* * *
It wasn’t until he was three glasses into what he hoped would be mind-numbing drunkenness that Dax realized he’d nearly ended up in a duel with his wife’s brother.
“He said what?”
Dax looked over at Sebastian who seemed unaffected by alcohol at all.
“He said he was going to be forced to challenge you if you came near his sister.” Sebastian said it with such neutrality, one may have thought he was discussing the weather.
“Challenge me? What for?”
Sebastian eyed him.
It was enough for him to recall the sound of Eliza’s cries echoing through the chilled night air in front of the Devonshire estate. It had done something to him he swore a woman would never have the power to do to him again.
She’d cut him, deeply, with her anguish, and it was so much worse because he had been the cause of it.
He had chased after her. There was no choice in the matter. He couldn’t let her go thinking what she must have thought of what she’d overheard. Sebastian was right. He had to tell her the truth. But would she believe him now?
He hadn’t caught up to her in the crush of the ballroom, but he’d seen the parting of the crowd the Duchess of Margate had caused and knew Eliza had to be with her. He followed as quickly as the crowd had allowed, but he was too late. He saw the Ravenwood carriage approaching, the Duchess of Margate all but holding Eliza up, and Ravenwood. Damn Ravenwood had stood there like a mythical sentry, standing between him and his wife.
He’d called out to her. It was the only thing left to him, and he thought for a moment she would listen to him. But when she’d turned, he’d seen the tears on her cheeks, the way a sob wracked her mouth, and everything inside of him stopped.
If Sebastian hadn’t caught him just at that moment, he would likely have tumbled directly down the Devonshire stairs. He stared after his retreating bride, swept away by the bolstering familiarity and comfort of family.
He let her go.
The pain had been one thing. He understood pain, but there had been something else on Eliza’s face, something with which he was far too familiar. He saw rejection. In an instant, he was a naive twenty-three year old sapling standing in the middle of a ballroom waiting for the woman he loved who never came. There in the twist of her lips, the anguish of her eyes, Dax had seen it reflected in his own wife’s face, and it had rendered him dead.
“Dax, hold fast, mate.”
It was only Sebastian calling him by a name his friend had not used since Eton that Dax had been able to stop himself from hurtling down those stairs, from lying prostrate at her feet and begging her to listen.
Sebastian wasn’t stopping him from getting Eliza he realized now. He was preventing him from getting murdered by an irate brother. Sebastian had hustled him into his own carriage and had the driver take them immediately to the club where Mandricks began applying a steady stream of alcohol.
“I owe you a great deal then, Sebastian. Name your price.” Dax drained the last of his glass.
“Leave me out of this affair.” The words were said with a degree of sarcasm that made Dax laugh.
“I’m not sure I meant to get you involved in it.”
Sebastian was quiet, uncomfortably so, and Dax stole a glance at him. They occupied the same chairs they had hardly a week previously when Sebastian had advised him that it was one’s personality which lent itself to love. His friend had once again crossed an ankle over the opposite knee, but while he had been engaging a week ago, now his friend merely sat and pondered the fire.
Dax considered his now empty glass. “I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Sebastian moved only his eyes to him. “Made a mistake? By marrying someone you find witty and engaging? I wouldn’t call that a mistake.”
“It wasn’t a part of the plan though.”
He hated that word suddenly. Why he had thought he could be objective about any of this was preposterous. It needn’t matter how formal the arrangement. The pairing of two people inherently involved emotional tensions, and he’d picked a woman far more complicated than he’d anticipated. He should have picked one of those silly debutantes that fluttered about him. Not one with an observant eye and a truthful tongue.
“Perhaps making a plan at all was your error. Learning of it seems to have upset your bride.”
“You’re being rather generous.”
Sebastian tapped his glass against his knee. “Discovering one is playing a role in another’s machinations can often be upsetting.”
His friend’s tone was sharp, almost as if he spoke from some old pain. Dax slid him a glance.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I am right.”
Dax shifted in his chair. He looked about for the footman who had been refilling his glass to find the decanter had been set on the table next to him.
“What time is it?” he was compelled to ask.
“It’s gone a little past two.”
Dax nearly dropped the decanter. “In the morning?”
“That would be correct.”
He managed to get a few fingers of whiskey in his glass and replaced the topper on the decanter without spilling too much before sinking back in his chair. He swallowed more of the fiery spirit than he meant to and coughed.
“Do you plan to spend the entire night here getting sloshed?”
The question was direct, the words choice.
“What if I were?”
“I would tell you you’re a damned fool.”
He peered at his friend over his glass. “Do you know what people say about you?”
Sebastian’s smile was a little proud. “I know precisely what they say of me.”
“I don’t believe them in the slightest on principle, but then you go and say something to make me doubt my resolve.” Dax shook his head.
“Perhaps society is right. I am the Beastly Duke after all.” He met Dax’s gaze. “I simply find you less irritating then most members of the ton.”
“That’s comforting.”
