(COMPLETED)
It's 1817 and there is nothing more a woman wants than to marry a rich man and live a life of comfort.
But not Nancy Brooks. Having spent half her life helping her mother run her laundry shop and the other half in the local library, Na...
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London, England
June, 1818
Andrew returned home after a long day filled with meetings and signing papers to find his mother waiting for him in his study. He sighed involuntarily, trying to stay calm.
"Is it foolishly optimistic of me to hope that you have given some consideration to my offer?" His mother's voice was cold as usual, her face a hard mask.
"Is it foolishly optimistic of me to hope that you would stop turning up at my house in the middle of the night to persuade me to leave my wife?" He took a seat at his desk, shuffling through the stacks of parchment on his table, not particularly looking for anything.
"Yes." His mother turned toward the window, looking outside. Andrew glanced at her back, wondering how many conversations he'd had with her since his childhood while she stared out the window with her back to him.
"Yes to your question too, then," he shot back. "Perhaps you should give up on your futile quest now and do something useful that will actually yield results."
His mother laughed coldly. "I will give you one more chance to reconsider, Andrew."
"Save your chances, Ma. My answer will remain the same tomorrow and the day after and the next week and the next year." Andrew opened a book and pretended to read.
She turned to face him and smiled. Andrew had always thought that her smile was more dangerous than her cold look. "Nevertheless, I give you one last chance to reconsider, because, stubborn and foolish as you are, you are still my son."
"How unfortunate for me." Andrew watched as her smile widened, and then without a word, she left.
Andrew slammed the book shut and made a mental note to forbid the servants from letting his mother inside the house again.
= = =
Andrew kicked the door open and walked inside without knocking. Sarah looked up from the evening paper she had been poring over, surprised.
"I have to talk to you." Andrew took a seat across from her in the sitting room of her house and gave her a cold stare.
"Is that any way to greet your favorite cousin?" Sarah joked halfheartedly. The immense change in her behavior recently was bothering Andrew to no end.
"My mother has kept up her threat that if I do not leave Nancy, she will be 'taken from me by force,' as she puts it."
"Andrew, I think you are being extremely reckless." Sarah's voice was stern, but Andrew did not fail to notice the slight tremble in it. "It was different before, but now that Uncle Ronald is...dead, you are the head of the family. I think it is time you took responsibility for whatever you must. And if that means you should leave your wife—"
"How does that mean I should leave my wife, Sarah?" Andrew asked through clenched teeth.
"You are the Duke of Grafton," Sarah said tentatively. "That makes her the Duchess of Grafton, which is not right, Andrew. She is not a desirable member of our society, our world."
Andrew swore under his breath. "Since when have you started caring about who is and is not a desirable member of our society, cousin?"
"This is not child's play anymore." Sarah spoke with the air of having to explain something to a child. "Your father is dead, you are the Duke of Grafton now, and you need to take your responsibilities seriously."
"What do you think I'm doing?" Andrew almost shouted. "I left everything to come to London and am handling all of my father's work singlehandedly, yet you say I'm not taking my responsibilities seriously because I married Nancy?"
Sarah looked at him sadly. "If nothing will faze you, then leave her for her own sake. I don't think you realize the extent of the danger you have put her in with all this."
"I will say this once more, Sarah: I will not let anything happen to her." Andrew's voice shook with anger. "My mother can try to execute all her plans. And you can help her all you want." He stood up and turned to go.
"I am not helping her, Andrew. Please don't misunderstand me. I only want what's best for you."
Andrew took a deep breath to stop himself from turning around and lashing out at her. Without a word, he left, slamming the door behind him.
= = =
When Andrew had first come to London after his father's death, he had spent days reading and rereading the medical documents that said Duke Grafton was dead and the cause had been an accident on the road. He told himself again and again that there had to be a loophole. Had it been so necessary for the funeral to take place immediately, like his mother had told him, that they could not even wait for the man's only son to arrive? He had needed to see him with his own eyes to believe it. A grave was not—could not be—enough. There had to be something more concrete.
However, his search and investigation had proved to be futile. Eventually, the sinking feeling in his stomach that seemed to constantly be there began to subside. Then it completely disappeared as he accepted the fact that his father was indeed dead and he was now the Duke of Grafton. It had not been easy for him to accept this and to take responsibility for all that was now his, especially with all the trouble his mother was determined to create in his life. He knew he would not let his father down, but sometimes he found himself wishing it had been his mother, not his father, who had been on the road that day.
"You have to focus on your work, Duke Grafton," Henry, the elderly butler, told him constantly. "Accept that he is dead and move on."
And Andrew knew he had no other choice. With theweight of so many lives on his shoulders, the Duke of Grafton could not affordto lose concentration or to get caught up in the past.
