Page 32 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
Perhaps Godwin was right. Perhaps all he needed to do was let her continue to live here in this house with his ghosts while he took himself elsewhere. Helena would understand. She had always been kind to those in need.
A memory pawed at him, and he frowned, trying to recall it. But just as remembrance crashed over him—a pond, a girl in a soaked gown, and Helena’s patient soothing—he lost his grip on consciousness entirely, and sleep took him into its dark embrace.
Lydia froze as a loudcrashthundered through the manor. It sounded as though someone had dropped pots and pans.
Philips smiled reassuringly down at her as he took her coat. “Not to worry, ma’am. It happens sometimes.”
“What does?”
The butler took a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking. “His Grace has his moods sometimes.”
Well, that didn’t bode well for her evening plans.
“What sort of moods?” she asked, entering further into the manor. Only a few candles were lit, and she took an oil lamp from a side table. “Is he angry?”
“He is… not in a mood to receive you, Your Grace.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Where is he?” She started up the stairs.
Philips followed her. “It is not quite as simple as that, Your Grace. I really recommend—”
“If he is my husband, should I not know all parts of him?” She smiled reassuringly at the butler. “I don’t think he’ll hurt me.”
“I…believehe may be a little out of his mind, ma’am,” Philips said apologetically.
“That’s all right. I have seen some things in my time, you know. Inebriation doesn’t scare me.” She squared her shoulders. “Where is he?”
Philips visibly sagged. “This way, ma’am.”
He led her up through the manor to the west wing, and then along the corridor to a door that had, for the duration of Lydia’s stay in the manor, remained locked. That night, however, the door was open.
Philips stopped, and Lydia turned to him.
“Thank you,” she said, and he inclined his head.
“Ring if you should need our assistance, ma’am.”
“I shall.” She gave the concerned butler one last smile before stepping into the room.
Once, perhaps, it had been a lady’s private parlor, and the layer of dust that covered everything suggested that even the servants were not allowed inside to touch anything. The space was small, but there was a sofa, a fireplace, tapestries on the walls, and a writing desk.
And there, in the middle of the room, on the floor, was the duke.
Alexander.
Here, one hand still wrapped around a bottle, he didn’t look so much like the imposing duke he had first been on the fateful day of her father’s death. Shivers wracked his body, and sweat beaded on his brow. The lamp illuminated the expressions of pain that crossed his face even in sleep.
Lydia glanced around one last time. There were old letters on the desk, but she didn’t read them. And a ribbon that hung from the corner of the writing desk. Although she didn’t know what this room might have looked like once upon a time, she could guess that it had been preserved, as though time held no power here.
All the while, Alexander trembled.
This was not what she had expected from his inebriation. Philips had made it sound as though he could be tempestuous, perhaps even aggressive or violent, but instead, he looked like a young boy, hurting and afraid.
Her heart ached with sympathy.
“Here,” she murmured, knowing he couldn’t hear her as she removed the bottle from his fingers and placed it carefully on the desk. “Now, peace, husband.”
He tossed his head, hair sticking to his skin, and she sat beside him. Daringly, she reached out and brushed the top of his head. His hair was just as soft as she’d always imagined it to be, though now slightly damp. The room was not warm.