They sat in silence for several seconds, the crackling of the fire and the tick of a clock somewhere the only sounds in the room. The club was quiet at this hour of the night but not entirely empty. Society was very much still awake as balls and soirees would just be getting into full swing. In an hour or so these rooms would be filled with gentlemen who had tipped out of a ball and needed somewhere to land when they hadn’t acquired a warm bed with a willing widow or lonely wife.
But right now, Dax drew comfort from its quietness and plethora of whiskey.
“You should go get her.”
The words were spoken so softly, Dax almost missed them.
“Eliza? Go after her?”
Sebastian nodded. “You should tell her the truth.”
“She won’t believe me now.” Dax stared into his drink.
“But does the probability of her belief determine whether or not you should tell the truth at all?”
Those were heavy words for a man as drunk as him, and he waded through them carefully.
“You’re saying I should tell her anyway? Despite the fact I said the worst thing imaginable to her?”
Sebastian dropped his foot to the ground. “You didn’t say the words to her. You said them to me. And it wasn’t the worst thing you could have said to her.”
Dax straightened at this, feeling suddenly rather sober. “What would have been the worst thing?”
Sebastian’s eyes were hard in the firelight. “You could have told her she mattered not to you.”
Again, Sebastian’s voice had a quality of knowing, and it sent a chill through Dax. One day he would make his friend tell him what had happened in those empty years but not tonight.
“Do you speak of indifference?”
Sebastian turned his gaze upon Dax. “Precisely. There’s nothing worse than knowing a person cares so little for you your actions do not affect them in the slightest.”
Dax
studied the fire. “That they would leave you all alone standing in the middle of a ball thrown in your honor.”
Sebastian said nothing, and he needn’t have. They were both thinking of their own demons.
Somewhere the hour chimed, but neither of them moved. At some point the decanter was replaced with a full one, but no one disturbed them. It was nearly four o’clock when Sebastian stood.
“The balls have spit out the losers of the evening, it seems.”
Dax roused himself from his study of the flames. He was quite convinced they looked like marigolds in a quadrille. He became aware of the hushed conversations about him and the sudden odor of cigars.
“It would seem so.” Dax attempted to turn about and take in the commotion behind him, but his hand slipped on the arm of his chair. He steadied himself and peered at his glass, which seemed to be empty again. Next he eyed the decanter, but his vision blurred, and he couldn’t quite make it out.
“I think you’ve reached saturation.” Sebastian stood and plucked the glass from his hand. “If you won’t go retrieve your wife and explain yourself, you should at least go home and sober up.”
Sobering up seemed like a terrible idea.
He scoffed. “I think I’ll go home and find the good whiskey my father used to keep in the study.”
Without ceremony, Sebastian grasped him by the front of his jacket and hauled him to his feet. He tipped dangerously, but Sebastian righted him with little trouble. For a moment, Dax was unusually afraid of his friend and was all too worried the gossips were right. Just how beastly had Sebastian grown?
“I realize you may not have the faculties to listen to me just now, but I’m hoping at some point these words sink in. Eliza is now your bloody wife whether you like it or not. You should at least make peace with that and come to some sort of understanding. You are wed after all. You could both gain advantages from the union and live some kind of contented life.”
Sebastian let go, and Dax stumbled against the chair he had just vacated. He watched as Sebastian adjusted the cuffs of his jacket.
“I’ll see you home.”
He didn’t wait for Dax to agree. Once again, his friend picked him up bodily and bundled him out of his club.
Chapter 7
When dawn began to lighten the sky, she decided to come to terms with the fact that Ashbourne may not be returning that night.
Once she’d considered this, she allowed her mind to orchestrate an endless list of heart wrenching scenarios.
He was even now abed with an opera singer. This was a familial favorite.
He was at his club, enjoying a rousing hand of cards, a good whiskey, and bawdy banter with friends.
He was frequenting a house of ill repute.
This made her loins clench, and she said a small prayer she hadn’t caught something from him if he were so inclined to such activities. She’d heard the maids of Ravenwood titter about such things and wished nothing to do with it.
The list had the potential to be endless, and with her imagination, it certainly could have been.
She was saved, however, from such torture by the sound of the front door opening. She stirred from her place by the fire in the drawing room of Ashbourne House where Mrs. Fitzhugh had sent a footman to build up the fire and brought in some tea while Eliza had waited for her husband to return.
The housekeeper was good at her position as she asked no questions when Eliza had returned in the Ravenwood carriage without her husband.
Henry had been waiting for Eliza and was glad to have a short romp in the gardens to do his business before curling up in front of the fire in the drawing room to wait for something he knew not.
Eliza had shed the gown she’d worn to the ball as the fabric began to crawl on her skin. She’d unpinned her hair and plaited it for the night, surprised Ashbourne hadn’t returned while she’d attended her toilette. She’d planned to confront him in his rooms, but when he didn’t return, she’d wandered into the drawing room.
It was several hours later now, and there was still no sign of him. She’d sent the servants to bed. She could tend the fire, and what was left of the tea had grown cold, not that she’d touched much of it.
She grew tired, but her body buzzed with an energy she had not felt before. Strength bristled within her, and confidence brimmed at the surface. Suddenly her marriage was no longer about her. It was about something more, something greater.
