“You have no right to be in this manor without invitation,” James said, his tone surly. “Get out, at once.”
“No.” Matilda glanced down at the book, finally reaching the Ls.
James sauntered forward. “Where is your husband?” He thumbed back at the door. “Have you abandoned your duties already? Are you running away with that ingrate? I swear to everything I hold dear if you embarrass me, if you stain my family’s name, I shall make your life miserable. Indeed, I will drag you back to your husband myself.”
“You would fall from your horse, you drunken oaf,” she shot back.
James’ nostrils flared. “How dare you!”
“I dare because you are nothing, James. You are a mere speck of dirt on my shoe. Worst of all, you have not the faintest notion of what you are talking about,” she replied drily, heart thudding as she found the page she was looking for. “Max is my escort to protect me from you. I suppose I had forgotten how feeble you are. A strong wind could probably blow you over.”
James sucked in a sharp breath. “He is your escort?” He sneered. “You expect me to believe that? Has your gaze wandered so soon? Is this your rebellion to try and punish me for your wedding? You are a wife now. You should accept it and behave. Your place is at your husband’s side, and Ishallreturn you to your post.”
“I am aduke’swife,” she retorted. “That makes me a duchess, so I suggest that you start treating me accordingly. You can no longer tell me what to do, James. I am above you in so many ways.”
James sniffed. “You are a woman. You will never be above me.”
“I bet you congratulated yourself after my wedding, did you not? I bet you thought you had received some sort of divine justice, and that Iwouldbe miserable. I bet you prayed for my misery,” she said with a smirk. “I am here to tell you that I have never been happier. But Iamabove you, and I will remain here until I have found what I need, and I shall not be leaving a moment sooner.”
James stalked closer. “I asked you to get out.”
“And I am telling you ‘no.’ You ought to get used to the word,” she replied. “Return to your party. If you keep hosting them so frivolously, not learning from your past mistakes, I do not imagine you will be having many more. And when you are scrabbling for coin to pay for this manor’s maintenance, when you realize you have nothing and you must sell or risk everyone finding out you are destitute, I will buy back what is mine. I am patient.”
James froze. “I am not destitute.”
“I did not say you were. I saidwhenyou are.” She smiled. “Now, please leave me alone. I am very busy, and the sooner you go, the sooner I can depart. Though, I should warn you, I will be sending for every book that belonged to my father in the coming weeks, and youwillcomply, or I might just find an outstanding part of the debt you owed to my husband’s family and choose to make your life miserable instead. If you make me do that, James, rest assured there will be no more parties. You will not be able to afford so much as afternoon tea.”
James threw down the broken stem of the champagne flute as if to startle her, but she did not flinch. Eyes twitching, lip curling, jaw clenching, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, slamming the door behind him.
“Finally,” she muttered, tracing her finger down the page entitled “larkspur.”
Taking a shaky breath, she glanced across at the adjoining page, praying for a miracle. There were just two entries in the list of antidotes, and her heart sank as she read their names. They were just as dangerous as the larkspur itself, and what was worse, they were rare in England.
CHAPTERTHIRTY
“My head…” Albion hissed, his heavy eyelids refusing to open.
A choked squeal shattered his eardrums, rattling inside his skull. “My boy, was that you? Did you speak?”
“I… don’t know,” he croaked, every tiny muscle in his eyes shaking as he forced the lids to widen to a crack. Dim daylight jabbed at him, his eyebrows rising up to greet the pain that splintered through his head. Nausea roiled in his belly, his mouth filling with saliva, his skin crawling with cold sweat.
“You did!” the voice cried. “Oh, my sweet boy. I thought you were doomed. I thought you were about to follow my other, dearest boys to where I cannot go.”
He swallowed, but he had no moisture left to wet his arid throat. “Where am I?”
“In your bedchamber,” the voice replied, belonging to—he now realized—his mother. “You collapsed and gave us all a terrible fright.”
Foggy memory came back to him, of staggering and stumbling through his study with an almighty headache that paled in comparison to the one tearing his brain apart at that moment. He remembered the fierce impulse to find Matilda and wanting to swim with her, and then everything had gone dark. He vaguely recalled someone calling for help, but he could not remember who.
“Is this… from the brandy?” he rasped, wiggling his fingers. To his relief, they cooperated.
“The physician did not know what was wrong with you, but the gardener seems to believe you were poisoned,” his mother replied, gripping his hand and resting it against her warm, powdery cheek. “Quiteinsistent, actually.”
Albion pulled his hand away from his mother’s cheek and braced both palms on the mattress, growling in pain as he pushed himself into a sitting position. The regret was immediate, a lightning bolt of raw agony shooting up his spine and straight through his skull. His old scars began to throb as though the canister that blew up in his face had exploded all over again, the injury new instead of ancient history.
“I’m going… to be sick,” he wheezed, his stomach churning. It burned, just beneath his lungs, like he had swallowed an ember.
His mother shoved a bucket onto his lap and turned away, her nose wrinkling. “You have been doing that a lot. It is most unbecoming, but the physiciandidsay it was better if you expelled everything you have in your stomach. I would have thought there would be nothing left at this juncture.”
