Page 60 of The English Duke
She didn’t think, only reacted. She pulled the door closed and slipped behind a screen concealing the door to the bathing chamber, nearly tripping on a metal plant holder.
If Josephine wasn’t with the duke, she would announce her presence and explain she had gotten lost. An idiotic excuse, but the only thing that came to mind.
At the moment, she wasn’t thinking at all. She was only feeling. Terror, panic, regret, embarrassment, shame—they were all cascading through her.
Her heart was beating fiercely, her pulse racing. She could barely breathe. It wasn’t going to be Josephine who made a laughingstock of the family. It was her. Rock-steady Martha, practical Martha, boring Martha who would rather study plans and calculate measurements than do anything shocking or untoward.
Perhaps one day she’d be exciting. Perhaps she’d shock everyone who knew her by doing something entirely unlike her.
Not tonight, however. Please God, not now.
The ceiling shifted above him as Jordan made his way down the corridor to the staircase. Halfway up the long stretch of steps, the whole of the foyer abruptly altered position, causing him to grip the banister to keep from falling.
Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to take the grand staircase after all, but he didn’t want to use the servants’ stairs since so many of them were making for their beds. He didn’t want to be seen weaving like a drunkard.
The elixir had hit him hard tonight. No doubt a result of the wine he’d had in the library while waiting for the bricks to work. What a fool he’d been for combining the two.
At least his leg wasn’t hurting. He couldn’t feel much of anything, including his nose. He couldn’t test the theory, however, since his right hand was currently holding on to the banister and the left was carrying his walking stick.
Damnable thing, that. He hated the tangible proof of his injury. A constant reminder of his own fallacy. He’d been a fool to take Ercole out that day. He wasn’t the horseman his brother had been.
He wasn’t a lot of things his brother had been, including profligate and hedonistic. No, he was the proper son, the dutiful and honorable child of the wildly popular 9th Duke of Roth. A boy shuttled off to school when he got old enough, given enough funds to purchase a commission when he’d reached his majority.
He’d never done anything to attract the wrong kind of attention, but neither did he have that spark, that something that compelled people’s interest. His father had it. Simon had it. Reese had it. Even the annoying Josephine York had it.
He wasn’t dangerous or demanding or dictatorial. He wanted peace and contentment and order around him. He wanted to be able to give his mind room to breathe, to function, to examine and detect.
The landing abruptly tilted, making him idly wonder if he was going to tumble down the stairs. The Duke of Roth found at the bottom of the grand staircase, limbs shattered, mind lost, a fool dead before his time.
He gripped the banister even tighter, refusing to lose his footing. That’s one thing he had for which he’d never been given credit—a stubbornness filling every part of him. He wouldn’t give up. He would never surrender. Not to infirmity. Not to circumstances. Not to the mind-altering effects of the elixir.
Finally, he was done with the stairs, walking with some difficulty down the corridor. He stretched out his left hand as a guide, his fingers brushing against the wall to keep him centered on the runner.
He thought he heard laughter. Or it might be the elixir, bringing him taunting sounds and images as it normally did. He lived in a cloud of his own imagination when forced to take the stuff. He saw fantastical animals, colors, and shapes. Nothing was tethered to the earth but seemed to float slightly above the ground.
Not far now. Only a little way. Once in his room he would collapse on his bed and let the hallucinations continue. He’d allow himself to become part of them, the god on the clouds, Neptune of the sea, a bee buzzing in the Duchess’s Garden.
Thank God he was almost to his suite.
The bedroom was dark, the only light spilling in from the sitting room. She moved back behind the screen as the duke entered the suite. The door closed hard behind him, the noise loud in the silence of the night.
Was he angry?
She hoped not, because she needed to come out from behind the screen and announce herself. How could she explain being in his living quarters without him summarily banishing them tomorrow? Coupled with Josephine’s outrageous actions, they’d hardly been the perfect houseguests, had they? Whether or not Gran felt up to the journey, there was every chance they would be asked to leave.
She heard halting footsteps near, so close she held her breath.
Now, Martha. Step out now and explain yourself.
“Who’s there?”
His voice was odd, the speech slurred. Had he spent the time since dinner imbibing more spirits?
She peered out from behind the screen to encounter Jordan standing only a foot or two away from her.
His hand reached out and touched her, his fingers brushing against her bodice.
“What the devil?”
