Page 32 of The Duke of Ruin
“I’ll be quick.” He went about pulling on his breeches and the rest of his clothing. When he’d put on his waistcoat, he turned the chair away from the bed and sat down to tug his boots on. “I’m busy with my boots, and my back is to the bed.”
“Thank you.”
He listened to her movements, by now aware of what she was doing by the sound. So it didn’t come as a surprise when her voice came from just behind him. “Can you help with my corset?”
“Of course.” He rose and tied her undergarment, pulling it tight around her torso. He always strove to keep his knuckles from grazing her, but sometimes, he failed. Today, he brushed her spine and almost flinched in his hurry to pull his hand away.
“Let me help you with your petticoat and dress,” he offered, as he did every day. He went to the hook on the wall where her garments hung and brought them back to where she stood. Laying the dress on the bed, he started with the petticoat. She lifted her arms like a supplicant, and he drew the fabric over her head. He repeated his movements with the dress, and once she settled the garment around her slender frame, he laced it closed, tucking the ends inside when he finished.
She smoothed her hands over the skirt. “Thank you. While my wardrobe is too large, I do miss the variety. I’m a bit sick of this gown.”
“You have another, do you not?”
“Just one, yes.”
“Then I shan’t worry about getting you wet.”
“Not too wet,” she cautioned, her blue eyes sparkling. “I don’t have another petticoat or corset, and I don’t want this gown to be wet when we depart tomorrow.”
Ifthey were able to depart tomorrow. No, he wouldn’t think of that. Anyway, weren’t there worse things than being trapped with a beautiful young woman whose company he enjoyed more than anyone he’d met in the past two years?
She sat down and put on her stockings and half boots while he shrugged into his coat. He waited near the fire as she wound her braid into a circlet at the back of her head, using her discarded pins from yesterday. The glass hung near the hearth, and when she finished, she pivoted toward him.
“You look beautiful.” He’d thought the words every morning of their journey, but today was the first time he said them.
She blushed and looked at the fire. “Thank you,” she murmured.
They grabbed their cloaks, hats, and gloves and went downstairs to the common room. Only Mr. Taft and the two boys were present.
“Slow down, Matthias, the snow will still be there.” The man chuckled as his younger son continued to shovel food into his mouth. Simon remembered what it felt like to be a boy filled with excitement for the day ahead. There was nothing else, just the very next thing. It was an excellent metaphor for the life he’d been living the past two years. Minus the excitement, of course.
This time with Diana was the most forethought he’d given to much of anything, save the house party he’d attended last fall with Nick. He glanced over at his companion.
That event had ended poorly, at least for him. During an excursion to St. Andrew’s Cathedral in Wells, Nick’s fiancée—well, hisotherfiancée—Violet, had tripped and fallen. Because she’d been alone with Simon, everyone had assumed the worst. Or so it had seemed. Simon hadn’t stayed to find out. He’d fled the cathedral, returned to the house, packed his things, and departed immediately.
What had Diana thought of that? He shouldn’t ask, but he was always perversely interested in what people said of him.Probably,a small voice in the back of his mind whispered,because you keep hoping something will finally be kind.
He guided her to the table where they’d had dinner last night. Mrs. Woodlawn came over directly with tea and toast. “I’ll bring some ham, kippers, and some eggs.”
“Thank you,” Simon said while Diana poured. She’d taken to drinking tea with him at all times of day, though she’d also sipped a sherry or two. He didn’t fault her for it. He was humbled that she sought to join him at all.
“Were people surprised when I left the house party this past fall?” Apparently, he wasn’t able to contain himself. He was, as his mother had told him after his father’s death, weak.
She looked up at him in shock, blinking after a brief pause. “Surprised? I don’t think that’s the proper way to characterize it.”
When she didn’t offer theproperway, his curiosity got the better of him. “And how was that?” She blanched, and he realized he knew. He picked up his teacup in a show of nonchalance lest she think he was upset—he wasn’t. This was what he’d become accustomed to. “They were relieved to be rid of me finally. I’m sure they blamed me quite thoroughly for Lady Pendleton’s tumble.”
Except being accustomed to people thinking the worst of him was nothing compared to actually having the worst happen.Again. One moment, Lady Pendleton had hold of his arm, and the next, she was gone, sprawling beside him while he did nothing but gape in horror.
The vision of his wife at the bottom of the stairs, her body broken, filled his head now as it had then. It was the only thing he remembered from that night aside from holding her and begging her to live. His hand began to shake, and he hurriedly put his teacup back down.
“She wouldn’t let them,” Diana said. “Lady Pendleton was quite vocal in her defense of you. And of course the Duke of Kilve supported her.” She looked at him squarely. “I didn’t believe it. Neither did my friends.”
No, the younger set had been quite genial. Maybe, in time, people would forgive him. Not that it really mattered since he would never forgive himself.
“That’s kind of you.”
She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “What Lady Nixon and Mrs. Law fail to realize is that every time they say something about someone, we younger people are inclined to believe the opposite. That is, the younger people with sense. They’re horrid old hags.”
