Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
S amuel didn’t even make it to Lady Huxley’s doorway. A moon-scented wind no one felt but him had drifted with him all the way to Cheapside and pushed him into Frederick’s Coffee House. He’d entered like an invading force and stomped right to his usual table near the back, growling his order at the poor maid who dashed after him.
The coffee wasn’t nearly strong enough, so when the maid returned, he leaned in low. “Whisky, please.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “This is not a pub.”
“I know Lord Devon keeps some about.” The coffeehouse’s owner was a duke’s second son, and he and Samuel had exchanged a word or two over the years. “For special occasions. I’m about to become engaged. That’s special, isn’t it?”
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.”
“I know what I want.”
“There are other women.”
“The criteria are surprisingly narrower than you would think.”
“I know. Andromeda told me.” Kingston lifted a hand and ordered a drink, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Clearford…”
Samuel groaned.
“What about your Guide?”
“Don’t mention the bloody thing.”
“Very well.” He scratched at the table. “Only…”
“Only what? Can’t you leave me to find my courage in solitude?”
“Is that what you were doing?”
“Only what?” Even through the thick fog of self-pity, Samuel felt a glint of curiosity. What did Kingston have to say about the Guide?
“You offered me one excellent bit of advice.”
Samuel picked himself up, resting his cheek on one elbow-propped hand. “I cannot countenance it.”
The maid brought Kingston’s coffee, and he took a swallow, then set the mug down, cupping his hands around it and staring into it. “Choose the right lady. Never woo the wrong one—disaster lies that way.”
Samuel held himself a little taller. “Emma also said that bit of advice was not so horrid. The problem is—”
“How do you know?”
“Precisely.”
Kingston sipped his coffee once more, then his gaze flicked to the table beside Samuel’s elbow. “I think, somehow, you simply know .”
Samuel let his arm drop to his lap and tilted his head to see the damage he’d done to the table. Hell. Bloody hell.
“You did call her Emma earlier. You failed to use her title. I would not have suspected the matchmaker, but then we rarely know who’s best for someone else. How can I see who you’re looking at if I’m always looking at Andromeda? And how can you see Lady Huxley if you’re always looking at—”
“Stop.” Samuel cradled his head with both hands. “Please stop.” A whisper. “I swear I’ll do what I must. I will .”
Taking another swallow of his coffee, Kingston stood. “Consider reconsidering what you must do, Clearford. If you’re unhappy—”
“Annie’s unhappy, and that upsets you. Yes, I understand.” He spoke while looking at the markings carved into the wood, the familiar letters.
“No, Clearford. If you’re unhappy, so am I. You’re my friend, and I do not need my wife’s tears to care about you. Do not walk home foxed. Hail a hackney.” And then he was gone.
And then Samuel ordered another coffee, this one without whisky. The letters he’d carved into the wood mocked him as he drank.
EMMA.
He might as well have drawn a heart around it.
Why not…
The knife handle was cool when he picked it up, and it bumped over grooves in the wood as he curved a shape around the letters. There. His heart, carved out of his own chest and wrapped around her name.
With an empty hole aching behind his ribs, silent and weeping, now he could do what must be done.