Chapter 7 #2
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Sendall said, pity in her voice. “I do believe His Grace will be arriving after luncheon, as is his customary schedule.”
He had a customary schedule? How kind of him to inform his wife.
It would seem the domestics knew more about her husband than she did.
Heavens, Mrs. Sendall even knew about Daphne.
She was too circumspect to directly make a mentioning of the child, but it was more than plain that she had known, whilst Verity had been entirely in the dark.
“Excellent,” she forced out, her voice brittle. “I do think that shall be all for now, Mrs. Sendall. Thank you.”
“But what about the menu for dinner tonight, Your Grace?” the housekeeper asked. “Would you not prefer to review it?”
The last thing Verity wanted to think about was something as insignificant as the meal that would be laid before them this evening. The way she was presently feeling, she didn’t even want to eat again, let alone fret over courses.
But she didn’t want to embarrass herself before Mrs. Sendall either.
It was humiliating enough to see the pity in the other woman’s eyes.
Verity could almost hear the words that must be echoing in the housekeeper’s mind.
Poor duchess, married for not even two full days, and the duke has already gone to see his mistress.
“Forgive me,” she managed tightly. “My mind is whirling with so many new tasks as I grow accustomed to this household. What is the menu for this evening?”
The housekeeper rattled off several different dishes—lamb, chicken, and beef. No fish, thankfully. At least her husband had cared enough to make a point that no further poisson would be served. There were several vegetables as well, along with an aspic.
The thought of the dishes made her vaguely ill, but she smiled just the same. “The menu sounds lovely, Mrs. Sendall. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go see to Miss Emma and the nursery.”
“Of course, Your Grace. If there is anything you need at all, please let one of the maids know to fetch me. And if you don’t mind my saying, it is lovely to have you here with us. We have been long overdue for a lady’s touch.”
It took a great deal of effort to keep her falsely bright smile firmly in place. “Thank you. That is most kind of you to say.”
It had been lovely to be here as well. Until her husband had abandoned her. But she kept that to herself and took her leave of the salon, determined to occupy herself until King decided to return.
King arrived back at his town house with an aching head and an endless supply of self-loathing. He had spent the night drinking himself into a stupor at the house he kept in St John’s Wood, thinking the distance and separation from Verity would do him good.
It hadn’t.
All it had successfully done was make him long for her in his bed, in his arms. All it had done was fill his sleep with fractured nightmares. All it had done was force him to cast up his accounts when he had arisen, alone and miserable in the rooms he’d once used for pleasure.
They’d been empty for some time now, those rooms that had witnessed so much mindless debauchery.
Even before his marriage to Verity, King hadn’t had the endlessly voracious appetite for carnal sin that had been the hallmark of his wild younger years.
He was four-and-thirty now. Too bloody old for drinking himself to oblivion.
His bloodshot eyes had warned him so from the mirror, as had his mussed hair, unshaven jaw, and the fact that he hadn’t a change of clothes.
“Good morning, Pierpont,” he greeted his butler, his voice rusty as he handed off his hat, coat, and gloves.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” his loyal retainer responded with an unmistakable edge of chastisement.
Well, hell. He reckoned he deserved it, but this was his domain. He would come and go as it pleased him. And if he chose to return in wrinkled garments, stinking of stale gin and regret, then that was precisely what he would do, goddamn it.
“So it is,” he returned coolly. “Tell me, has Her Grace taken luncheon yet?”
“I shall inquire with Mrs. Sendall for Your Grace,” Pierpont said, unsmiling.
It was the frostiest reception he had ever received in his own home. Perhaps that was down to his current, admittedly abysmal state. He needed Hutchens, and he needed to soak in a bath of restorative hot water. He also needed some food, but his stomach still lurched in protest at the thought.
“No need,” he returned dismissively. “I shall see to it myself.”
He had no wish to linger in the hall like a stray dog who had been brought in from the streets.
His aching head could only be soothed by the tonic that Hutchens had often fixed for him on mornings when he had over-imbibed.
It had been some time since he had required one, but yesterday’s unmitigated disaster had proven quite dire.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Pierpont intoned, leaving King to traverse the hall toward the staircase.
His hope that he might surreptitiously sneak into his chamber for a bath, the restorative panacea Hutchens could offer, and fresh garments was dashed when a child came crashing into his legs.
A girl child with fair ringlets that bobbed around her heart-shaped face when she glanced up at him, her eyes wide.
A sharp, wrenching pain tore through King’s chest, sudden and merciless.
He looked down at her and wondered what Daphne would have been like at her age.
Would she have had flaxen hair as her mother had or dark like his?
Certainly, she would have been better mannered, softer spoken.
She wouldn’t have been running wild about the house.
This, he reminded himself, was why he disliked children.
He frowned down at the child. “Ladies walk with care. They do not run.”
“It’s sorry I am, Yer Grace,” the girl apologized, her eyes turning luminous with unshed tears.
Christ.
Where was the maid who was acting as the child’s nurse? He looked about but saw no one. He was alone with the girl, who was still gazing up at him as if he were a monster. To be fair, he felt like one at the moment.
He cleared his throat. “Where is your nurse?”
“Preparing the nursery,” the girl answered. “Ye’re taller than wot I remembered.”
