Page 17 of Bred By the Duke

“Then eleven men will stand in a photograph with nothing on their lapels and nobody notices,” Rochelle says, “except your mother, who will notice tomorrow at ten past nine.”

Honora laughs before she can stop herself, which is possibly the most shocking event of the week so far. Mother lifts her head, unimpressed with being the butt of the joke.

The door bangs open against the sideboard, startling everyone, and my uncle blusters into the room red-faced. He is wearing yesterday's shirt, without his signature tweed jacket, and what I sincerely hope is tea down the front of him. He is also the happiest I have seen him since he lost his wife eight months ago.

“Nine,” he announces.

Nobody says anything.

“Nine puppies,” he says again, louder, in case we missed it. “Five brindle, three black, and one that I cannot describe to you and will have to be seen. She started shortly after midnight, finished at twenty past four, and she did the entire business without so much as a whimper. Mother is doing fabulously. Absolutely fabulously.” He looks around the table for the ovation this deserves. “Gloria's given her a beef heart.”

“Congratulations, Peregrine,” my mother says, in the tone of a woman being told about somebody's holiday and trying not to cringe at the mention of the beef heart.

“There's a small one,” he says, sitting down heavily in the chair next to Cassia and helping himself to her toast. “Runt. I've been rubbing it with a towel. Rochelle, my dear, you'll want to come and see her, she was quite taken with you.”

“Absolutely.” She is smiling, her face lit up with happiness. Peregrine beams at her like she alone made this happen. “I’ll make time this afternoon, if it’s not too soon?”

My mother stands, gathers her lists, and goes out through the door to the hall with her chin at the angle she uses for county functions.

I give it four seconds and follow her.

She stops by the barometer and turns around.

“We need to talk,” I tell her.

“Then talk.”

“There isn't going to be an arrangement.” I say it plainly. “Not with the Corvain’s, not with anyone. I know what the trust says, I've had Gilbert on the telephone about it twice this week, and I'd rather deal with it as a man who chose than as a man who was assigned. So Delphine can come, and she can be looked after properly as Cassia’s guest, and she can go home on Sunday. But she isn't being seated at my right hand tomorrow, because that seat is spoken for.”

Her hand tightens on the pen she is still holding as she connects the dots. “You have known her for two days.”

“I've known her for seven years,” I counter. Because even though we haven’t been close, I have been attracted enough to learn about her and still keep my distance.

“You can’t be serious,” she says, very quietly.

“I've chosen who I intend to spend the rest of my life with. You can be part of it or you can be somewhere else. I would rather have your blessing.”

For the space of a breath I think she might collapse and I prepare myself to catch her if that happens.

Then she goes past me, back through the dining room door like she is moving in a daze.

Rochelle is still sitting at the table with the coffee pot in her hand.

“How long,” my mother says, “have you been working on this?”

Cassia says, “Mamma,” in a voice I have not heard from her since she was nine.

Rochelle looks confused for a moment. “Cassia called me on Tuesday…” she trails off when she sees my face, the realization dawning.

“You’ve been welcomed here for seven years. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve insinuated yourself into my home.” Her voice doesn't rise. That's the terrible part. “First my daughter, and now my son. Tell me honestly, Miss Gallacher, did you ever intend to leave on Sunday?”

“Of course,” Rochelle stammers. The pot is still in her hand, tilted very slightly, and her face has gone the way it goes when somebody hands her a problem she has not been given the information to solve. “Of course,” she says again, firmer this time. “I’m still planning to leave on Sunday.”

“So what is this then?” my mother gestures in a circle with her pen. “If not a bid to get your feet under the table.”

Rochelle’s head moves back like she has been slapped. Her face registering surprise before smoothing out into a sad sort of acceptance. She nods once, a tight smile on her face.

My mother opens her mouth to say something more, but I cut her off.