Page 42 of The Untamed Duke
I am consumed
An insanity happily suffered.
~Nicholas August Harris March
Ninth Duke of Richeforte
Standingon the brick steps of the bachelor’s residence, he wondered why this time felt so different.
“You bastard! You bloody bastard! Why did you do it?” Sebastian Cain shouted, tumbling from the coach.
Hot on his heels, Alan, Earl of Bentley, leaped from the same conveyance, grabbing at his friend. But Sebastian was far quicker, and there was no preparation for the large fist that connected with Nicholas’s chin. Stumbling beneath the onslaught, he did not go down, nor did his arms raise in defense.
“Why? Why her? You took what didn’t belong to you. Something pure and innocent, something you could destroy,” Sebastian grunted, fists slamming one after the other into Nicholas’s stomach.
The pain was sobering, but when Nicholas opened his mouth, Sebastian landed a savage right cross. Staggering, jaw throbbing, he committed a grave error by grabbing on to Sebastian for support just as Alan reached them.
“How long ago? When did you take her?” Roars of thunder billowed from Sebastian, his face contorted with the pain of treachery.
“She wanted—”
Another punch cut off Nicholas’s words. Groaning, he felt his left eye swelling shut. Alan shot him a wild glare filled with panicked concern as he grabbed Sebastian from behind. He held the man’s arms just long enough to prevent any further blows.
But Nicholas braced himself, accepting the inevitability of a serious beating. He could not defend himself, not when every word was true. He had taken what did not belong to him. Infected her with his wickedness, stripped away her beautiful innocence. Sebastian would never believe or understand her sweet surrender was as necessary to his soul as the air he breathed.
“Marilee was mine. My fiancée and bastard that you are, you stole her from me. Betrayed me...our friendship.” Sebastian wrenched from Alan’s grip and tackled Nicholas. They tumbled down the steps of the townhouse, landing in a heap with Sebastian on top. While his friend pummeled away, Nicholas took the punishment with a dazed bewilderment.
Who the devil was Sebastian talking about? Marilee? He never wanted her. Never even touched her. Marilee was nothing more than a treacherous, sweet-faced bitch who had somehow buried her claws in his best friend. But Grace, oh God, Grace was everything. The sun and all the stars in heaven. The moon and tides. The sweet breezes of spring and the sticky warmth of summer. She was everything Nicholas ever wanted. Everything worth living for. Worth suffering for. Sebastian would kill him for ruining her...that was certain. And she was worth dying for.
Nicholas tried explaining he never wanted Marilee, but Sebastian’s features were morphing into something different. Someone different. Slowly melting, fading like dust on a windowpane, washed clean by raindrops until Tristan Buchanan stood there instead, his handsome face twisted with terrible sadness.
“Damn you, Richeforte.” Tristan struck Nicholas, splitting his lip. He tasted his own blood. “Why Grace? She’s not yours. Not yours—”
Nicholas screwed his eyes tight. Instead of agony, a wave of shame swept him. It left him dizzy and breathless, panting at the enormity of his actions.
“She’s mine. Mine. Mine…” he mumbled over and over.
“Nicholas.”
At first, he ignored the soft, sweet voice. But when his name was repeated, his lashes slowly lifted.
He no longer lay prone on the ground. Instead, he now stood over Grace. She was on her knees, her honey-colored gaze riveted on him. He blinked, confused, gliding his fingers over her head, through her silky hair. Across her jaw. She was gold. Fire. Chaos in the palm of his hand.
She whispered something, and he bent down, his lips brushing her tiny, shell-like ear.
“Won’t you let me hold you?” She asked, her cheek pressing against his. “Won’t you let me in?”
Nicholas bolted upright.
He was alone. In his bed. His heart pounding. His room was so bright and it wasn’t usually. Sunlight streamed through the windows. He remembered now. He’d opened the drapes during the night. Fell asleep watching the lightning and the whipping, raging storm, his arms wrapped about sunshine. Wrapped around Grace
She was not there, of course. He'd deposited her in the bedroom adjacent to this chamber. The level of regret he felt for that surprised him. He rubbed the scar on his leg and pushed back the covers. Slipping into a robe brought memories of rolling the sleeves on hers. Jesus. What was he thinking? The things he’d done...and said. She’d probably fled at first light, back to Bellmar Abbey on her fine, Irish thoroughbred.
Strawn, his valet, had already come and gone in his silent way. A pot of steaming coffee waited on the table by the fireplace, the dishes from the midnight meal removed. If he ventured into the dressing room, Nicholas knew he would find his clothes for the day laid out. He still resented the valet’s services, having decided long ago another man’s assistance was not required in dressing himself, however, fresh coffee first thing in the morning was worth tolerating the servant’s discreet attendance.
Nicholas jotted down a few lines of the thoughts floating in his head in the journal on his desk then poured himself a cup of the dark brew. He wondered if Strawn was shocked at seeing the expensive cravats adorning the bed’s posts and fretwork. The silk pieces were missing now, but they were stretched anyway, ruined for future use. Well, he owned dozens of cravats and couldn't imagine a better way of suffering the loss of a few.
Tying the robe’s sash into a loose knot, Nicholas entered the antechamber. He stood with a hand resting on the doorknob leading into the duchess suite, wondering why he hesitated.
