He had traded one vice for another, and his dependence upon this one had been far greater than the last. This time, he had been struck low when he attempted to stop it.
“I can see I have shocked you with this news, Your Grace,” Dr. Young told her gently. “Once again, I am sorry. All I can do is reassure you that His Grace’s illness will pass. This is the body’s ordinary reaction to the cessation of opium consumption in large and regular quantities. The best you can do for him now is make him comfortable. Attend to him, give him broth when he is able to take it.”
She was awash in a confused swirl of emotion. Anger at Ewan for keeping such a secret from her, continued worry over his illness, confusion over why he had been consuming so much laudanum in secret.
“Thank you, Dr. Young,” she managed to say.
The dowager placed a hand on Hattie’s arm, reminding her for the first time that she had an audience. When the physician had emerged from Ewan’s chamber, all her thoughts had turned to him.
“I warned you, my dear,” Ewan’s mother said. “In time, you will simply come to expect this behavior from him. Montrose has been this way far too long for him to change, I fear.”
Hattie did not believe that, and his mother’s calm acceptance of what was clearly a deeper problem irked her. Hattie shrugged away from the dowager’s touch.
“Everyone is capable of changing,” she said coolly. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to see Dr. Young below while I attend to His Grace?”
She was effectively asking the dowager to keep from Ewan’s sickbed. The dowager stiffened at her dismissal but inclined her head. “Of course, Your Grace. Dr. Young, if you will follow me?”
Hattie was being horridly rude, but she did not care. All she did care about now was her husband. About seeing to his comfort, nursing him back to health, and uncovering the truth. She offered a hasty curtsey to both of them before turning back to his chamber.
She knew where she belonged, and it was by his side.
Chapter Nineteen
Monty woke to dawn painting his chamber golden, and Hattie curled up alongside him, sleeping. After days of suffering, he finally felt a bit like himself. And how bloody welcome that sensation was, as if a crushing weight had been removed from his chest.
Not more welcome than the woman at his side, however.
His angelic wife had been here in his sickroom, tending him without fail. They had not spoken of the true reason for his illness. Not yet. But he had taken one look at her pinched expression when she had reentered his chamber following Dr. Young’s visit, and he had known, even in the depths of his misery, that she knew. He also knew she was waiting to discuss the subject with him until after he was well again.
And whilst he still felt as if the devil had danced a country reel all over his body, today was the first day since he had stopped taking laudanum that he was not heaving or otherwise bilious, not ridden with fever. He felt strangely lucid.
The world looked sharper.
Hattie looked softer.
More beautiful. Her tresses were plaited in a simple braid, but even in the early light, it was lustrous and rich. Her lips were parted as she breathed evenly. Her hands were clasped beneath her cheek, completing her angelic aura, for it looked as if she had fallen asleep in prayer.
Praying for what, he wondered? His soul? His survival? Her own ability to forgive him?
Part of him was thankful for her ceaseless devotion to him. Part of him hated she had seen him so low, that she knew one of his darkest secrets, and feared she had only been present at his side out of duty rather than desire.
Memories returned to him then, of the vilest depths of his opium sickness. He had reached a horrid point where he had been desperate for more. He had begged her for it. Railed when she refused him. Dear God, had he thrown an ewer of water across the chamber? He distinctly remembered the sound of smashing crockery and knew he had.
He closed his eyes and inhaled against a sharp wave of shame slicing through him. When he opened them again, she was still there, at his side, hauntingly beautiful. So good, she made his chest ache. If she wanted to leave him after this, he could not blame her. He would fight for her, of course. He would follow her, beg her to come back to him.
As if sensing the maelstrom of his thoughts, or mayhap more likely sensing his gaze pinned upon her, Hattie stirred, the dark lashes fanning her cheeks stirring. Suddenly, he found himself drowning in a sea of brilliant green.
“Good morning,” he told her softly, uncertain of himself for the first time.
Ordinarily, all he had to do was be wicked, and ladies fell into his bed. With Hattie, he had but to charm or tease, to kiss her into agreement. Vulgar words made her flush but also made her want him. The clever persuasion of his hands, lips, and tongue had always held him in good stead.
What a strange feeling it was not knowing where he stood with her. Knowing she had witnessed the monster hiding beneath his beautiful mask. He was horridly aware of the fact that he had not bathed in days, and he must smell wretched. That she knew he had lied to her. That she knew he was weak.
“Good morning, Ewan,” she returned, lifting herself to a sitting position, much to his regret.
She looked as if she were a fairy about to fly away.
He barely restrained the urge to capture her wrist, keep her here. For he had no right. Not after the way he had deceived her, and the way she had selflessly tended him all the same.
“You have been taking care of me,” he observed, his voice hoarse and dry. It cracked as he spoke, much to his chagrin.
The most sought-after rakehell in London could not even utter a proper sentence. He had been more defenseless than a child, taken with fever and hunched over a chamber pot. The good Lord’s chemise, he and Hattie had been wed under three weeks’ time. She ought to have run as if Cerberus nipped at her heels.