She could state her demands because they truly didn’t involve her. The dukedom needed an heir. It was as simple as that. She would demand Ashbourne fulfill his duties until an heir and a spare were born. If she were lucky, she may get several girls in the process as well. She may get an entire brood of children if she were fortunate enough. A small smile came to her lips at the thought.
The clatter of the front door opening had her resolve faltering, and she stood, drawing a deep, fortifying breath. She ran her palms down her dressing gown to stop her hands from shaking. Compulsively, she ensured the collar of her plain white nightdress was secured firmly about her throat and the sash of her dressing gown tightly secured.
When she expected to hear his footsteps in the corridor, she was surprised to hear two sets of footsteps. Her stomach lurched, and her hand went to her throat.
Drat. What if he’d brought home the opera singer?
She looked about her as if to find a place to hide. Would he bring her into this room? Would he see her like this? His ugly wife hoping for a mere glimpse of him? How pitiful.
The footsteps became more distinct, and she realized they were too heavy to be a man and a woman but perhaps more likely two men. Henry lifted his head from his spot by the fire in question. She was not one for indecision, and she plunged toward the door and wrenched it open just as the footsteps reached it.
On the other side of the door was indeed her husband with the man he had been speaking to at the ball.
“Your Grace,” Eliza said to the other man. Viv had said he was Sebastian Fielding, the Duke of Waverly.
He gave a startled smile as if he hadn’t expected to find her there, which indeed she hadn’t expected to see him either.
“Your Grace,” he said in return with a nod of his head, and then he slid his gaze to the man he held under his arm.
Eliza followed his gaze to find her husband pinned beneath the other duke’s arm, wavering unsteadily on his feet.
“Is he drunk?”
“Extremely,” Waverly said. “Shall I?” He nodded to the interior, and she stepped back to allow him entrance.
Waverly managed to get Ashbourne to the nearest sofa before the man brought him to his knees.
“Is that my wife?” Ashbourne mumbled. “I don’t want to see my wife.”
Waverly shot her a nervous smile. “It is your wife, mate, and you should probably not say anything more until you have your senses about you again.”
Eliza pressed her hands to the queasiness that erupted in her stomach. Ashbourne didn’t wish to speak to her? Well, that was fine. He needn’t speak at all. He had only to listen to her demands.
Ashbourne made another mumbling noise, but she couldn’t decipher it. Waverly stood, adjusting his jacket.
“Sebastian Fielding,” he said with a small bow. “I apologize for the odd introduction.”
Mrs. Fitzhugh had lit several candles earlier, and now Eliza could just make out the Duke of Waverly’s features. He was tall for one and possessed a quiet strength. He was not overly broad, but he’d managed to get Ashbourne up a flight of stairs and into the drawing room, which was no easy feat. His eyes, though, were haunted, and it saddened her.
“Your Grace.” She returned his bow with an awkward curtsy as her dressing gown clung to her legs.
“Sebastian, please,” he said with the same nervous smile. He seemed to think something over and upon making a decision stepped closer to her. “I am not prone to dabble in others’ private lives. To be frank, it is none of my concern.” He cast a thoughtful gaze on Ashb
ourne’s prone body then. “But I feel compelled to speak now. As you likely know, Ashbourne suffered a great humiliation once, and it’s caused him to behave oddly in matters of emotional import.” He searched her face as if looking for understanding. She nodded, and he continued. “I would not listen to a thing the tosser has to say tonight.”
She raised her eyebrows at the profanity, but Sebastian seemed to have no concern for speaking so in front of her.
“I see,” she said, her eyes drifting to her husband who had begun to snore.
“However.” She swung her gaze back to Sebastian. “If there is anything you should like to discuss with him, I would do it this evening while he lacks the ability to say no.” Sebastian gave her a sarcastic smile and a bow. “Good day, Your Grace.”
He spun about on his heel and left with precise steps, the door clicking soundly behind him.
Without wasting a moment, Eliza went over to her husband and poked him. He did not so much as interrupt a snore.
She shook him harder.
“Ashbourne.” She’d never raised her voice before except in those rare instances when Henry had gotten into things which could have made him ill had she not stopped him with a startling noise. She tried to make it more forceful. “Ashbourne.”
Nothing.
She straightened, squaring her shoulders.
She must wake him. She was not about to let this linger until the next day.
Or rather today as it were.
She looked about her, hoping to find something to wake him with when her eyes set on the abandoned tea service. She marched over and snapped up the teapot, leaving its lid on the cart. She returned to Ashbourne and shook him once more. There was no helping it. She turned over the teapot directly on his head.
He woke with a splutter and a curse she found far too satisfying. He shook tea from his head and scrubbed it from his face.
“What is this?” he muttered through the stream of cold tea down his face.
Pleased to see him awake, she sat on the low table in front of the sofa so she could face him directly.
“Ashbourne,” She said sternly enough to have him focusing. “It seems there’s been a misunderstanding in regards to the terms of our marriage. I was not informed that you required an ugly wife with whom you would not be in danger of falling in love to carry out your farce.” She said the words as cruelly as she’d overheard them earlier that night.
The Duke and the Wallflower Page 9