Free A Duchess by Midnight by Jillian Eaton Page B

firstborn son.”
    A new wife… A new heir…
    The words cut through Thorncroft like a knife. Gritting his teeth, he turned away from his mother and stalked to the window. Gossamer curtains offered a thinly veiled view of the front gardens where a myriad of roses bloomed, their curled faces turned towards the sun.
    “You do not know what you are asking of me,” he bit out.
    “I know exactly what I am asking of you for it is the same thing that was asked of me when my first husband died. Do you think I wanted to marry your father? No,” the dowager duchess said curtly before Thorncroft could growl a response. “I did not. But marry him I did, out of duty to myself and obligation to my family. Because that is what we do, Andrew. That is what the British aristocracy has always done. We meet our duties and our obligations, no matter how impossible they may seem. As a duke, your duties and obligations are greater than most. Some might look at your wealth and your grand houses and your titles as good things, and they certainly are, but nothing comes without a cost.”
    The roses sharpened as Thorncroft’s gaze turned hard. He knew the bloody cost. He knew it better than anyone.
    Not realizing his short nails were digging furrows into the windowsill until his mother gently laid her hand upon his, he relaxed every-so-slightly, forcing his lean body to uncoil before it snapped like a spring drawn too tight.
    “It has been seven years Andrew,” the dowager duchess said softly. “You must let them go.”
    “I am going for a ride.” Turning away from the window he snatched his jacket off the back of a chair and threw it over his shoulder. Adam reached out in a half-hearted attempt to stop him from leaving, but he merely shoved his brother’s arm aside before he stormed out of the room with all the brooding force of a tempest rolling out over the open sea.    

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
     
     
    No one liked to clean chamber pots. But it was something that had to be done, and with everyone else in the household up to their elbows in lye soap Clara had had no choice but to volunteer for the task.
    She hummed a silly tune as she dragged a rickety old wooden wagon piled high with chamber pots behind her. It bumped and jostled over the rough ground, groaning in complaint as the axles threatened to buckle beneath their heavy burden.
    “Hush,” Clara muttered with a backwards glance at the wagon. “You have the easy part, don’t you? I am the one who has to wash them.” Keeping a firm grip on the metal handle she dragged the cart down a narrow, tree-lined path that ran alongside a shallow stream. Tiny song birds chirped at her as she walked past them, their inquisitive black eyes following her slow, steady progress with keen interest. Knowing precisely what they wanted Clara took a brief respite in the cool shade of an elm tree and dug deep into the pockets of her apron.
    “Here you are,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a handful of breadcrumbs. Birds flew down in bright colorful flocks of blue and white and tan as she threw the bread across the path. One bold fellow, his wings dotted with dark spots, hopped right up to her feet and tilted his head back. Clara bit back a smile. “Greedy, aren’t you? Well here you go.” Kneeling down, she slowly extended her hand. To her surprise – and delight – the bird hopped right into her palm, his little nails tickling the calloused skin as he dipped his head and pecked at the stale crumbs.
    When her pockets were empty Clara stood up and watched as one by one the birds dispersed, fluttering back into the bushes and up into the trees. Absently rubbing a knot of tension out of her shoulder – the chamber pots, though small, were deceptively heavy when piled all together – she continued down the path which was really no path at all, but rather an old overgrown trail forged by the hooves of cattle who used the stream to quench their thirst.
    While it would have been far easier and