Page 48 of The Duke of Ruin
Kirwin arched a thick gray brow but merely nodded. “Will there be anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Very good. You have only to ring if you require something.” He gestured toward the pull between a door and the fireplace on the wall opposite the door. “Ah, here’s your luggage.”
A footman had arrived at the door, and Kirwin took the bag and nodded for the other retainer to go. The butler took the bag to the doorway at the back of the room. “This is your dressing chamber. There’s a passage to a set of stairs if you’d like to go down that way. Your tea tray will come up from there, as will a boy to start your fire.”
Kirwin emerged from the dressing room a moment later. “I nearly forgot to mention dinner will be at six.” He offered Simon a bow before taking his leave.
Simon went into the dressing room, where his bag sat near a small table. There was an armoire and a chair and another narrow window.
A soft rap was followed by a lad poking his head in. He carried a basket of fire-starting implements, and Simon nodded for him to go about his work. Crossing to that narrow window, he gazed down at another garden like the one in the courtyard on their way in. This one was larger but just as manicured. Dormant rose bushes marched along one side.
The door to the passage downstairs was ajar, and from the side of his eye, he caught the arrival of his tea tray. Rushing to open the door wider for the maid, he waved toward the bedroom. “In there is fine. Thank you.”
“Just so, Your Grace. Would you like me to pour for you?”
“No, thank you, I’ll manage.” He was quite used to taking care of himself. To that end, he removed his coat and cravat, then pulled his boots off, wiggling his toes when he was finished.
The maid left, offering a curtsey on her way out. A moment later, the boy followed, executing a perfect bow. Pushing himself up from the chair, Simon meandered back to the bedroom. He felt disjointed now that they were here. Likely because he’d no idea what was going to happen next.
He should’ve embraced this sensation—he lived his life without knowing what he was going to do next. He’d gone from looking forward to a wonderful, specific future to sadness and regret. And in an effort to avoid those things, he took each day as it came and tried to just live in each moment. No future, no past. No ties to anything.
Which was probably why he felt disjointed, he realized. For the first time in two years, he felt tied to something. To someone.
To Diana.
Oh, it was a temporary thing, but he cared about what happened to her. And he suspected he always would.
He poured himself some tea and nibbled from the food on the tray. He really had no idea what she planned to do. She’d been so upset and then adamant that she couldn’t endanger him by disappearing.I can’t let you do that,she’d said. It was perhaps the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever said to him.
But he’d meant what he’d said. He dealt with the stain of his wife’s death every day. Living with the scandal of Diana’s disappearance wouldn’t be any different.
Except it would. People, namely her father, would blame him. Simon would have to say he’d brought her here and that he didn’t know where she’d gone after. Then it would fall on Diana’s cousin to cover things up. Hell, he wasn’t going to do that to the duchess.
Which meant Diana had to “disappear” somewhere around Manchester—after they’d seen Sir Fletcher and his nasty wife. That also meant the duchess and her staff would have to lie about Diana being here.
Bloody hell, this was a disaster.
Stop and think,he told himself.You’ve managed disasters before.
The hell he had. He’d burrowed himself into a ball and hidden from the world. Even now, though he tried to reengage with people, with Society, he held a part of himself back. He always would. That part of him was dead. He couldn’t offer something that no longer existed.
He removed his waistcoat and threw it over the chair near the fireplace. The room was slightly warmer now that the fire was going, but still cold enough to cause him to shiver. The bed, with its heavy hangings and thick blankets, beckoned him. He peeled his stockings and breeches away and climbed beneath the coverlet.
He’d find a way to ensure Diana disappeared without putting the duchess and her household in the way of trouble. He, on the other hand, was likely doomed. Diana had made an excellent point—everyone would assume he’d killed her. And this time, he might not escape prosecution. This time, he might even hang.
Perhaps that was the ending he deserved.
Chapter 10
Fairly bursting with anxious energy, Diana paced in front of the windows overlooking the garden and lawn at the back of the castle while she waited for the maid to arrange the tray of tea and food. Finally, she left, and Verity, whom Diana hadn’t seen in almost two years, poured her cup precisely the way she liked it—a bit of cream and a large spoon of sugar when her mother wasn’t around.
Verity sat in a wing-backed chair, looking up at Diana. “Are you going to sit or hover?”
Diana sank onto the settee perpendicular to Verity’s chair. “It’s been a trying week.”
“I can only imagine.” Verity sipped her tea and, setting it down, picked up a cake. “I’ll endeavor to hold my tongue so you can disclose the entire tale. It looks to be fascinating.”
