Chapter 30 #3
“Your Grace,” he said, with the dignity of a man determined not to notice that his employer was standing in his smallclothes while the Duchess was pressed against the card table amid a battlefield of discarded garments.
“Her Grace. Cook wished me to inquire whether you still intend to dine this evening.”
Lily made a strangled sound and promptly hid her face against Hugo’s shoulder.
Hugo, who had faced creditors, rival peers, furious tenants, and one particularly vindictive dowager, appeared to lose all command of the English language.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Dinner. Of course. We are great admirers of dinner.”
The footman gave the smallest possible bow. “Very good, Your Grace.”
“But perhaps,” Hugo added, with a level of composure Lily found frankly heroic, “dinner might be delayed by a quarter hour.”
Another pause.
“Half an hour,” Lily said into his shoulder.
The footman’s gaze remained fixed on the mantel. “I shall inform Cook.”
“Thank you,” Hugo said.
The door closed.
For one suspended second, neither of them moved.
Then Lily burst into helpless laughter.
Hugo looked down at himself, then at the cards scattered across the carpet, then at her abandoned gloves and shawl. “I believe,” he said gravely, “we have lost control of the game.”
“You think?”
“I also believe my footman will never respect me again.”
“He will respect your commitment to rules.”
“My trousers are on the floor.”
“Yes.” She wiped at the corner of her eye, still laughing. “That may complicate matters.”
Hugo bent to retrieve them, then stopped and looked at her. “You do realize we now have half an hour to make ourselves presentable.”
Lily glanced at the scattered clothing, the ruined cards, his bare chest, and the expression on his face.
“Half an hour is not very long.”
“No,” he agreed, stepping closer again. “It is not.”
“Hugo.”
“Yes?”
“We have to dress for dinner.”
“We do.” He kissed her once, softly. “At once.”
He kissed her again.
“Hugo.”
“I am beginning immediately.” Another kiss, this one lingering. “I am simply starting with morale.”
She laughed against his mouth and pushed lightly against his chest. “Trousers first, Your Grace.”
He sighed as though she had asked him to surrender a kingdom. “You are a cruel woman.”
“And you are a Duke in his smallclothes with a dining room expecting him.”
“That is the least romantic thing you have ever said to me.”
“It is also true.”
He caught her hand, kissed her knuckles, and gave her a wicked smile. “Very well. Dinner first.”
“Good.”
“But after dinner,” he said, reaching at last for his trousers, “we are finishing the game.”
Lily gathered her gloves with as much dignity as she could manage. “Then I shall insist on revised rules.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Size requirements included.”
“Never.”
“And no loopholes.”
Hugo glanced over his shoulder, eyes bright with laughter and promise. “My darling, your loopholes are the only reason I am sitting here in my smallclothes. I intend to exploit every one of them in a rematch.”
On the fifth morning, they rode into Thornwaite village.
The village was small, with a cluster of stone cottages and a church as well as a public house gathered around a green. Hugo led Lily through the main street, nodding to shopkeepers and tenants who touched their hats and curtsied and stared at the new Duchess with avid curiosity.
They stopped at the bakery, where a woman named Mrs. Poole insisted they try her currant scones and spent ten minutes telling Lily about the time Hugo had stolen three of them at the age of six and blamed the stable cat.
“The cat was a known thief,” Hugo said. “My accusation was not unreasonable.”
“The cat weighed four pounds, Your Grace. He could not have carried three scones.”
Outside the bakery, an older man sat on a bench, his hat pulled low, his weathered hands resting on a walking stick. He looked up as Hugo and Lily passed, and something shifted in his lined face.
“Your Grace.” The man touched his hat. “Your father would be proud to see the estate so well kept.”
Hugo’s step faltered. The change was fractional, a hitch in his stride that lasted less than a second, but Lily felt it through the arm she held.
“Thank you, Mr. Garrett.” Hugo’s voice carried its usual warmth, but the edges had cooled.
“And your brother.” Garrett shook his head. “A shame about Lord Sebastian. He was a fine rider. The accident took him too young.”
Hugo’s arm turned to iron beneath Lily’s hand. His jaw locked. The pleasant expression he wore like armor held in place, but behind it, something had gone rigid and dark.
“It was a great loss,” Hugo said. “Good day, Mr. Garrett.”
He guided Lily past the bench and down the lane without breaking stride.
Lily walked beside him in silence and waited.
He did not speak.
The village fell behind them, and the lane opened onto a field bordered by hedgerows, and still he said nothing. His breathing was controlled. His pace was steady. But the arm she held vibrated with a tension she could feel through his coat sleeve.
“Hugo.”
“Not now, Lily.”
She closed her mouth. She did not press. She held his arm and walked beside him, giving him the silence he needed.
They reached the smaller stable. Hugo opened the door and went straight to Dorado’s stall. The horse lifted his head and whickered. Hugo pressed his forehead against the animal’s neck and stood there, his hand resting on the warm copper coat, his eyes closed.
Lily stayed by the door. She watched him breathe into the horse’s mane and felt the ache of wanting to help and knowing she could not, not yet, not until he let her.
“She would have liked you.” Hugo’s voice was muffled against Dorado’s neck.
“Who?”
“My mother.” He did not lift his head. “She liked clever women. She liked women who spoke their minds.”
Lily’s throat tightened. She crossed the stable and stood beside him. She did not touch him. She stood close enough that he could feel her there, and she waited.
Hugo straightened. His eyes were dry, but something raw lived behind them, something old and unhealed that he had carried so long it had become part of his posture.
“She died when I was eight,” he said. “The rest of it, I am not ready to tell you. But I will. Someday.”
“I will be here when you are.”
He looked at her. The mask was gone. What remained was Hugo, stripped and tired and honest. The man who stood before her bore no resemblance to the rake who had charmed ballrooms, bedded widows, and treated the world as a game he was too clever to lose.
This man was breakable. And he was letting her see it.
She reached out and took his hand. He laced his fingers through hers and held on, and they stood together in the warm, hay-scented quiet, and Dorado nudged Hugo’s shoulder with his nose, and Hugo almost smiled.
Almost.