Page 55 of Captured By the Cold Duke
She glanced up at the portrait of Thomas that hung above the desk. The likeness was good, and she felt as if she were staring up into the eyes of her husband.
“Well, I guess you get a few more hours of not knowing,” she said out loud to it. “Lucky you.”
As she looked away, her eyes were caught by the bottle of cognac that Lord Rochford had brought for her and Thomas as a gift on their wedding day. It was sitting behind her husband’s desk, unopened.
Moving forward, she picked up the bottle and turned it over in her hands. Just as the earl had said, it looked like an extremely precious and rare cognac.
Holding the bottle, Cherie felt herself starting to grow angry. This cognac symbolized everything bad that had happened in the last few months of her life: first, the earl’s attempt to buy her as a bride; then the failed escape that had ended in her marriage to Thomas; and the whole marriage itself, which was a farce of epic proportions.
“This isn’t a marriage,” she muttered out loud, “and I’m not a wife, I’m a glorified housekeeper. Not someone for him to cherish and love and treat as an equal, but just a woman to do his bidding and manage his household.”
All of a sudden, a reckless rage came over her, and she decided to open the cognac. She pulled at the cork until it began to budge, and then finally it came out of the bottle with a loud pop.
Immediately, a rich, heady smell filled the room. Cherie breathed in deeply. She’d never had cognac before, and she felt like a naughty schoolchild as she poured herself a glass. She thenpicked it up, swirled it around under her nose—trying not to gag as the smell of alcohol hit her—and then took a sip.
It tasted… good. Although very strong. The alcohol was astringent, which made her cough and her eyes water, but there was also a sweetness to the liquor that she liked. Underneath it, she also detected something bitter. She didn’t think she liked the aftertaste, but she assumed she just didn’t know much about alcohol.
She raised the glass again in the direction of Thomas’s portrait. “Here’s to our charade of a marriage!” she said, raising the glass high. Then she took another swig.
This time it tasted worse. The bitter taste was even stronger, and she gagged. Some of the liquid must have gone down the wrong way, because it suddenly got harder to breathe, and she began to cough.
“This—is—so—strong,” she gasped, thumping her chest to try and get the alcohol to clear out of her lungs.
But nothing cleared. If anything, it was getting harder to breathe, and suddenly, Cherie began to feel afraid. She was starting to fight for breath, and everything around her was starting to blur. Dizziness overcame her, as did tiredness. Her body felt very heavy and cold. Far too cold.
This was not what a small amount of cognac was supposed to do to a person. And all of a sudden, it became clear.
It’s poison! Lord Rochford poisoned it!
She released the bottle, and it rolled away from her across the floor, emptying out most of its contents into the rug. Everything was spinning, and she grabbed the edge of the desk and tried to keep herself from falling over. She thought she was going to cast up her crumpets; nausea was seizing her.
Keep fighting! The words blazed through her as she tried to force herself to remain standing. You have to warn Thomas that Lord Rochford is trying to kill him—to kill us!
But then the nausea passed, and something far worse replaced it: the feeling that her heart was slowing. That it was going to stop beating at any moment.
She tried to take a breath but couldn’t. Everything was going dark. A rushing sound filled her ears. And then she felt herself falling to the ground. Her knees must have hit it hard, but she couldn’t feel anything. She fell onto her side, then rolled onto her back.
The last thing she saw was Thomas’s portrait, her husband’s face staring down at her, worry and concern etching his face, and then his voice…Cherie, stay with me.
But portraits couldn’t talk, and she already knew it was too late.
“I don’t want to hear any more conspiracy theories about Lord Rochford,” Thomas snapped, as she walked down the stairs, followed closely by his wife’s cousin, Mr. Charles Norton, who he was starting to think was the most simple-minded fellow he had ever had the misfortune to meet.
“It’s not a conspiracy theory, Your Grace!” Mr. Norton insisted, his face going pale with horror at such a suggestion. “You know already he is an herbalist, but there are rumors that his hobby has taken a more sinister turn, that he knows how to administer cyanide in the right doses to?—”
“That’s enough,” Thomas interrupted. “I have enough things to worry about without it being suggested that my cousin is walking around trying to off members of theton!Honestly, it’s preposterous.”
“Is it, though?” Mr. Norton asked. “You saw what he tried to do with your wife.”
“Forcing a woman to marry you isn’t the same as murder,” Thomas said.
“I think many women would disagree about that!” Mr. Norton exclaimed, and Thomas paused. This might have been the first truly wise thing his wife’s cousin had said.
Thomas stopped on the third stair from the bottom and looked Mr. Norton over, this time with a shade more interest than he usually afforded the man.
“You have really heard this?” he inquired. “From reliable sources?”
“Indeed, I have! There is an apothecary in South London who swears that the earl came in looking for cyanide. I talked to him myself because I had to know.”
