Page 49 of His Unwanted Duchess

Cornelia was beautiful, clever, and remarkably talented. Any man would give his right arm to share her bed or her company, and yet here Stephen was, finding himself disinterested.

He had not shared his bed with anyone since his wedding, and it was quite unintentional. Ladies who might have once caught his eye now seemed… well,drab. Unattractive. Dull.

The fault was not theirs, of course.

I shall get to the bottom of this, once and for all.

Stephen peered out the window. He was almost home, and he felt an imperceptible loosening in his shoulders and chest as the familiar lines of the house came into view.

The carriage lurched to an ungainly stop, and Stephen straightened himself, tugging on his gloves, and waited for the door to be opened.

It was not opened. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened the door himself and leaped down onto compact, unraked gravel. The coachman was throwing down the bags and boxes lashed tothe roof of the carriage. There was nobody there to catch them. No footmen, or even Mouse, and the boxes bounced across the floor, unheeded.

Stephen stared at the mess in amazement. Even the coachman hesitated, glancing at him.

“Is somebody coming out to get these, Your Grace?”

Stephen composed himself. “Of course.”

Keeping his back straight, he stalked inside.

He was immediately greeted by chaos.

The floor was dirty and in great need of sweeping. Dirty glasses, cups, plates, and bottles were scattered everywhere, on just about every flat surface, it seemed. There was a stain of what looked like hot chocolate on the stair carpet. Several of the paintings hung askew.

There were, of course, piles of books everywhere, as if a book club had turned into a drunken farce.

Baffled, Stephen walked further into the house, and he nearly fainted when he entered the ballroom.

Ribbons and strips of fabric hung everywhere, some placed carefully, others clearly thrown by drunken revelers over lampsand wound around chandeliers. A rather expensive urn lay smashed in the fireplace. There was a small pile of broken glass in one corner, and large patches of sticky, dried-up champagne and punch on the floor.

In the center of it all stood a portrait, almost as tall as Stephen himself.

Defaced is the right word.

With no modicum of skill, somebody had drawn a grand set of whiskers on the portrait, along with a profusion of hair coming out of the nostrils and the ears. A lopsided set of spectacles had also been added, and what seemed to be wine had been spilled on one side.

The portrait was not, of course, one of Stephen’s father. It was of Stephen himself. Naturally.

He bit back a sigh and glanced around. With a party this destructive, the servants should have been out in force, cleaning and sweeping and scrubbing. Instead, the house seemed to be deserted.

“Is anyone here?” Stephen called, his voice echoing. He spread out his arms on either side. “Where is everybody? Why is nobody working? Is itimpossibleto find good help these days?”

With mounting irritation, he bellowed a single word that echoed through the wrecked house.

“Beatrice!”

CHAPTER 15

The bellowed name was still echoing around the ruined ballroom when Stephen heard hasty, running feet.

A man in his shirtsleeves, with a cup of tea still clutched in one hand, skidded through the doorway. With absolute consternation, Stephen realized that it was Mouse.

“Y-You’re not dressed properly,” Stephen managed. “Where is your livery?”

Perhaps it was a dream. That would explain a lot. He’d nodded off in the carriage—or perhaps bumped his head due to that clodhopping coachman’s terrible driving—and it was nothing more than a nonsensical dream.

Mouse flushed crimson. He shoved the teacup somewhere, smoothing down his rumpled waistcoat.

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