Free Douglas: Lord of Heartache by Grace Burrowes Page A

join me for a cup of tea?”
    “In a minute.”
    “You want to watch me bolt my grain?” He tore into his sandwich, manners be damned.
    “I’m considering how to answer your last question, about why Andrew would sell his most attractive property. I should think it obvious.”
    “So enlighten me.” And God above, she was right: he’d been famished.
    “Linden is the only property that isn’t entailed, for one thing,” Guinevere said, ticking off on her fingers. “For another, I don’t think Andrew was particularly happy here. For a third, his wife has recently given birth to what is likely the first of many children, and this estate is distant to the other two. It being inconvenient to travel with children”—Douglas lifted his teacup in salute to that sentiment—“he would likely have to visit this one on his own, and Andrew is much taken with his spouse.”
    Much taken—a euphemism for being head over ears to a degree Douglas could only envy.
    “You don’t mention the one reason I might have brought up first,” Douglas said, selecting a second sandwich. Guinevere did pour herself a cup of tea then, adding two sugars and—he was pleased to note—a healthy tot of cream.
    “Greymoor can use the money from selling this place to finance the initial expenses of his stud farm,” she said, “but one thing that branch of the Alexander family does not need is more money.” She poured another cup of tea for Douglas, who perused a lovely plate of cakes while making inroads on his second sandwich. “They aren’t going anywhere, Douglas.”
    “Who isn’t?”
    “The cakes. You don’t have to stare them out of their impulse to leap up and leave the scene. I assure you, the cakes will be there when you finish your sandwich. How was the chicken, by the way?”
    Douglas patted his lips with his serviette. “Above reproach.”
    “Douglas,” she said gently, “you just ate two sandwiches of roasted beef.”

Four
    When Guinevere abandoned Douglas to check on Rose, he was left with some time to fill and a backlog of correspondence to address. He took himself off to the library with a final cup of hot, sweet tea, and in his pocket, a pair of smuggled tea cakes.
    The big mahogany desk near the window beckoned, the windows affording light and the nearby hearth taking the chill off an otherwise gloomy day. He started with the letter from his mother, though her hand had grown so crabbed and her prose so repetitive, he wondered why he bothered to respond to her carping.
    By seven of the clock, Douglas was only halfway through with his correspondence, but he gave up anyway. He was not properly attired for dinner, the tea cakes were but a happy memory, and he was feeling… both peckish and cranky.
    Like Rose at the end of a long day.
    “How was Miss Rose when you left her?” he asked Guinevere when he presented himself in the family parlor precisely on the hour.
    “Fast asleep,” Guinevere said. “She did not nap this afternoon, and so was quite worn out after her supper. Then too, she’d had her bath and could tumble right into bed.”
    Douglas poured two fingers at the sideboard and held a glass out to Guinevere, images of the lady at her bath flitting through his damned fool, tired brain. “One can consider a tot medicinal, given the damp weather.”
    “Perhaps half that amount?”
    At least she wasn’t going to fuss over the consumption of a bit of spirits. “You are content with the arrangements here for Rose’s care?” Douglas asked, pouring a second, smaller drink and handing her the glass—crystal, of course, at once luminous and delicate.
    “Hester is very patient,” Guinevere replied, taking a sip of her drink. “And yet, it’s difficult…”
    Douglas stood with an elbow propped on the mantel, a safe distance from a pretty, if tired, woman in a pretty, if out-of-date, green velvet dress. How did a lady of lively intellect pass the time when her only companion on a dreary afternoon was a