She patted her braid, smoothing stray wisps into place, and straightened her plain, serviceable gown. It was not even a proper night rail, and she had spent the night in it as if she were a charwoman rather than a duchess.
“How are you feeling this morning?” she asked instead of addressing his statement. “You look…”
She trailed off as her bright gaze assessed him, wakefulness gradually replacing the soft slumber which had eased her mien.
“As if I have been dragged behind a carriage from London to Bath?” he asked, attempting a sally.
In truth, this was no laughing matter. He was not smiling, and nor was she.
They stared at each other in tense silence.
She was the first to break it, speaking at last. “I do think you would have been a corpse upon your arrival had you been dragged that far.”
“I feel something like one.” He passed a weary hand over his face, as if he could so easily scrub away the horrors of the past few days. As if he could erase all he had done, all she had seen.
If only it were that simple.
That effortless.
Life never was, was it?
She pressed a hand to his brow, and here was his true test of recovery. His cock twitched to life. Awareness pulsed through him.
“You do not feel feverish,” she said.
He could have argued the opposite. He felt feverish, but it was a reaction once more of her nearness, as it should be, rather than his abandonment of the laudanum crutch which had seen him through each day for the last few months.
“Hattie,” he began, knowing he must apologize. Attempt to explain. “I am sorry about…everything.”
“Everything?” She frowned, her gaze searching his. “What do you mean by that, Ewan?”
He was making a muck of this. As he oft did when it came to her. But that was integral to what made Hattie so damn special, so different from all the rest, was it not? He could not be self-assured with her. She mattered far too much to him. With others, he had not cared. They had been easily replaced by another, more enthusiastic version of the last.
There was onl
y one Hattie.
She was rare and good and true.
How strange it seemed to have such mental clarity. He felt as if he had been viewing his life through a smudged windowpane, and it had been suddenly cleaned. He could see everything, everyone, in such startling detail. The numbness that had ever been his companion had fled, and in its place was a rich, surprising capacity to feel.
But she was still awaiting his response, her countenance growing more drawn by the moment as he muddled through the complexities of his emotions and realizations.
“I am sorry about keeping the laudanum a secret from you.” This admission was not difficult for him to make. “I am sorry I was drowning myself in it, using it to forget, using it to remove myself from all my worries and cares. The truth is that while my ankle does cause me pain sporadically after the accident, I was taking drops of laudanum every day. I was lying to you each day.”
And he felt sick about it. He felt disgusted with himself as he thought about it now. He had spent all the precious days of their marriage in a fog of laudanum and pleasure. Although everything between them had been real and true on his end, he wished he had not spent every moment of their marriage pouring laudanum down his worthless gullet with his tea and negus.
“Why, Ewan?” she asked, that question he had been dreading. “Why would you grow so dependent upon it? Why did you deceive me?”
He could not give her the answer, the true answer. Not in full. He would have to lie to her again. Because if he told her the horrible truth, he would lose her forever. She would never look at him the same. And losing Hattie, well, he could not fathom it. Losing her was not even a consideration. It was an unbearable prospect.
He cared for her far too much.
Perhaps that was something the laudanum had been dulling him to as well—the way he felt for this incredible, resilient, compassionate, giving woman he had married. But there were bounds to compassion, he knew. There were limits to understanding. He would not test or break them now. Not when he needed her so.
“I was desperate after the accident,” he told her, and that much, at least, was true. “I was in great pain. I felt myself responsible for what happened to Torrie. That night was…my God, Hattie, I love him as if he were my brother. Afterward, all I could think about was how if I had declined to race him, he would not have been lying at death’s door. Later, when he recovered but could not recall anything past waking up at Torrington House, it was as if a part of me had died. I…I relied upon the laudanum because it helped the pain. All of the pains within me. Only, in the end, it became the pain. It caused the pain.”
There. He had revealed all of himself he possibly could to her. If lying by omission was a sin, he was guilty, and he would gladly go to hell for it rather than tell her about the other source of pain in his life. The one buried deep within his past.
For a long time, she sat alongside him, searching his gaze, a frown marring the creamy perfection of her forehead. He could not help but to feel as if she were testing him. Attempting to look inside him, to see to his heart, to determine whether or not he was being honest with her.
He was. About everything he said. It was merely what he had not said, which he would necessarily have to carry on. It was a burden he would bear.
“I am sorry, too, Ewan,” she said, shocking him to his core.
“You are sorry?” It was unbelievable. She was unbelievable. And he did not deserve her, just as he had always known. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Hattie darling.”
“I blamed you as well.” She paused, seeming to gather her thoughts, tears shimmering in her expressive eyes. “I told you that you were responsible for what happened to Torrie. I wanted to believe it, too, because blaming you was far easier than blaming him. It gave me a reason to be angry with you, to guard my heart against you.”
“I was to blame,” he countered. “If we had not gotten into our cups, and if we had not decided to race, your brother would still have his memory.”