He hadn’t been prepared for her abrupt change of subject or candid observation. What a strange little thing she was.
“You are smaller than I remembered,” he countered.
“There’s a stain on yer shirt,” she pointed out.
Horrified, he glanced down and confirmed the girl was correct. There was a yellowed stain, about half an inch in diameter, on his wrinkled and formerly pristine white shirt. Likely from when he’d cast up his accounts earlier.
“Poor form of you to notice,” he said, brushing at the stain ineffectually, as if he could somehow make it disappear.
“Thought ye’d want to know,” the girl answered.
Her response was the perfect logic of a child.
“It is considered impolite to comment upon another’s person,” he admonished.
“Then I guess I oughtn’t tell ye that ye stink,” she declared, sniffing the air.
Damn it all. If Verity was going to insist upon having this miscreant in their home, his wife was bloody well going to have to see to it that Emma was kept under lock and key. She had already run them on a merry chase across London, disrupted their honeymoon, and now she was insulting him.
“Apprising someone that they smell is also considered unmannerly,” he informed her.
“Thought ye’d want to know that too,” she defended without a hint of compunction.
First Pierpont and now the mannerless ragamuffin.
Before he could further chastise her dearth of comportment, the maid charged with her care bustled toward them, looking flustered.
“Oh, there you are now, Miss Emma,” she declared.
Verity was not far behind her, eyes settling upon King for a moment before swinging back to the child.
“Emma, you must stay with one of us at all times,” she reprimanded the girl. “You aren’t to be wandering about, especially not after what you did yesterday.”
The girl hung her head, her curls bouncing, as if even her mane refused to behave. “I’m sorry, Lady Vitty.”
“She is a duchess now,” he informed the rude child. “She is Lady Verity no longer. You must address her with the respect she deserves.”
“Dukes got lots of rules,” Emma announced in an aside as if he weren’t standing there listening to her.
The cheek of the girl.
He was about to scold her again, but Verity was faster.
“You must not speak of others as if they aren’t there, Emma dear,” she cautioned. “Now run along with Grace, if you please. I will come and check on you in a bit.”
The girl curtsied. “Yes, Lady Vitty.”
“Forgive me, Your Graces,” the maid apologized. “I promise Miss Emma won’t get away from me again.”
The maid excused herself along with the child, and the two of them took their leave. King waited until the pair were out of earshot to turn to his wife and offer her a bow.
“Good morning.”
“Good afternoon,” she returned with a cool politeness that was unlike her customary warm enthusiasm.
Blast. So it was afternoon. Pierpont had already told him as much.
“The child requires lessons in manners and comportment,” he told her. “She bowled into me in her haste to run away a second day in a row.”
“Emma wasn’t running away,” his wife quibbled. “She was exploring. She’s a curious child, and as she has only just arrived, I do think a bit of wandering is to be expected. I trust you survived the impact?”
“Quite.”
How novel a sensation it was to feel so awkward standing before her in yesterday’s clothes. King was painfully aware that he must look as if he were in utter ruins. And that he had sent her away from him the evening before, only to disappear until now.
As if she were privy to his thoughts, she swept her gaze over his form. “Where were you last night?”
It was the sort of question a bride of only two days should not have to ask her husband, and he knew it. Shame crept over him.
“At another house of mine,” he explained, deliberately keeping the former use of that house from her. “I knew I wouldn’t be fit company.”
“Were you alone?”
“God yes,” he bit out. “Is that what you think of me? That I spent our second night as husband and wife with another woman?”
“I’m not sure I know what to think of you just now,” she said quietly. “You said not a word of your intention to leave when we spoke. I had no notion you had even left until this morning. I waited for you at breakfast, and you never arrived. I only learned that you had gone from Mrs. Sendall.”
He winced. That had been badly done of him.
“I’m sorry.”
Her face softened. “I know it was a painful reminder to you, returning to the nursery last night. But it is my hope that, in the future, you will unburden yourself to me instead of keeping your pain from me.”
She was not wrong. And he had never felt more like an ass than he did now, reeking of stale gin and looking as slovenly as a chimney sweep after having spent the night drowning himself in drink instead of losing himself in her arms. Verity deserved better from him, and it was his duty to do his utmost to give her that.
He had failed her, two days into their marriage.
He had failed Daphne too.
And he had spent the last ten years trying to forget it. Trying to chase the demons that were never far from his heels. They were ready and waiting to catch him now, to tear him apart.
He must not let them.
“I will endeavor to try,” he said hesitantly. “I have been alone for so long that I suspect it will take time.”
She reached for his hand, giving it a tender squeeze. “We have the rest of our lives, King. Just remember that I love you. I love you more than I ever believed possible, and all I want is your happiness.”
His gut clenched, threatening to mutiny again. She was too good, too kind, too sweet. And she believed she was in love with him. Here was his chance to unburden himself in truth, just as she had asked of him. To tell her he wasn’t the man she loved.
But he was a selfish bastard, so he brought her hand to his lips for a worshipful kiss instead. “Thank you, angel. Don’t give up on me just yet.”
“Never,” she vowed fervently.
King could only pray that she meant what she said. That she would never give up on him, even if she one day realized exactly the kind of man he was. Even if she discovered the grave sin he had committed in wedding her and taking the place of her dead beloved.