Page 41 of The Forbidden Duchess (Rogues from War 1)

The rest of the night passed in a blur enhanced by brandy.

Next evening in the club, Darius found him plopped on an armchair, brandy in hand, half-drunk. The room rather empty at that time, as men went about the city for balls, soirees or gambling.

“Are we celebrating or drowning sorrows?” He took his own brandy from a footman’s tray. “The second, I reckon.” He added when Philip lifted a serious look at him.

“I am not in the mood for jests!” He drawled ill humoured.

“Duchess out of country, I heard.” He drank his brandy, sitting on the armchair beside his friend.

“No, she’s in Gloucestershire.” Philip gulped the rest of his brandy and asked for more.

Darius darted his eyes to him. “In England?”

Philip only nodded head down on his new glass.

“Why aren’t you there?” An obvious question that had to be asked.

“She evicted me.” He said defeated. “Or she’d disappear in the Continent.”

“Oh, I see.” He observed Philip. “She doesn’t want the scandal to affect you.”

“To hell with scandal!” He downed his entire brandy.

“Have you told her you love her?”

At that, Philip lifted his head and met his friend’s eyes. “Of course not!” He made a helpless gesture.

“In this case she might think you just want a tryst with her.” Darius spread his arms over the armchair.

“I asked her to marry me, for pity’s sake!” He raked his hand through his sleek dark hair, which reminded him how she used to do that. “Several times. Several refusals.”

“You told me she didn’t want a forced marriage again, that she used to dream of a love match.”

“Yes.” Philip appeared more alert now.

“She might think you asked her only to put things right.” Darius took another sip of his brandy.

“I didn’t!”

“She doesn’t know that, does she?”

Philip’s brows pleated. “It was clear in…other ways.”

“Hm. Words?”

“No, bloody hell!” He clamped one hand on the chair arm.

“You’d better go there and spell it out.”

Philip didn’t wait a second longer. Like a bullet, he stood up and left, not even bidding his friend good bye. “Thank you.” He said from the door.

It’d take Philip about two days to reach her cottage and he had to leave at dawn. He’d be on his way anyhow.

She retched for the hundredth time that week, the chamber pot empty. There was not a grain of food to throw up anymore. Still, her stomach tried. Nell would bring water and pieces of dry bread to appease the sickness, but it kept going on with little relief. Thinner and paler, she went about her days in between nauseas. She found few books in the cottage, so she took to knitting baby’s clothes. It’d make her feel she accomplished something. The sickness subsided and she put the pot aside.

Once, looking for books, she opened a chest and came across a gun. It looked new enough, no balls available, though. She took the gun to the sitting room. Even without balls, it could scare intruders away. She hadn’t hired more staff, like footmen for protection. The fewer people knew she lived there, the better.

Tobias, the driver, and Nell went to the village for provisions, under instructions for extreme discretion. Sometimes, they’d bring London’s newspaper, days old. It came with the mail coach. She read them avidly, looking for news from the duke. She never found any.

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