“He chose his actions, Ewan. Just as you chose yours. I cannot blame you for his any more than I can blame him for yours.” She stopped once more, reaching for one of his hands, linking their fingers. “We are all of us responsible for our own decisions, are we not? And we must live with them.”
He felt such shame in the face of her forgiveness. But he squeezed her fingers just the same, as if he were a drowning man adrift at sea, and she were his only means of saving himself. Because it was the truth. He needed this woman.
His woman.
“I am damned sorry for most of my decisions,” he told her with feeling. “Nearly all of them. I am sorry for lying to you. Sorry for what happened to Torrie. Sorry you had to see me this way. Sorry you had to tend to me whilst I was out of my head.”
“I did not have to tend to you, Ewan,” she returned, her gaze steady upon his. “I wanted to. I told you before, I care about you. Do you regret marrying me? Was that…was what we have shared because of the laudanum?”
“God, no.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Never. Marrying you is the only good thing I have ever done in my entire misbegotten life. And nothing—no part of it—was because of the opium. I am sorry you even need to question it, but please know I am honored to have you as my wife.”
He still did not deserve her. He never would.
“Do you mean it?” she asked, her expression so tense, so stricken, she reminded him of a wild bird, poised for flight at the slightest provocation.
“Of course I do.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it with all the reverence he could manage in his weakened state. “I need you, Hattie.”
She was silent for far too long.
But at long last, she cupped his face with her free hand, the trepidation melting from her lovely face. All he saw in its place was an exquisite, unfettered caring, so raw and real, it robbed him of his breath. “Good. Because I need you, too.”
Chapter Twenty
The day was surprisingly warm and bright. Autumn would soon give way to winter, but they were enjoying a rare shift in temperatures that made gray London seem as if verdant spring had unexpectedly settled in.
“Are you soon finished?” Hattie asked her husband, feeling foolish indeed in her satin and lace evening gown when it was only afternoon, and she was alone with him in the small square garden of Hamilton House. The roses had already withered on their trellises, but the Sweet William were yet in full, brilliant bloom. She sat on a stone bench with statues of Ceres and Proserpina standing silent sentinel.
A lone bird sang overhead somewhere, its trill clear and full-bodied.
“Yes.” The smile Ewan gave her was shy. Boyish.
It sent an arrow that landed directly in her heart. She had never seen him look so young, or so unguarded. Over the course of the last sennight, he had fully recovered from the opium sickness, which had lain him so low. He was still the same man she had married, but there was an undeniable difference to him now—he seemed as if years had been peeled away from him, as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders.
He seemed, in a word, free.
“I feel horridly silly,” she protested, “and my bottom is growing quite weary of this seat.”
“I shall be more than happy to kiss away any aches,” he said, his grin deepening. “And there is no need to feel silly. You look ridiculously beautiful. Like a faerie queen come to preside over us mere mortals, if only for an hour.”
She frowned down at the gown she wore, for it was the same Pomona green satin and jonquil robe affair she had donned the night she had been hiding behind the potted palms. When those two awful creatures had been snickering over her choice of dress and the notion the Duke of Montrose might ever be interested in a plain old wallflower such as herself.
“That wretched Lady Ella and Lady Lucy had quite a bit to say about this gown,” she reminded him primly, wondering at his request.
“Those vapid harpies were envious,” he told her, lifting his pastel crayon in its holder al
oft as he stood before his easel. “People often attack that which makes them jealous. It is a sad commentary on themselves more than anything else. I find you enchanting in this gown. Of course, I find you equally enchanting out of it.”
Warmth flared in her cheeks and elsewhere, too, between her thighs. She pressed them together in an effort to stave off a rush of longing. “I thought you wished to draw me, not seduce me.”
In the wake of his illness, Ewan had confided in her that he had once had a passion for sketching. That passion had been steadily replaced over the years by all manner of vice and debauchery. She had been surprised at how readily he had agreed with her suggestion that he resume the art once more. And shocked when he had suggested she pose as his first subject.
His searing gaze traveled over her now, igniting a fire deep within. “It is a matter of course that I always want to seduce you, pet. But for now, I shall settle for sketching you. Do sit still, or I shall never have a hope of finishing any time soon.”
He had chosen the backdrop for sketching her and the gown. The poor dowager had seemed quite perplexed by the sight of Hattie in an evening gown and Ewan with his case of pastel crayons under one arm and his easel beneath the other. After commenting that Ewan had not sketched in years, she took herself off in search of the day’s social calls. The strain between mother and son was still evident. Hattie wondered at it, but she had yet to broach the topic with her husband.
Small steps.
One at a time.
They had already progressed quite a bit from where they had once been, and she must not grow too impatient with him, she knew. He had changed so much. The man he was becoming did not resemble the dissipated Duke of Debauchery he had once been in the least, aside from his omnipresent good looks and charm. Even that had enhanced. He looked healthier now in a way he had not before—his complexion was brighter, his lean form fuller.
But still, her bottom was aching, and she was growing weary of remaining still. “I think I have been sitting here for two hours,” she groused.
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