Page 31 of When her Duke Returns
“I must make her love me, Redgrave,” Antony said then, and Alexander could sense the man’s blood had begun to boil beneath the surface of his platitude. “I will not be trapped in a loveless marriage.”
“There is naught I can do for you, Burkley, that I have not already done. Mary’s affections lie out of my control.”
Antony looked at him then for the first time, deeply and with intent, those steely blue eyes of his piercing frenetically through space and time—so deeply, in fact, they passed right through him. It was all Alexander needed to make sense of the matter: the Earl had not listened to a word he had said. He had wanted to speak his piece and lay the matter to rest.
Thus, it came as no great surprise when Antony sprung forward like a greyhound set for slaughter and barreled into him, drawing his fist back as far as he could and aiming for the Duke’s bandaged face.
ChapterThirteen
“It issowonderful, the news about Lady Carlisle,” Honora said as she continued to braid Mary’s hair for bed. “I really cannot wait to have a little baby about the house.”
Mary looked out of the window to the cool, dark expanse beyond. Had it not been for the fire roaring in the chimney and the worry burning in her belly, she feared she might have been quite cold.
“Mhm,” Mary sighed.
“Is everything all right, My Lady?” Honora asked once she had finished with her hair. She placed the hairbrush back on the wooden vanity with a resoundingclang.
Mary looked up absently at the girl. “Yes,” was all she could manage, and it was a great lie.
“Are you worried about Lord Burkley? Is that it?”
Mary let out a broken stream of breath. The Duke and the Earl had not returned with the rest of them, and they had not been seen since. Her brothers had returned to the pier to make sure they had not run into trouble, but the place had become a veritable ghost town since their excursion earlier that day.
Mary feared the worse though her family had thought little of it with Francis suggesting they had simply gone to a nearby pub. Mary knew better. While she had asserted that they were grown men with a rivalry that long preceded her, she could not deny the fact that her indecision had fueled the fires of their fighting.
“There has truly been no word?” she asked.
Honoria settled the braid along Mary’s shoulder and frowned. “No, My Lady. Not that I’ve heard at least.”
“This will not do,” she muttered to herself and then cleared her throat. “I shall be all right from here, Honora.”With an anxious nod, Honora picked up a basket of old linens and left the room.
Mary lifted herself unsteadily from her seat, careful not to put much weight on her sore ankle or catch a glimpse of herself in the looking glass, and she made for her bed on the other side of the room. Before she could even attempt at a dream, a cry rang out from the hallway beyond.
She sprung from the bed and opened the door forcefully. It came hurtling open with a bang. In the dim of the hallway, Honora had been pressed up against the wall, the basket of old cloth fallen to her feet as Antony loomed over her.
He caught sight of Mary at once and retreated sheepishly from his assault. She could smell the alcohol on his person as if he had drunk so much it was seeping from his pores—lager and perhaps something stronger.
“Antony!” she gasped. “Merciful Heavens, what is going on?”
“My dearest, most darling Mary,” he slurred and stumbled toward her. “This one dared to stop me from coming to see you. The gall of it all!”
“P—please, My Lord,” Honora muttered, scrambling to get away. “I only said you were asleep,Milady, and that you shouldn’t be disturbed this late.”
“It’s quite all right, Honora,” Mary assured her, though she was already seething. “Run downstairs and fetch Lord Burkley’s valet. I am loathe to burden Mr. Cluett this late, but I fear the Earl is in desperate need of a cool bath and a change of clothes.”
With a weak nod, Honora ran toward the servants' stairs, leaving the basket in her wake. As soon as they were alone amongst themselves, Antony edged toward Mary, his arms outstretched to pull her into his embrace. Instinctively, Mary stepped back. Her ankle groaned under the sudden weight of her body.
“Wherewereyou? Where is His Grace?” she hissed between jolts of pain.
Antony soured at the mention of Redgrave. “Always about him… Do you think of nothing else, woman?” he jeered. “The Duke is no longer of our concern. We had words, and he has”—he hiccupped then—“been dealt with. You cannot blame me… He showed me the way.”
A chill ran through Mary. “Dealt with how? What are you saying?” she urged, lurching back inside her room, and using the door to mark a barrier between them.
Antony scowled sadly and walked into the light of her bedchambers, wherein a series of shallow cuts were revealed on his face and arms. “He is on the beach, of course. Or at least… Is he? I think so. Swimming… No, something else. He will be back… He always comes back, doesn’t he?”
The man was barely making any sense. He ran a hand through his dark, wiry hair and then over his mouth as if to hold back from being sick.
“You should get some sleep,” Mary said in an attempt to get him to leave. “Go to your chambers and wait for your valet.”
