Page 53 of The English Duke
Did his friend actually think he was that naive? Reese hadn’t inquired about his well-being for months. Yet Matthew dies, he begins work again, and suddenly Reese appears at Sedgebrook? The connection was obvious even to a blind man.
He wondered if Reese would pursue Josephine. If so, he wished Reese well. He’d seen her type before, women who were basically self-centered, determined to live their lives according to their own wishes and to hell with anyone else.
Those type of women cared for others only as long as it benefited them. As companions they were amusing. As lovers they were inventive, but as friends or wives, they were disastrous.
Standing, he made his way to the bellpull and jerked on it. When the maid arrived, he gave her an order to prepare a few hot bricks for him. She only nodded, familiar with the process. Mrs. Browning would ensure the bricks were heated and wrapped in flannel. He’d called for them so often lately that he wouldn’t be surprised if the housekeeper had orders to keep a few on the stove at all times.
He’d put them against his leg. The heat wouldn’t affect the ache in his bones, but at least his muscles wouldn’t tighten up and make the pain worse.
He slowly began to traverse the library on a well-worn path, one he’d made on other nights like this.
Today he should have stood every few minutes, explaining to Martha that if he didn’t, his damnable leg would cramp. He’d wanted to appear normal to her, perhaps even stoic. He hadn’t wanted to be weak, a half man whose injury made him do odd things.
The cold was getting worse, making it feel as if his knitting bones were freezing. He was afraid that the night ahead of him would be more than miserable. He was in for hours of agony.
He walked as far as the circular iron staircase, back to the door, up to his desk, retracing his steps. Movement didn’t seem to ease the deepening ache. The knife sensation was back, making each step like striding on a sword point.
He wanted to whimper. He wanted to cry out, curse the world or himself. He’d damn himself with his words, as he had a hundred or even a thousand times over the past year.
Once the bricks came, brought to him by Mrs. Browning, he sat at his desk, placing one against his hip and the next slightly lower.
“Is there anything else I can bring you, Your Grace?” she asked, her round face arranged in compassionate lines.
“Thank you, no, Mrs. Browning,” he said, forcing the words from his lips. There, he didn’t sound whiny, did he? No, he sounded like himself, in command of the situation. Stalwart. Dependable. A man who hid his weaker nature from those who depended on him.
He wanted her out of the library before the pain seeped through to his face.
“Shall I bring you some tea, Your Grace? Or some brandy?”
Please go. Just go.
Instead of saying the words, he pasted a smile on his face. He couldn’t help but wonder how it looked. Did it appear as false as it felt? Was it a frightening expression?
“Thank you, Mrs. Browning,” he said. “I require nothing further.”
Nothing but your absence. Be quick about it. Please, for the love of God, will you leave?
Blessedly, she left, but not before glancing at him one last time. He kept his smile tethered to his face with difficulty until the door closed.
He leaned his head back against his desk chair and allowed a moan to escape from his clenched lips.
Just a few minutes, that’s all. He had to wait until the heat from the bricks eased his muscles and gave a little warmth to his bones. He could endure this. All he had to do was wait.
He thought about the York Torpedo Ship and its bearer. Martha hadn’t wanted to bring it to him. She hadn’t been impressed by his consequence. Nor had she been pleased with his reception of her gift.
She was right; he hadn’t behaved in an honorable fashion. But he’d tried to make up for his initial reaction to her presence by allowing her into his sanctuary.
She’d been a surprise, a companionable woman who didn’t flirt with him, unless her forthright comments could be considered a type of flirtation. She didn’t flatter, but she did convey her respect in an odd fashion. He felt a glow of satisfaction when she said something complimentary. It was all too evident she didn’t utter falsehoods. When she gave him praise it was so simply done he knew she actually felt what she was saying.
She didn’t seem to give a flying farthing that he was a duke. Nor did Sedgebrook seem to impress her. He recalled her expression when he’d come to the Rococo Parlor. She’d been fascinated but in a repulsed, rather than admiring, way.
What did summon her admiration? Other than her father, of course. What made her eyes light up in amazement?
How curious that he wanted to know.
The thought occurred to him like a whisper, cutting through his thoughts of Martha.You have the elixir.
He pushed the thought away, but it came back, throbbing along with his leg. Dr. Reynolds had concocted a potion of sorts—at least that’s what he’d called it in the early days. The mixture was a combination of a few herbs and some opiates, but it effectively took away his pain. It also stripped him of his consciousness, not to mention his memories. He was left feeling as if he’d died for those few hours of being under the influence of the elixir.
