Edwin watched his daughter pace the room. "Papa, this not the time to be away from Parliament. With the mountains of work in his committees, Lawrence cannot afford to be away. I know what I owe Grandpere, but do I not owe my own husband more?"
"And to whom does Lawrence owe his illustrious parliamentary career with all of his appointments to various committees? He owes respect to your grandfather and he of all people knows that. See that he packs his bags and makes his way to Barclose within the next two days. The weather will not improve and if he wishes to make the trip short the sooner there the sooner you both will be back in town."
Lydia paced through his short speech, the rustling of her skirts indicating her displeasure. Her face, so like his own, sparked with resignation and frustration as she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and dipped a deep curtsy to her father, the ninth Marquess of Barrington. "As you say, Father, she drawled, So it shall be."
"Lydia," he said quietly as she turned on her heel and marched to the door, "I know your loved your grandfather. Can you not convey that to Lawrence? Must courtesy be pulled out of the man?"
She reached for the door and paused with her hand on the knob. "Father, she responded equally as quietly her face to the door, "You above all others know well how hard it is to invite your spouse to care about your feelings. But I will bludgeon him into respecting your wishes and mine." She opened to door and moved into the hall while he whispered, "Thank you" to the air she left behind as she rustled away.
Edwin sat down on the sofa nearest the fire and looked down at his hands, hands that somewhere in the last week had ceased to be recognizable as his own and had instead become those of a wealthy and powerful Marquess, able to bend others to his command, to order obedience from other equally wealthy and haughty nobles, and to overset his daughter. As well he no longer had her mother to overset.
Emily was dead these fifteen years or more, and he was tired of being alone. It seemed as though he had always been alone since his seventeenth summer. A headache was starting which would not soon go away. He leaned back and rubbed his forehead with one hand. And now, when he returned to Barclose, she would be there. He breathed out a long, tired sigh as he rose to move to the largest parlor where the eighth Marquess now lay in state. He supposed he would have to take all of the tools of his father's trade with him. When he met with Rosy, he was going to try to persuade her to do what she had done with his father all these long years while he had done what he could to stay away, on diplomatic duties that took him across Europe. Whatever else there could be, at least he could fill his days with looking at the lovely face of England's most
"And to whom does Lawrence owe his illustrious parliamentary career with all of his appointments to various committees? He owes respect to your grandfather and he of all people knows that. See that he packs his bags and makes his way to Barclose within the next two days. The weather will not improve and if he wishes to make the trip short the sooner there the sooner you both will be back in town."
Lydia paced through his short speech, the rustling of her skirts indicating her displeasure. Her face, so like his own, sparked with resignation and frustration as she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and dipped a deep curtsy to her father, the ninth Marquess of Barrington. "As you say, Father, she drawled, So it shall be."
"Lydia," he said quietly as she turned on her heel and marched to the door, "I know your loved your grandfather. Can you not convey that to Lawrence? Must courtesy be pulled out of the man?"
She reached for the door and paused with her hand on the knob. "Father, she responded equally as quietly her face to the door, "You above all others know well how hard it is to invite your spouse to care about your feelings. But I will bludgeon him into respecting your wishes and mine." She opened to door and moved into the hall while he whispered, "Thank you" to the air she left behind as she rustled away.
Edwin sat down on the sofa nearest the fire and looked down at his hands, hands that somewhere in the last week had ceased to be recognizable as his own and had instead become those of a wealthy and powerful Marquess, able to bend others to his command, to order obedience from other equally wealthy and haughty nobles, and to overset his daughter. As well he no longer had her mother to overset.
Emily was dead these fifteen years or more, and he was tired of being alone. It seemed as though he had always been alone since his seventeenth summer. A headache was starting which would not soon go away. He leaned back and rubbed his forehead with one hand. And now, when he returned to Barclose, she would be there. He breathed out a long, tired sigh as he rose to move to the largest parlor where the eighth Marquess now lay in state. He supposed he would have to take all of the tools of his father's trade with him. When he met with Rosy, he was going to try to persuade her to do what she had done with his father all these long years while he had done what he could to stay away, on diplomatic duties that took him across Europe. Whatever else there could be, at least he could fill his days with looking at the lovely face of England's most
