Page 36 of The Duke of Daring (The Untouchables)
“It’s no trouble. I…I want to know these things.” No, he didn’t really. Just the thought of this man’s mother dying… “Is she terribly ill?” Andrew wanted to bite the question back. He didn’t really want to know.
“It’s serious, yes.” Tindall spoke slowly, cautiously.
Andrew should let the subject drop, but he found he couldn’t. “Never mind what I said before. Stay on as long as you need to. And I insist on sending a physician to see her. I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”
Tindall bowed his head again, smoothing his hand over the silk of the cravat. “I am overcome by your generosity, my lord.”
Generosity, ha. It was a simple thing. A necessary thing. A basic human right. Ailing people needed the care of a capable physician. People like his parents and his sisters. And his brother.
The cold sweat spread, and his skin felt as if it were coated in frost. His discomfort must have shown—he’d likely gone pale if this was like similar occasions in his past—for Tindall’s eyes widened. “My lord, are you all right?”
Damnit. This hadn’t happened to Andrew in some time. Years maybe? When he’d been younger, the bouts had been more frequent, daily and weekly at first, then lessening over time. He’d thought them long gone.
He’d hoped.
But he’d thought of his family more this evening, had let them creep back into the places he kept dark and quiet—ignored. Now he was overwhelmed with emotion. He wanted none of it.
“I’m fine,” he said tightly. “Nothing a bit of gin won’t cure. Fetch me a bottle?”
“Indeed, my lord.” Tindall set the cravat on a chest and left with alacrity.
Andrew removed his waistcoat and tugged off his boots and stockings amid a barrage of memories he didn’t want to see. His mother coughing until she couldn’t breathe. His sisters praying together as their fevers raged. His father trying to find a physician and only hastening his death as he spent hours out in the snow. His brother’s cold, still body.
Yet Andrew had been spared. For so long, he’d just wanted to die with them. And sometimes he still wished he had. Barefoot, he went into his chamber and stared at the low fire burning in the grate.
When Tindall returned, Andrew took the glass and bottle from him. “Thank you, I don’t require anything further.” He turned from his valet lest he see the way his hands shook.
Tindall didn’t immediately leave. Andrew fought the urge to snap at him to go already but was glad he didn’t when Tindall said, “Thank you again, my lord. I appreciate your kindness more than I can ever say.”
Andrew couldn’t speak, so he only nodded. At last he heard Tindall walking across the room and the click of the door as he left.
Still shaking, Andrew sank into the chair situated by the fireplace and set the glass on the table beside it. He opened the bottle and poured the gin, careful not to splash any of the liquid outside of the tumbler. He set the bottle down with a clack and picked up the glass. He didn’t sip but took a long gulp and closed his eyes as it burned down his throat.
The images still played and the familiar emotions—guilt, loss, anger, sadness—consumed him. He finished off what he’d poured and filled another. That went down faster than the first. Another.
Finally, his shaking began to lessen and the sense of panic dissipated. He was here. Whole. Alive. But so empty inside.
He stood up and paced. He wanted it that way. Heneededit that way. He never wanted to feel that helplessness and devastation ever again.
He strode back to the bottle and poured another glass. As he finished that one too, numbness stole over him. When he collapsed into bed a short while later, relief sagged through his frame. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind he’d cultivated for nearly two decades. The kind that kept the demons at bay.
Two days later, Lucy greeted her friends, whom she’d invited for tea. Ivy arrived just before Aquilla and said she had the entire afternoon free. Her employer, Lady Dunn, was very generous with the amount of free time she gave Ivy, which allowed Ivy ample opportunity to conduct her charitable activities.
Aquilla arrived in a flurry of pale yellow muslin, unruly dark curls, and cheerful chatter. She never failed to brighten a room or Lucy’s mood. She found it nearly impossible to be sullen around her, not that Lucy was feeling sullen. No, she was feeling quite determined.
As soon as Aquilla came into the drawing room, she noticed the flowers on the table near the window. She glided over to them and sniffed before darting a playfully accusing stare at Lucy. “You didn’t tell us you received flowers! Who are they from?”
Lucy rolled her eyes as she sat down. “How do you know they’re mine? Maybe they’re for my grandmother.”
Aquilla pulled off her gloves. “That’s absurd. Of course they’re for you. What I don’t know is which of your dance partners sent them. Was it Dartford?” She glanced at Ivy and smiled. “I do hope it’s Dartford.”
“It wasn’t.” Lucy bristled, which was surprising since she didn’t care who they were from. “They’re from Lord Edgecombe.”
Aquilla perched on the settee and set her gloves on the arm. “How splendid. Did he pay a call?”
“No, he just sent the flowers with a note that he hoped to see me soon for another dance.” Lucy, of course, hoped no such thing.
“Edgecombe is a charming fellow, if a bit reserved,” Aquilla said. “I daresay I frighten him, but then I either scare the sense out of a gentleman or bore him to tears.” Her tone was free of dismay, her features light and open. Still, Lucy hated for her friend to think of herself that way.
