Page 68 of The English Duke
But she hadn’t been a dream.
He pulled the sheets from the bed and shoved them into the bottom of the armoire, then pulled them out and stared at the pile of linen. He’d never felt the burden of his dukedom as much as he did now, wishing to dispose of the evidence he’d deflowered a woman he couldn’t remember. His servants would find the sheets, talk among themselves. He might even be visited by Mrs. Browning who would want to know why he’d accosted one of the maids.
What the hell had he done last night?
What the hell was he going to do now?
He dropped the sheets back on the bed. If anyone asked—and they wouldn’t—he’d simply tell them he had a restless night. And the blood? The blood wasn’t necessarily a sign he’d bedded a virgin. He could have cut himself somehow when he was under the effects of the drug.
Good God, he was now lying to himself. Practice for lying to the world, no doubt.
What the hell had he done last night?
“It was bad, then?” Reese said when he joined him for breakfast.
Although he valued Reese’s friendship, he didn’t want to see the compassionate look in the other man’s eyes. He didn’t need anyone’s pity.
“Manageable,” he said, smiling lightly.
He had every intention of going to the boathouse, but the Yorks’ maid was suddenly standing in the doorway.
“Your Grace?”
“Yes? What is it?”
Had Mrs. York’s condition worsened? That’s all this ruination of a morning needed.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Mrs. York would like to meet with you on a matter of some urgency.”
His first thought was that she’d decided to leave. If so, she’d take Martha with him. Where had that sudden regret come from?
“Tell her I’ll call on her within the quarter hour.”
The maid nodded, performed a slight curtsy and disappeared, leaving him sitting there, his appetite suddenly gone.
Perhaps they would be leaving today. Or perhaps she simply wished to convey her thanks to the staff. Or request a certain meal to tempt her appetite. Nothing about the request should have summoned a sour feeling in his stomach or a dread making his extremities feel suddenly cold.
Standing, he placed his napkin beside the plate, nodded to the maid who entered the room with a fresh teapot, and made his way up the stairs.
The journey was, as it had been for the past year, a slow one and more than a little awkward. Yet each week brought about progress. He was at least able to mount the steps without assistance. He no longer needed to be conveyed about on a stretcher.
At the top of the staircase he took a few minutes to steady himself, annoyed to discover his hands were trembling. An effect of the exertion, and one he hoped would ease in time. Or maybe it was just simply the anticipation of the meeting to come.
The dread was increasing, coupled as it was with the discovery he’d made this morning. Something had happened last night. Something that hadn’t been a dream, a hallucination, or an effect of the elixir. Something was terribly wrong and as he turned left, heading for Mrs. York’s room, he felt as if he was walking to the gallows.
She wanted to see him on a matter of some urgency.
He’d bedded a woman last night. A virgin.
His memory strained to recall how she’d spoken. Was she well educated? He couldn’t remember. Was she quick-witted? Had she amused him? He couldn’t recall. Had they spoken of anything other than their base needs, some conversation to give him a clue to her identity?
Who the hell had she been?
A woman had been in his room and he’d taken her to his bed. He hadn’t been capable of convincing her, so she would have come of her own accord. Why had she even been in his room?
Was it Martha?
His honor would demand that he do the right thing. Perhaps, at the base of it, that’s why he hadn’t sent her away. Maybe his drugged mind had realized what it meant to take her to his bed. She understood his work. She had a fascinating mind. There was something about her that was arresting, some ability she had to summon his gaze. It was the way she spoke. He liked watching her lips enunciate the words. Or perhaps her expressive eyes. He suspected that if Martha thought you were an idiot, she’d leave you with no doubt of it.
