While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(40)

“Your sister is betrothed to my stepson, the Duke of Autenberry.” The duchess blinked, still looking mildly surprised that Poppy’s own sister did not know such a monumental fact. As she should.

The color drained from Bryony’s face. “P-Poppy? Engaged to a duke?”

Poppy glanced reproachfully at the fire crackling in the small fireplace, blaming it for the sudden suffocating heat of the room.

It was unavoidable. Lying to her sister had become unavoidable. Her lips parted to speak. “It’s true.” She smiled weakly. “We’ve made no formal announcement yet . . .”

Because there was no actual engagement. Because she was caught up in this insane deception and had promised Lord Strickland she would not reveal the truth.

“You’re betrothed?” Bryony clearly could not wrap her head around this. Poppy could not fault her for her bewilderment. “To a d-duke?”

The dowager duchess clasped her hands together before her, the light catching the gemstones of her rings. Rings that would probably see Poppy and her sister through a lifetime of meals. “The reason we’re here is because we decided to return home for the holidays. We always spend Christmas at Autenberry Manor. This year Marcus suggested we spend it here in Town, but we should never have broken with tradition. If he’d been on his way home, perhaps . . .” Her voice faded away. “That’s neither here nor there now, is it?” She smiled shakily. “Of course we want you there with us. You belong with us.” The duchess shot a glance to Bryony as an afterthought. “Both of you, of course. We’re family now.”

Poppy could scarcely draw a breath in the overheated room. “You want me to leave Town? With you? What of His Grace?”

“We’ve secured Marcus in a coach and made him as comfortable as possible. He’s already left for the country.” The dowager explained this as though it were the most normal of things. Poppy blinked at the odd image of this—the duke in a coma, strapped inside a carriage and bumping along on the way to his country home.

The dowager must have read some of her thoughts on her face. “Dr. Mercer said it was fine to do so,” she said with a touch of defensiveness.

Poppy recalled the physician’s face. Of course he’d sanctioned such a thing. He behaved as though the duke were already dead.

“Lord Strickland is with him. He will make certain all is well,” she added as though this made it all acceptable. “Strickland spends every holiday with us,” she explained. “He has no family himself. It’s just us. Has been ever since the boys attended Eton together.” The dowager’s eyes grew shiny with moisture. “It is for the best. Marcus belongs at home right now. I can’t help thinking it might help him recover.”

Poppy nodded. Yes, the dowager was unconventional, but perhaps she was correct. Perhaps the duke would heal better at home. “Of course.”

“And you belong there, too.” The dowager nodded once, bobbing her glossy dark head, her dark eyes gleaming with determination.

“Poppy.” Bryony hissed her name and tugged on the cuff of her sleeve, clearly insistent on letting her know her thoughts on the matter. She wanted to go to Autenberry Manor. Of course. Who wouldn’t want to spend Christmas at a duke’s manor?

“I can’t just leave. I have a position.” Poppy shook her head. They were quite busy this time of year at the shop. “I can’t hare off to—”

“I’ve already spoken with Mrs. Barclay this very morning. She’s the one who told me where you live.” The duchess sniffed and paused to flick a disapproving glance around the shabby parlor, reminding Poppy of Struan Mackenzie in that moment when he had first assessed her home and so obviously found it lacking. “She insisted you come with us. She said for you to take all the time you need.”

Now it was her turn to be speechless. Until logic settled over her. Of course Mrs. Barclay would want her to go. She valued the duke’s business. She would never refuse a duchess’s request for anything.

“I—I’m not certain, Your Grace. We’d hate to impose.”

Bryony inched closer and squeezed her elbow, communicating her desires. She, of course, wanted them to impose.

The duchess stepped forward and closed her hands around Poppy’s arms, giving her a squeeze. “Poppy, first of all, call me Graciella. Or Ella. We are past formal titles, no?” She glanced at her daughters to confirm this. Young Clara nodded happily. The stoic Lady Enid offered a single nod that seemed to say: I’ve learned not to resist. “Now no more protests. It’s no imposition. Family needs to be together over the holidays and especially in times of hardships—”

“But—”

“Do not deny me in this. Back home, I had so many cousins, aunts and uncles. I could not count them all! I miss having a big family. I’ve longed to see our own grow and I’m thrilled it is finally happening.” The dowager duchess’s dark eyes took on a steely glint. “Think of Marcus. He needs you there. If he’s to recover, he needs the woman he loves at his side.”

The Duchess of Autenberry—Graciella—was clearly a romantic at heart. And yet she was not without sense. The duke was gravely ill. He might not even survive. Of course his betrothed would want to be at his side. She should be there. That was only natural and right. Refusing to go would appear illogical and insensitive.