Chapter Fourteen
That night, as Christiana lay awake in her big, empty bed, she found sleep frustratingly elusive. The extent of her father’s neglect and lack of love spread before her, vast in its scope.
Hugh had gone back into the fire to save his family; her father had cast her to the metaphorical wolves.
She was grateful, of course, that the wolves in question had been Hugh and Amelia, and that her new life seemed it would be rather more comfortable than the one she had left behind, but the hurt still ached. A scab at which every kindness offered to her by Amelia and Hugh picked.
She tossed and turned. Eventually, she heard Hugh himself come to bed, floorboards creaking as he moved about his room. Then silence as he took himself to bed.
Everything she had ever thought about marriage was false, at least between them.
Her heart would not stop pounding, and her thoughts raced out of control in the silence. Sometimes, she wished she could quiet the internal workings of her mind. Often, her thoughts moved too fast for her to process, a constant stream of contemplation and information that near drowned her.
The minutes ticked on, and the evening deepened into night. Midnight came and went, and when the clock finally struck two, Christiana declared it pointless to wait in bed any longer.
If she was to be awake, she may as well do something about it.
Slipping a robe over her shoulders and tying it loosely about her waist, she moved out of her room, a single candle as her light. Guided by the flickering glow, she made her way down the stairs to the library, cupping the fragile flame with one hand.
As soon as she entered, she let out a sigh of relief. There was a particular joy that came from being surrounded by so much knowledge.
In the near darkness, she made her way to the sofa by the empty fire. The room was cold, but not so cold that she couldn’t bear to sit there awhile. She collapsed onto the sofa, drawing her robe around herself.
And finally, surrounded by the cavernous room, her mind finally settled. Peace soothed her again, her thoughts calming. The inevitable exhaustion from being awake for so long drew her toward sleep.
She did not remember falling asleep. She did remember, however, the soft brush of fabric against her skin, and when she opened her eyes, it was to a dark figure above her. Fear rushed through her veins until she processed what was happening.
A blanket. He had placed a blanket over her.
She was in the library of her new home, and a man was putting a blanket over her shoulders.
No, not just any man—Hugh, her husband. She blinked grit from her eyes and sat up a little.
“My apologies,” he said, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to wake you. But you were shivering.”
Her candle had gone out. And the air was cold, but she still would rather remain here than return to her bedchambers. There, she felt like an imposter playing at being a duchess.
Here, she could just be Christiana.
“Did I disturb you?” she asked, peering up at him.
He lit a lamp and placed it on a side table before sitting beside her.
Far enough away that he preserved the distance between them, but she still felt his proximity.
He had neglected to wear his gloves—no doubt assuming he would meet no one else at the dead of night—but she didn’t dare spare his bare hands more than a quick glance.
Amelia’s story had made her more curious about his scars and the stories behind them, but she knew better than to ask outright.
“I should be the one asking that,” he said wryly. “Why did you come down here in the dead of night?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She hesitated, then added, “My thoughts were too loud.”
“Ah.” He let the statement sit awhile, evidently comfortable with her silence. She felt comfortable in it, too. In this silence, there was no need for conversation, and the quiet was just as peaceful.
She yawned. Heavens, she was cold.
“Would you like me to build the fire?”
“Can you?” she asked before she thought better of it.
His glance was unreadable. “Is that question directed at me because I’m a duke, or because of my face?”
“Because you’re a duke. Although perhaps it ought to have been because of your scars.”
He huffed what might have been a laugh, and the tension in the room eased. “No. I learned when I was a boy, and I fancied it was a skill I ought to always have, particularly when there is not always a servant around to do the job.”
“Has that ever happened to you?” It had happened plenty of times for her; if she had not been taught how to make fires, they would have gone cold often enough over the winters.
Her father would never have stooped so low as to make his own fire. Instead, he would have piled his bed with blankets and complained in the frosty air while she shivered and froze.
