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Authors: Amylynn Bright
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wide gate enough for him to slip through and into the throng of people. Mindful of Warren’s injury, Henry strode through the crowd, his intent and mien of purposeful authority clearing a path before him towards the large circular drive. Halfway to the glut of carriages blocking the avenue, Morewether caught up with him.
“Christ.” The duke was breathing heavily. “One minute he was there, the next he was flying over the fence. His arm looks bad.”
“I’ll have the doctor called immediately upon getting him home.” Henry looked up and down the drive for his carriage. Hell, it was nowhere to be found.
“Let’s take mine.” Morewether pointed to his open phaeton.
Situated in the seat, the duke expertly drove his matching blacks at a fast pace, weaving through the traffic. Henry tried to ignore the guilt that settled in the pit of his stomach. Olivia’d kept her brother alive for months in the city with no money and no prospects, and he’d nearly killed him in one afternoon. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Chapter Eight
Olivia raced down the hall, her hair, unbound from her nap, streaming behind her. She was barefoot and most likely had a crease on her face from the pillow, but she didn’t care. She slowed to round a corner, grabbed the wall for support then picked up her pace as she counted off the rooms. She need not have done so as it was obvious which room was his. Lord Dalton paced in front of the door, his back to her, his head bowed and his hands running through his ruffled hair.
She slowed to a trot, a walk and then stopped several paces away from Dalton, her heart in her stomach. “My lord?” she asked, her voice little more than a terrified breath.
Henry turned on his heel, his expression stricken, and Olivia knew it must be the worst. Her hand flew to her mouth, but a squeaky sob escaped nonetheless.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Goldsleigh,” she heard him say, his voice a distant sound behind the roaring in her ears.
“Oh, Warren.” Olivia sobbed, her eyes shut against the truth that shown so clearly on Lord Dalton’s face.
It can’t be true. It can’t be true. Oh God, no, it can’t be true.
Strong hands settled on her shoulders, easing her down as she sank to the floor.
“Miss Goldsleigh.” Lord Dalton shook her gently. The low timbre of his voice eased its way past her mounting hysteria and slipped into her ear. “Miss Goldsleigh.”
Olivia gripped his arms with both hands, her fingers wrapped around his biceps, and leaned her forehead against his shoulder. She clung to him like an oak in a flood, desperate, while the grief poured over her. This was nothing like when her parents died. They had been ill, and though she didn’t want to admit it at the time, towards the end, she knew their deaths were imminent. Warren was so young and the last of her family. Now she was all alone. Really and truly alone.
“Miss Goldsleigh.” Lord Dalton said her name more firmly.
“How did he die?” she whispered, her words so thin they could scarcely be heard.
He shook his head. She didn’t understand. “Die? He’s not dead.”
“Henry, what have you done?” Lady Dalton strode out of Warren’s open doorway.
Olivia glanced between Lord Dalton and his mother. Lord Dalton ignored his parent and placed a finger under her chin to bring her gaze back to him. “Warren’s not dead, Miss Goldsleigh. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“But the maid who woke me said he was in a horrible accident.”
Lady Dalton clucked her tongue in frustration. “Stupid girl. Who sends a tweeny to give news like that? Olivia, sweetheart, stand up. Your brother has a broken arm. That is all.” The lady handed Olivia a scented handkerchief.
“I don’t understand.” That was an understatement. Olivia was feeling distinctly lightheaded. She looked to Lord Dalton for further explanation and realized she was still clutching his arm. She willed her fingers to release him, to lessen their grip on the fine wool of
“Christ.” The duke was breathing heavily. “One minute he was there, the next he was flying over the fence. His arm looks bad.”
“I’ll have the doctor called immediately upon getting him home.” Henry looked up and down the drive for his carriage. Hell, it was nowhere to be found.
“Let’s take mine.” Morewether pointed to his open phaeton.
Situated in the seat, the duke expertly drove his matching blacks at a fast pace, weaving through the traffic. Henry tried to ignore the guilt that settled in the pit of his stomach. Olivia’d kept her brother alive for months in the city with no money and no prospects, and he’d nearly killed him in one afternoon. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Chapter Eight
Olivia raced down the hall, her hair, unbound from her nap, streaming behind her. She was barefoot and most likely had a crease on her face from the pillow, but she didn’t care. She slowed to round a corner, grabbed the wall for support then picked up her pace as she counted off the rooms. She need not have done so as it was obvious which room was his. Lord Dalton paced in front of the door, his back to her, his head bowed and his hands running through his ruffled hair.
She slowed to a trot, a walk and then stopped several paces away from Dalton, her heart in her stomach. “My lord?” she asked, her voice little more than a terrified breath.
Henry turned on his heel, his expression stricken, and Olivia knew it must be the worst. Her hand flew to her mouth, but a squeaky sob escaped nonetheless.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Goldsleigh,” she heard him say, his voice a distant sound behind the roaring in her ears.
“Oh, Warren.” Olivia sobbed, her eyes shut against the truth that shown so clearly on Lord Dalton’s face.
It can’t be true. It can’t be true. Oh God, no, it can’t be true.
Strong hands settled on her shoulders, easing her down as she sank to the floor.
“Miss Goldsleigh.” Lord Dalton shook her gently. The low timbre of his voice eased its way past her mounting hysteria and slipped into her ear. “Miss Goldsleigh.”
Olivia gripped his arms with both hands, her fingers wrapped around his biceps, and leaned her forehead against his shoulder. She clung to him like an oak in a flood, desperate, while the grief poured over her. This was nothing like when her parents died. They had been ill, and though she didn’t want to admit it at the time, towards the end, she knew their deaths were imminent. Warren was so young and the last of her family. Now she was all alone. Really and truly alone.
“Miss Goldsleigh.” Lord Dalton said her name more firmly.
“How did he die?” she whispered, her words so thin they could scarcely be heard.
He shook his head. She didn’t understand. “Die? He’s not dead.”
“Henry, what have you done?” Lady Dalton strode out of Warren’s open doorway.
Olivia glanced between Lord Dalton and his mother. Lord Dalton ignored his parent and placed a finger under her chin to bring her gaze back to him. “Warren’s not dead, Miss Goldsleigh. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“But the maid who woke me said he was in a horrible accident.”
Lady Dalton clucked her tongue in frustration. “Stupid girl. Who sends a tweeny to give news like that? Olivia, sweetheart, stand up. Your brother has a broken arm. That is all.” The lady handed Olivia a scented handkerchief.
“I don’t understand.” That was an understatement. Olivia was feeling distinctly lightheaded. She looked to Lord Dalton for further explanation and realized she was still clutching his arm. She willed her fingers to release him, to lessen their grip on the fine wool of
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