Roderick's Widow by Emily Royal

Author:Emily Royal
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2019-12-03T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

ROSS SWIRLED THE brandy in his glass, watching the amber liquid form a vortex. His nostrils quivered at the tangy scent of the liquor. He smiled to himself. Frederica had once told him the best way to discern a good quality wine was by the aroma. She possessed an extraordinary degree of perception, which most ladies lacked. Together with her intelligence, she made a formidable woman. Hawthorne, the man who had secured her hand and heart, swallowed his brandy in a single gulp, then leaned back in the wingback chair, smiling in satisfaction.

And well he might. That very morning he’d announced Frederica was to furnish him with another child.

Lucky bastard.

Ross loved Amelia as any father might, but she needed siblings. Would he ever have what Hawthorne enjoyed? A loving wife to tend to his home, warm his bed, and fill his heart and home with children?

As if to taunt him, Hartford’s laugh filtered across the clubroom. That old devil was the luckiest of them all. For he had secured Alice’s hand.

Hawthorne caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Damn the man! He seemed to read Ross’s innermost thoughts. No wonder he was such a successful magistrate. Sometimes Ross wished his friend would not look at him so closely. He’d long since been cured of his infatuation toward Hawthorne’s wife, having recognized it for what it was. A pathetic attempt to purge all thoughts of Alice from his mind.

With a sigh, he drained his glass. He should be getting home to his daughter. Amelia would be waiting. With the unconditional trust and admiration only a child possessed, she was blind to his manifold faults—his lack of care, his ill temper, and most of all, his longstanding obsession with the one woman he could never have.

“Hey!”

A cry from outside the clubroom cut through his contemplation as sharply as the brandy had severed his self-pity. The door burst open, and a slim youth rushed into the room.

“Where do you think you’re going, you reprobate! Stop him!”

A footman unceremoniously dropped a tray and lunged at the uninvited guest. Surprisingly spry on his feet, for he must have surpassed Ross in age by at least thirty years, he caught the boy as deftly as an angler bagging a salmon with his net.

“Let me go, damn you!”

The boy’s accent, which stemmed from the gutter, belied the cut of his jacket which, unless Ross was mistaken, originated from one of Savile Row’s finest establishments.

Ross called out. “Edward!”

The boy stopped struggling, and the footman addressed Ross. “Do you know this young gentleman?” His lip curled in a sneer.

“He’s the Duke of Westbury’s firstborn son,” Ross said, rising from his chair as if to challenge the footman to refer to Edward’s illegitimacy. However, the man had the sense to release the boy.

“Perhaps, Mr. Trelawney, sir, you might remind the young master of the rules of decorum.”

Edward snorted. “Oh, shut up you…”

“That’s enough, young man!” Ross said sharply. “What on earth possessed you to force your way into here? For one thing, you’re too young and for another, your father’s not in town.

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