The Duke of St. Giles by Jillian Eaton

Author:Jillian Eaton [Eaton, Jillian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bay Horse
Published: 2014-04-27T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Grosvenor Square

London

From inside the dark, somber confines of his study, the Duke of Brumleigh drew a ragged breath and buried his face in his hands. “Has there been any news?” he asked of the anxious looking woman standing on the other side of his desk.

Wringing her hands together, Petunia shook her head and said, “I am afraid not, Your Grace. No letter came this morning, or last night. I stayed up until midnight to be certain.”

The duke sat back with a frustrated growl. Once widely regarded as one of the handsomest men in England, he’d aged considerably since the death of his wife and even more so since the disappearance of his beloved Emily. His black hair – what remained of it – was now streaked liberally with gray at the temples and lines weathered his face, leaving deep grooves across his forehead and on either side of his stern mouth.

He cupped the back of his neck, pushing his fingers into the tight, unyielding muscles as he fixed his daughter’s companion with a hard scowl. A woman who seemed to possess neither a hardy constitution nor a strong backbone, Petunia visibly wilted beneath his stare and looked away, her countenance riddled with guilt.

“I am so very sorry, Your Grace. If I could go back to that day—”

“You would not be able to change a thing.” He cleared his throat and forced a smile. He knew it wasn’t Petunia’s fault his daughter had been taken, nor was it her fault Emily had not yet been returned. It would have been easy to blame her. Satisfying, even. But he had never been a man who took the easy road at the expense of others. Which, he supposed, was one of the main reasons he’d lost more than his daughter in the past few months. “If I am grateful for anything, it is that you were not harmed.”

Petunia’s eyes, the color of the sky after a rainstorm, widened and she took a step back. “Your Grace?” she said uncertainly.

Edgar cleared his throat a second time. He hadn’t meant to say that. At least not out loud, and certainly not to Petunia.

Employed shortly after the death of his wife, Petunia Weatherby had ingratiated herself seamlessly into his household. Ten years his junior at the age of forty and two, she was an established spinster with an impeccable reputation, not to mention impeccable manners and the patience of a saint. She’d come highly recommended, and thus far he hadn’t found one fault in her service.

She was intelligent, conscientious, and pretty as a flower newly bloomed in spring. A scowl immediately darkened his countenance at the sudden – not to mention unexpected – turn in direction his thoughts had taken.

With her gray eyes and comely face and blonde hair he supposed Petunia was, indeed, quite pretty… not that anyone would ever notice given the drab clothing she seemed to favor and the hideously ugly lace cap she always wore, her hair pinned up so tightly beneath it was a wonder her scalp didn’t ache.

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