Page 58 of Married to a Wicked Duke
“Really?” Veronica was unconvinced. “He might be out of the house more now, but I am beginning to worry he might be doing that just to avoid me.”
The Dowager Duchess snorted. “Oh, that stubborn fool. Is that how he has made you feel?” She shook her head. “He really does need a stern talking to.” She patted Veronica’s wrist. “You are better for him than you could possibly know,” she assured her. She dipped her spoon into her soup and let out a soft laugh. “Three months ago, if I had told him he would be asking for his wife’s assistance to open the gallery, he would have told me I was mad.” She smiled to herself. “Sometimes he is just too much of a fool to realize his grandmother knows best.”
* * *
Escaping the dinner table, for the second night in a row, was not his finest moment. Frederick was well aware of that.
Last night, in an attempt to avoid his wife, he had spent the evening at the gallery. Had spent hours walking mindlessly up and down the passages, attempting to convince himself he was there to contemplate the curation of the paintings. What a mistake that had been. Every room in that Covent Garden townhouse made him think of his wife. Here was the room in which she had spoken about Mrs. Lane’s use of color, her passion and knowledge for her art evident with every word. There was the room in which she had sat beside him and listened patiently as he had told her of his mother’s death. And there on that couch… Well, as if he needed any reminder of the way it had felt to be inside her; of the way her body had writhed beneath his own; of the way she had cried out his name as she had reached her climax.
No, he did not need any reminder of that at all.
And so tonight, Frederick had avoided the gallery. Tonight, he was ensconced in an enormous leather armchair at a gentleman’s club in Mayfair that he had not visited for at least six years. The club was dimly lit, with just a single lamp flickering above the bar, and candles on each table. Now night had fallen, it felt like the perfect place to hide himself away from the world. Frederick brought his brandy glass to his lips and drank slowly, savoring its rich and heady flavor.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the elusive Duke of Brownwood.”
Frederick smiled wryly at the sight of the man coming toward him. Thomas Clarke, the Earl of Harford, had once been Frederick’s close friend. They had spent many nights tucked away in this very same club, sitting in these very same arm chairs, and drinking this very same brandy. Frederick had little doubt that Harford had been haunting this place without pause for the past six years.
The Earl held out a meaty hand out for Frederick to shake, which he did, somewhat reluctantly. “It’s good to see you, old man,” said Harford. “This place has missed you.”
Frederick chuckled humorlessly. “I am sure they have gotten by just fine without me.”
“Well.Ihave missed you.” There was a sincerity in Harford’s voice. “I’m glad to see you out and about. It’s been far too long.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Harford sank into the arm chair opposite Frederick, his round stomach straining against the buttons of his waistcoat. He waved to the barman for a brandy. “So tell me, Brownwood, how is married life treating you?” He gave Frederick a toothy grin. “I do hope it is not the need to avoid your wife that has finally got you out of the house.”
Frederick laughed a little too loudly. “Of course not.” His words were so forced he was certain Harford could see the lie beneath them. But there was no way he was going to go into the matter.
Besides, how would he even begin to put such a thing into words?I am avoiding my wife because I am afraid I am coming to care for her too much? I am afraid of how much I want to share when I am in her presence. I am afraid of how she makes me feel…
“Married life is fine,” he said instead.
Harford hummed to himself, a sly smile on his lips. Frederick raised his eyebrows. “What is that supposed to mean?”
The Earl shrugged. “Nothing really.” He pulled a thin tin box from his pocket and pulled out a cigar. He leaned forward toward the candle to light it. “Just that she has clearly had an effect on you.”
Frederick chuckled uneasily. “I don’t think so,” he said, well aware of how forced and inauthentic his words sounded.
Harford held out the cigar box to Frederick in offering. Frederick shook his head. “I’ve not seen you in this place in years,” said the Earl. “And now all of a sudden, you’re showing your face out in public again. So either you are desperate to escape your wife, or she has reminded you that life is for living. Not for hiding yourself away.”
Frederick forced a laugh. He waved a hand around the shadowed corner of the club he had managed to install himself in. “Some might argue I am still hiding myself away.”
Harford brought his glass to his lips with barely concealed satisfaction. “You can try and deny it all you want, Brownwood. But your wife is changing you for the better.” He brought the cigar to his lips and blew a long line of smoke up toward the ceiling. “What I can’t figure out is what you are doing here, wasting your night in the company of a sweaty, loud-mouthed Earl when you could be spending the night with a woman who cares for you.”
With a jolt, Frederick realized Harford was right. Being at home with Veronica was what he wanted. So why was he forcing himself to avoid her? Was he punishing himself for not doing enough to stop his mother’s suicide? Was that what he had been doing for the past six years? He could hardly make sense of it. All he knew was that he was a fool to be sitting here in this starched and gloomy club when he had a beautiful wife waiting for him at home.
“Goddammit, Harford” he said. “You are right.” He tossed back the last of his brandy and got abruptly to his feet. He held out a hand for the Earl to shake. “Thank you, Tom. You are a wise man.”
The Earl chuckled. “Not really. It just seems that way to you because you’ve been acting like such a damn fool.”
* * *
“Will you be going to your studio tonight, Your Grace?” asked Sarah as she undid the row of tiny buttons at the back of Veronica’s gown. “Would you like me to take a mint tea in there for you?”
“No, not tonight.” Veronica was not sure she could bring herself to look at her work tonight. Tonight, she needed a pause from thinking about the gallery and her paintings, and the garden at Cambridge she was committing to her canvas—all those things that reminded her of her husband. Everything felt far too confusing, and she felt utterly exhausted. Tonight, she just needed to try and sleep. “Will you have the tea brought up to my room instead?”
Sarah took Veronica’s nightgown from the chair and slipped it over her head. “Of course, madam.” She pulled the hairpins from Veronica’s hair, letting dark coils fall over her shoulders. She ran a brush through it lightly, then wound it into a thick plait. “I am sure those children are keeping you very busy at the school,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I’m not surprised you are in need of a good night’s rest.”
Veronica forced a smile. “Yes, something like that.”
