The Duke of Defiance (The Untouchables #5)(39)

“My lord?” Bucket, the footman who most often performed the duties of butler since Kerr’s dismissal, came to the doorway. “Lady Knighton has arrived. She’s in the sitting room.”

Every muscle in Bran’s body tensed. “Thank you, Bucket. Don’t forget—I don’t want tea or anything else. Even if she asked for it,” he added as he stood from the floor.

Bucket stifled a smile. “She did, in fact.”

Bran liked that Bucket saw humor in the situation. “I suppose I should don my coat.” He’d brought it downstairs in anticipation of his mother’s arrival but hadn’t put it on yet.

Crossing to the chair near the fireplace where the coat was draped across the back, Bucket picked it up and held it for Bran to slip into. The footman brushed at Bran’s shoulders before Bran turned to face him.

“You could be a valet, Bucket.”

“Perhaps someday. Or a butler.” He shrugged. “Kerr always told me I’ve much to learn.”

“I’m sure he did. I’m not sure anyone is up to Kerr’s expectations,” Bran said with more than a touch of sarcasm.

Bucket didn’t hide his smile this time. “You may be right.”

“Will you notify Mrs. Shaw that Lady Knighton is here so that she may bring Lady Evie to the sitting room?”

“At once.” Bucket turned crisply and departed.

With great reluctance, Bran made his way to the sitting room. At the threshold, he paused. His mother stood with her back to him, her pale blonde hair unmarred with white, at least as far as he could tell from this distance. He doubted he’d get close enough to see. She was angled toward the now-bare space on the wall where her portrait had been.

Perhaps sensing his presence, she turned. She was still beautiful, her skin pale and only slightly wrinkled, her eyes dark and commanding, her stature poised and regal. “Knighton.” She shook her head. “How odd that sounds on my tongue when I look at you.” Her gaze took stock, raking him from his head to his feet. “You look well, if a bit…wild. You need to trim your hair. And probably a new valet since he allows you to be seen like that.” Her criticism was as familiar as it was grating.

“My valet is exemplary, thank you.” He inclined his head toward the void on the wall. “I thought you’d like to have your portrait. I’ve no need of it.”

Her eyes hardened, and he instinctively flinched. That was the look she wore just before she took him to task or beat him with whatever implement she could find. But just as soon as it happened, the moment was gone. She seemed to relax, and the air in the room loosened. Bran exhaled.

“I do like that portrait, but it ought to stay in one of the houses. Perhaps it would be best to take it to Knight’s Hall. I presume you’ll go there in the summer?”

He gave a single nod. He’d like to go there immediately, thinking he’d prefer it to London, but he had too many obligations here. He was still trying to find his way in the House of Lords, though Kendal had been most helpful.

She circuited the room. “You look like your father, except the eyes, of course.”

Yes, he had her eyes. Damn them.

“I never would’ve imagined it, but you’re taller than either of your brothers and more broad shouldered. They took after my side of the family, I suppose.” Her father and brothers had slighter builds—and thinner hair. But Bran had no idea how his brothers had aged, nor did he care.

She sat down on the settee and stared at him. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

He supposed he must. He went to a chair that was situated near the hearth—about as far from her as he could manage—and lowered himself slowly. His entire body was on alert just as he’d been as a child. He’d never known what would set her off, only that it was almost always him. His disdain of clothing, his particularity about food, his hatred of being touched.

“You’re as aloof as ever,” she said.

Particularly with you. “And you’re as critical as ever. I am not your child anymore.”

Her eyes flashed with that coldness again. “You will always be my child.”

Unfortunately. “Yet I am now the earl, and I would demand a measure of respect.”

Her eyes widened briefly, and she inclined her head. “Spoken like a true earl.” Was that pride in her voice? Bran took no pleasure in it. “I’m glad to see it,” she said. “Will you be looking for a countess?”

He didn’t want to share his plans with her. He didn’t want to share anything with her. He had no intention of reestablishing a relationship of any substance. “Yes.”

“Excellent. There are several lovely young women who’ve come out this year and last. Lady Philippa Latham would be a grand match, but the rumor is that she’ll wed the Earl of Saxton. Ah well, he is the heir to a dukedom, so I suppose you can’t compete with that.”

This was the mother he knew—blaming him for things that he couldn’t control. Except in his youth, she’d insisted that he could control what he wore or ate. She’d never understood the near pain it had caused him. Sometimes donning clothing had been akin to a thousand pins poking into his skin. Or what he imagined that to be anyway.

“Nor do I wish to,” Bran said. “I’m not in any hurry to marry. Furthermore, I do not want or need your advice or assistance.”