Page 31 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
Once the dinner ended, she decided, she would go in search of the duke and see if she could seduce him. If such a thing were possible.
She glanced down at herself and tugged at her silk gown, looking at the neckline and the way it dipped. Nothing too scandalous, but the ruffles made her appear even more busty than otherwise.
Her figure was good; the dress displayed it to advantage. He had not seen her before she left.
Determination solidified in her chest. When she returned home, she would throw herself at him, be positively shameless—and this time, she would look at his breeches. Then she would know for certain if she aroused him.
So, reassured, she settled back in her chair and waited for the evening to be over.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alexander glowered at the key in his hand. It blurred in and out of focus, and he had to concentrate to insert it in the keyhole. The old metal felt cold in his hand, the intricate metal head digging into his fingers.
With a click, the door unlocked. Alexander swayed where he stood. His head spun, the world twisting and twirling around him, but despite all that, there was the gnawing need inside him, a beast that no amount of scotch could appease. No matter how hard or often he tried.
He was turning into a monster. And he could not prevent himself.
No, the damage had been done a long time ago—before, even, the poppy juice.
As he attempted to step forward, he staggered sideways and knocked into a suit of armor.
Stupid thing.
His father had kept it in the house; according to his family lore, it had been worn during the Civil War, but he doubted it. This was a display piece, not something a former duke would have ventured onto the battlefield wearing.
In fact, he had doubts that his ancestors ever directly saw war. They would have commanded those under them to fight, after choosing a side—always royalists. They were dukes, after all. And in the aftermath, had almost paid with their title.
The sound of the crashing metal echoed down the corridor, which seemed to swim as Alexander peered down it. Still, nothing interrupted the darkness. The manor had become a fortress, a prison; only this time, the only thing it kept within its dungeons was his sanity.
Grunting, he finally made his way into the room, not bothering to close the door. The servants knew better than to disturb him when he was in these moods—and, indeed, in this wing of the manor—so he knew he would not be disturbed.
Lamplight illuminated the small chamber. Once, it would have been a lady’s bower, and there were some traces of that, still. A sofa across one side of the room, and hanging curtains. Faded tapestries on the walls. A tea set, dusty now, where once upon a time, Helena had poured him tea from.
Grief gripped him as he made his way to the writing desk in the corner, by the dark window. The letters there were now turningyellow with age, though it had only been a handful of years. Seven. Not long enough for the paper to have deteriorated, except yes, it had.
Age kept creeping onwards. Time, cruel mistress.
And he, trapped within its clawed hands. Stuck in the worst day of his life forevermore.
He had been nineteen, young and in love and a fool. No matter what his father said, he would have married her. And they would have been happy together, he knew it. They were so equally matched. So very in love.
Carefully, he placed the lamp on the writing desk and drew out the dusty bottle of brandy he had stashed here the last time he had entered the room. Over a year ago now. If he ventured here too often, he feared he would traipse over the last of her memories.
Here, she had left him a perfumed handkerchief, embroidered with her initials. Here were all her letters, almost childish things with childish dreams. So much hope for a future that was not assured.
Because she had gotten ill. And then she had died.
He uncorked the bottle, bringing it to his lips and tipping it back. Unconsciousness threatened to reach him. Tomorrow, he knew, he would have a terrible headache, but then, didn’t he deserve it?
Helena was dead, and he had turned to laudanum to mute the symptoms of his grief. To allow him to sleep, or at least to find a modicum of rest. Only, like everything in his life, it had turned from a relief to a curse.
Even now, his body shuddered, cramping and demanding he assuage the cravings. Alcohol helped, but not enough.
He was drowning, and he hadn’t been able to take a breath since he was nineteen.
Then Lydia.
An image of her appeared in his head the way she had been that very morning, her eyes bright and her nose tipped with red. Soalive. He was ruining her life, piece by piece, just as he ruined everything.
