was she truly that stupid?
“Who are you?” Lucy asked succinctly in a tone only a duchess could use.
Now the girl looked nervous. She glanced at the still-sleeping duke. “I work here.”
“Not anymore,” Lucy replied.
“The duke hired my sister and me.”
“Cora?”
A line of concern appeared between the girl’s brows. “Yes.”
“She doesn’t work here any longer, either. Now go. Put on your clothes. Run away.”
“The duke won’t like that. He expects me here. Wants me in his bed whenever he needs me.” She made it sound as if she was being a good soldier.
In answer, Lucy walked over to the bed, kicking the bottles aside as she made her way. She grabbed her son’s head by the hair and lifted it up. His breath was foul as he began coughing and coming to his senses. Bruises marred his handsome features. A squinting eye appeared blackened.
And then Christopher realized he was looking at the face of his mother.
His reaction was everything she could have wished. He scooted to the other side of the bed, pushing his companion to the floor. She landed with a thud while he grabbed the sheet and wrapped it around his privates.
“Mother? What are you doing here?”
“Delivering an ultimatum.”
“A what?” He frowned and scratched his whiskered jaw as if his mind was still sleep fogged.
“I hope that Mr. Thurlowe looks worse than you do.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Ah, so you can admit that.”
The girl stood up. She’d found a shift on the floor to cover herself and pulled it over her head. Placing her hands on her hips as if she was a princess of the realm, she frowned at Christopher as if he should be defending her. The unlucky chit was about to learn a harsh lesson.
Lucy focused on her son. “Dismiss the girl. She is no longer welcome on this property.”
“Mother—”
“Dismiss her.”
He frowned. He didn’t like being backed into a corner . . . still, a part of him was her beloved son. “Sarah, be on your way. My mother and I need to talk.”
“She said I don’t have a position here. Cora, either.”
“We will talk later, Sarah.”
The cheeky lass looked from the duke to the duchess and then tramped out.
After the door slammed behind her, Winderton said, “You have no right to walk in here like this, Mother. I am the duke.”
“And I’m your mother. That gives me higher rights than you will ever have. You are done here, Christopher. You need to return to London or wherever you wish to go.”
“I wish to be in Maidenshop.”
“That is not possible. You will not stay here and shame this family with your behavior.”
“I’ve done nothing shameful—”
Lucy’s hold on her temper snapped. “You certainly haven’t done anything ducal. I know that much of the resistance Gemma Estep has received over The Garland is of your making. Whose idea was it to fill her establishment with chickens? Who among that sorry band of followers you have been cultivating has the resources to secure that many chickens? It must have taken you days.”
“I thought it would be a lark.”
“A schoolboy lark, yes. Unfortunately, that is not what we expect from a duke.”
“The fellows thought it was fun.”
“I don’t. And obviously, neither did Mr. Thurlowe.”
“He made his point.”
“Now I’m going to make mine. I accept that you thought yourself in love with my brother’s wife. She never encouraged you, Christopher. You were the only one who believed she had. I had hoped your going away to London would give you some Town bronze and help focus you on your duties and responsibilities. Instead, you learned how to whore, to use your position for hedonistic reasons.”
“A man is a man.”
That statement infuriated her. “No, a man is someone who stands for something. Your father was a statesman. Not a drunkard. Not a prankster. Not a sore loser. Kate chose someone else. Instead of proving her right for not choosing you, why don’t you behave in a way to make her question her decision?”
“She is obviously happy with my uncle.” Oh, he spoke so stiffly, so full of misplaced pride.
“Yes, because he truly loves her. He cares about her and doesn’t give two snaps for what other people think about their love. That is the sort of man a woman wants.”
“I could have been that man.”
“If she had returned your feelings. She didn’t. And now, here you are busy pleasing Sarah Belks, who is on her way to catching the pox if she hasn’t caught it already.” Lucy came around to the end of the bed. “You chose to return to Maidenshop. And for what? Christopher, your future does not lie here. Go on, out into the world. Become the man that I know you are.”
“I don’t wish to leave. I like Maidenshop.”
Lucy sighed, confronted with her own culpability. Her poor son. In her grief over her husband’s death, she had kept Christopher too close. “We will always be here. This is your family seat, your home. And I am not ordering you to leave because I don’t respect you. I love you more than my own soul. However, this”—her hand came out to encompass the room, the bottles, the soiled sheets—“isn’t who you are. You are Winderton . . . and that must stand for something.”
Then the thought struck her—what if it was too late? Had she spoiled him to the point that he might never become what she and her dear husband had envisioned? Had she ruined him?
She blinked back her tears. Now was not the time for him to see her falter. Not if he was to succeed. “You must go.”
Lucy left the room.
Ned knew it was a risk to see Gemma.
Still, he could not stay away.
He waited until most people were gathered around their dinner table. This was the loneliest hour of the day for him.
Except now there was a deeper twist to what he was feeling.
He followed the bank of the Three Thieves until he reached the back of The Garland. One thing the Logical Men’s Society understood was how to avoid detection by the matrons. Coming up onto the lawn, he had to admire what Gemma had accomplished. She was well on her way to having her bowling green back here. He was also impressed with the size and the arrangement of herb and flower beds. Some things were already planted; such was the blessing of English weather.
And then he stopped, his gaze on the closed back door. He had to see her, but now, what should he say? Well, other than he wanted to kiss her again. He needed to kiss her. To hold her, to be close to her . . .