Page 79 of The English Duke
She would not have asked the question normally. Perhaps it was because they were alone in a moonlit garden. Or because in the past two days they’d become friends, of a sort.
Not only did he answer her, but he did so with a candor that was even more surprising.
“My brother was always better than I was in a great many things. Speaking languages, being cordial to perfect strangers, painting. He even knew most of the plants we’re growing in our greenhouse and he was an expert horseman. I was a better marksman, but he was a better rider. One of his last acquisitions in Italy was Ercole, an irritable, nearly wild stallion.”
He stood, walked some distance, then returned, standing in front of her.
“The day my solicitor called on me and let me know to what degree my brother had attempted to ruin the family financially, I found myself enraged. I thought a good ride might take the edge off my anger as well as prove to myself I was his equal in horsemanship.”
His chuckled mirthlessly.
She wanted to comfort him with words or even touch. She only looked at him standing there, baring himself to her.
His hair was askew, a lock tumbling down over his brow. She wanted to push it back into place with her fingers.
“All I proved to myself was that pride goeth before a fall, isn’t that the expression? I was a fool and it was a mistake I’ll pay for every day of my life.”
“Have you nothing to ease the pain?” she asked.
“I do, but I’ll not be taking it. Because of that damned elixir—begging your pardon for my language—I’m about to become a bridegroom.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Slowly, he returned to the bench.
“It’s why I’m marrying your sister.”
She turned her head toward him.
“Sometimes, the pain is so great that I don’t think I can endure another minute of it,” he said. “On those nights I take the mixture my doctor prepared. Unfortunately, it makes me lose a connection to the world around me. I feel drugged and unlike myself.” He took a deep breath. “It’s as if something takes hold of me,” he added. “I become someone not myself.”
He didn’t look away. She wished she could see the expression in his eyes. She had the strangest feeling he was asking for forgiveness.
She didn’t say anything in response. What could she say? That she’d witnessed his behavior up close? Last night she’d thought him affected by the wine he’d drunk, not drugged. Otherwise, she would have left him in his suite and returned to her room still a virgin.
Still, she’d known he wasn’t himself. Yet she’d stayed.
“You took the elixir last night,” she said. It wasn’t a question and the words chilled her like winter rain.
“Yes.”
“And you think you took advantage of Josephine,” she said, speaking the words slowly.
“Yes,” he answered. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
It hadn’t. Josephine had somehow convinced him it had, and he’d done the right thing, the proper thing, the honorable thing.
She stared out at the shadowed rosebushes. From this moment on she knew she’d never be able to smell the scent of roses without also feeling this horrible sense of loss.
Now was the time for her to speak, to turn to him and say,“It wasn’t Josephine in your bed. It was me.”
How, though, did she explain that she’d remained with him, even thinking he was inebriated? How could she explain that she’d been fascinated with him, that she’d wanted him to touch her and introduce her to passion?
Would he hate her if he knew? After all, her behavior had put him in this position.
She pressed a hand against her waist, the other at the base of her throat, almost as if to keep herself mute.
Didn’t you know it was me? Don’t you know now?
