Her eyes narrowed.
He sighed. “You know the whisky is here. I know it is here. And I’ll give you three times what it’s worth to bring it to me.”
Avarice banished the annoyed gleam in her eye. “Right away, Your Grace.” When she returned, it was with a small flask of fine whisky, and he snapped it away after paying her well.
It burned going down, but perhaps it would give him the courage he clearly lacked.
Ha. Wasn’t that what Emma had called him? Duke Clearly Lacking. Lacking more than one thing. Clearly.
He laughed much too loudly and too long, and when he stopped, every eye in the house was on him, so he hunkered down low into his greatcoat, took another sip of whisky, and let the world drain away.
At the bottom of the cup, he’d be able to do what he must.
At the bottom of the cup was duty.
At the bottom of the cup was a life he couldn’t see.
His knife was in his hand, smooth handle, unfamiliar weight. The one he used every day he’d given to Lady Emma. His hands hadn’t had time to learn the weight and feel of this new one yet. But still the tendons of his fingers worked from memory as he balanced it, spun it, tried to spin himself a vision of the future without a red-haired woman by his side.
Lady Huxley would have to be a mother. But did she want to? Would she look at their child and say with the same practical tone she’d used in the park,We’re not that close? She would not be shy in the bedroom, but he could not see her there, and he dared not imagine his bed with a woman in it because that woman would have red hair and likely flowers embroidered along the hem of her threadbare shift.
He snapped the blade into the table, dragging it down the wood.
Lady Huxley. She would be excellent friends with his sisters. That mattered for something.
He carved another line into the wood.
And she was pretty.
Another, deeper this time.
And she knew the risks.
Scratch.
She knew the risks.
Scratch.
She knew—
His head hit the table.
“Ow.” The knife clattered against the wood as he released it, and his fingertips found the grooves of his markings. Hell. Lord Devon would make him replace the table, wouldn’t he? And probably plant him a facer. He deserved it.
“You look like hell, man.”
Samuel snapped upright. “Kingston. What are you doing here?”
His brother-in-law slipped into the seat across from him. “Your sister sent me in search of you. We were told you set off to propose to Lady Huxley”—he pulled a watch out of his waistcoat pocket—“three or so hours ago. Yet you never returned home, and the lady herself has not seen you. Why do you smell like whisky?”
Clearford tilted the cup so Kingston could see the empty bottom of it. “Stole Lord Devon’s stuff. Poured it into my coffee. I do not recommend.”
“And I do not recommend you propose marriage in that state.”
Samuel laid his cheek back on the table. Cold wood, not smooth. Battered from years of use. A little bit like himself. “I have to.”
“You clearly do not want to.”