The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Hugh studied her for a long moment from where he crouched on the blanket before the fire. “Not unless you count my unwillingness to wake the servants,” he said eventually.
“Oh, how considerate.”
“You say that as though it comes as a surprise.”
She considered that for a moment. After her tour of the estate, she had come to see that everyone beholden to the duke viewed him with a mixture of fear, awe, and respect.
He had not earned that respect by being idle, she imagined.
The tenant farmers, even during their short visit, had brought up a few complaints that Hugh had handled with care and consideration.
That was not merely for show. He cared about the people for whom he was responsible. However he felt about his duty, he still cared.
She watched as he deftly laid the fire, then struck a tinder and flint, blowing on the sparks until they caught. No matter what he had been through, he showed no visible fear of the flame. Had it always been like that, or had he taught himself to endure it out of necessity and sheer force of will?
He was a man who struck her as having great force of will.
“Are you often up this late?” he asked as he retook his seat. Coal dust coated his fingers; he seemed not to notice or care.
“Occasionally,” she admitted. “Not often. Not in a while. Are you?”
“Frequently.”
Without intending to, she offered more of herself.
The intimate atmosphere between them encouraged such confidences; bathed in the fire and lamplight’s glow, it was as though they were the only two people in the world.
The night carried a hush—all she could see was the light licking across his face, and all she could hear was his voice.
“When I was a child, I used to wake in the night and wander through the house. The servants would find me curled in corners of all kinds of rooms. Eventually, my mother took to locking my door so I couldn’t go anywhere.”
Hugh’s gaze moved to her face, his eyes hard. “I see,” was all he said.
“I got in the habit of not wandering at night, but tonight, I suppose…” She trailed off, unable to articulate what had been so difficult.
“And you favored the library?”
“It’s a magnificent room. I much prefer it over my father’s. The sight of his often made me sad.” At his inquiring look, she added, “Because there were so few books left. I would walk among the empty shelves and mourn their loss. After my mother died, books were my only companions.”
“I thought you went to school?”
“So I did, but I had few friends there. And my father recalled me before I completed the program. He paid for three years but refused to pay for more.” Nothing that required him to put forth money on her behalf would ever be an idea he welcomed.
Hugh watched her carefully, and she did her best to regulate her expression. “Then I’m glad my library could make you feel welcome.”
“You and Amelia do plenty to make me feel welcome here.”
Silence settled between them again, and Christiana contemplated returning to bed.
Although she had a robe and a blanket, and the heat of the fire settled across her skin, she could not help thinking there was something vastly improper about spending this time with the duke.
Her husband. Late at night, hardly dressed and with no one else around.
“Tell me about the Lyon’s Den,” he said, surprising her. “You told me that you used to sneak away from your school in order to visit the den and gamble?”
“We did.” Christiana toyed with the edge of the blanket, wondering how much to tell him before he judged her for breaking the agreed-upon rules of society.
Young ladies ought not to visit places of ill repute, even if they were visited by other members of the ton—men and women alike.
Few ladies admitted to being there, and yet the rooms were filled with women gambling with their fortunes.
Pin money and jewels and sometimes larger prizes.
Christiana had seen it all.
“I am not an exacting husband,” Hugh said wryly, drawing her attention back to him. His eyes were warm with humor in the dim light. “You need not be afraid to confide in me.”
“Laura—that is, my friend, Miss Crawford—used to prefer the more irregular activities,” she said. “One can gamble on a great deal of unusual things, and often, she was successful.” Other times, she would find entertainment of a different kind.
There was plenty of that to be found in the Lyon’s Den, too.
“I preferred cards,” she said simply. “Any game, really. All it comes down to is a matter of calculation—of the chance, of memorizing what cards have been played and what are left to play, and what the subtleties of others’ expressions can tell you.
Most players are not as adept at hiding their emotions as they think; they reveal more than enough about themselves if you look hard enough. ”
“Is that so?”