Page 81 of The Duke of Ice
Mother’s eyes widened even more—to the point that Violet feared they would pop right out of her head. “That… Oh. How wonderful that he’s a duke now and that you’ve found your way back to each other.” She didn’t look apologetic in the slightest. But had Violet really expected that? She was satisfied that she’d at least registered shock.
Still, she couldn’t resist needling her a little. “Just imagine if I’d been allowed to marry him. I’d be a duchess.”
The wrinkled flesh around her mother’s mouth twitched. “Maybe you will be after all.”
“You mustn’t count on it, Mother,” Violet said. “The Duke and I are friends, nothing more.” She kept her gaze averted from Chalke’s, lest they reveal the truth. She and Nick were more than friends, but how much more? And for how long?
“It’s not as if you and Father will be able to persuade him into marriage.” As they’d practically bribed Clifford—a viscount in need of funds—to wed her. “He doesn’t need anything.” Except the ability to put the past behind him and reach for a happy future. The question was if he’d changed too much to do that, if he was too weighed down with the burden of loss.
“I suppose not.” Mother’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t he have one of those nicknames?” She looked at the ceiling as if she’d find the answer hidden in the carved plaster. She shook her head. “Ah well, I’ll remember. Have a good lunch and rest, dear.” She left again, and Violet relaxed into the pillows.
“How’s your head?” Chalke asked with concern.
“It hurts again.”
Chalke stared at the doorway where Violet’s mother had just gone. “Yes, I imagine it does. I’ll fetch some soup and willow-bark tea for your headache. Then, if you’d like, I could read to you until you fall asleep.”
Violet settled into the bed, which was beginning to feel more and more like a prison cell. She wished she could go after Nick, to be the light he surely needed right now. Would he let her?
Chapter 17
The dayafter the princess’s funeral, Nick had contemplated returning to Bath. However, the prevalent aura of grief had worked its way into his heart and mind, thrusting him back to the dark period following the loss of Jacinda and Elias. As a result, he stayed in his room all day, and the day after, he’d ventured only as far as his study downstairs.
He’d received a brief note from Violet’s physician notifying him that she was improving, but that the progress was slow. His relief hadn’t been enough to drive him back to Bath. He was too numb. And afraid. The threat of losing Violet in his current state of despair had incapacitated him. He’d fought against the shadows of the past and was now battling the darkness of the present. Just as he’d decided to try to live again, reallylive, disaster had struck, reminding him that he was cursed.
He wanted to go back to feeling protected, even if it meant he was alone. Over the past five years, and particularly the last three, he’d found a way to manage his grief and loss. Allowing Violet close had opened him back up to that pain. As much as he cared for her, as much as he loved her—and he did—he didn’t want to be vulnerable. His heart couldn’t bear it if she were taken from him, so it was best that he retreat behind his wall of ice.
Pulling on his gloves, he strode to the hall, where his butler hovered near the door.
“I’m going for a ride.”
Bexham, Nick’s London butler, an imperious man of nearly sixty years, reached for the door. “It’s good to see you back to your regular self, Your Grace.”
Nick didn’t know what his regular self looked or felt like anymore. Violet had reminded him that he was Nicholas Bateman, and yet he was as much the Duke of Ice as he’d ever been.
After an invigorating run in Hyde Park, Nick felt marginally better. He picked his way back toward the gate, and, as had happened on the days prior to the funeral, he came across Miss Kingman.
She drew her mount to a halt just off the path, and he moved his horse to stand alongside hers. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. I’d despaired of seeing you here again. I was afraid you’d left London after the funeral.”
He should have, but he’d shut himself away instead. “I’ve been busy.”
If she detected any upset in his tone—which he didn’t see how she could—she didn’t reflect it. He had the sense that even if he had displayed a flash of emotion, she would have ignored it. Their conversations had been devoid of weight or importance. They’d talked of fishing, the ocean, and her parents’ appalling desperation for her to wed someone Important.
“I hope you weren’t reading the newspaper,” she said, for the first time revealing a hint of something…anxiety judging by the tense set of her jaw and the glint of concern in her eye.
“No.” He’d readHamlet, which had suited his mood, and then a horrid novel, undoubtedly placed next to his bed by Rand, who’d most certainly gotten it from Bexham, who, amusingly, possessed a small library of such work.
“Ah, well. There’s a bit of…speculation about you and me. Our rendezvous here in the park have been noted.”
The first thing he thought of was her parents and their desire to see her upwardly wed. “I’m certain your father is thrilled.”
“Quite.” Her brief smile was both self-deprecating and tinged with irritation. “I tried to tell him that we are merely acquaintances. I apologize for the unwanted attention.”
And yet here they were, meeting in plain sight once again.
“I’ve never cared what people said or thought about me,” Nick said. “I suppose that’s what happens when you grow up expecting a life of anonymity only to find yourself at the center of Society.”
“I don’t care either,” she said, lifting her chin. “Much to my parents’ frustration. But I felt I should caution you—that’s why I’ve been looking for you the past couple of days—my parents are organizing a dinner party next week and plan to extend you an invitation. I would advise you to leave London before they can trap you.” She delivered this advice with a tone of utmost gravity.
