Page 67 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
“Thank ye, Mr. Johnstone.”
Richard’s stoney absence left a dull ache inside of her. As the days piled up without him, her smiles felt brittle, and her laughter forced. Even Lydia seemed to sense the falseness, choosing to spend time with her governess and leaving Catriona to her own devices.
Catriona wracked her brain. Surely there was some diversion that could lift her spirits. Suddenly, she was struck by a brilliant idea. She rushed to her desk, took out her stationery, and began to write.
She penned a quick letter to Eliza, her words heavy with longing. She wrote of the silence that pressed on her chest like a weight, of Lydia’s quiet sorrow and her own helplessness in the girl’s care. She admitted her confusion over her strained marriage—how glimmers of something real had faded into coldness—and how the grand house that once promised safety now felt like a gilded cage.
Most of all, she confessed to missing Scotland, her father, and Eliza herself, and begged her friend to visit, if only to bring a flicker of light to these dark days.
For she desperately needed some light.
Richard was staring blankly into space when the door to his study swung open and Michael stepped into the room. His gaze swept over the chaotic scene without a spark of expression, a stark contrast to his usual self.
“Well, well,” Richard slurred, pushing a hand through his dirty hair. “Look who’s gracing my humble abode. Come to gloat, have you? To witness the magnificent ruin I’ve become?”
It would be an understatement to say that Richard’s study resembled a battlefield.
Books were scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers in his London residence. Black ink had been spilled across his immaculate desk. A half-empty decanter of brandy sat precariously close to the edge, ready to tip over at a moment’s notice. If someone were to drop a match, the room would surely go up in flames.
Matching the scene, Richard himself was an absolute wreck. His clothes were rumpled and stained, his eyes bloodshot and haunted.
“There’s little to gloat about here. This isn’t like you, and I know you better than most, my friend,” Michael said as he sat down in an empty leather chair.
“Oh, but it is, isn’t it?” Richard scoffed in defiance. “The great Duke of Wilthorne brought low by… well, by everything! Damn it!” he exclaimed as he thrust his hand on the desk, the decanter falling to the ground and spilling everywhere.
Richard stood up and gestured vaguely around the room, not bothering to clean the mess that had just befallen him.
“John is gone. Lydia is perpetually terrified. And you know what, the one woman who saw me…” He trailed off, the rawness of his hangover eating at his insides as he tried to stave off his nausea.
“I heard about the gaming hell, Richard,” Michael said softly. “That’s why I came today.”
“And what about that?” Richard asked as his head snapped up to meet his gaze, his eyes narrowing defensively on his oldest friend as if he were now an adversary. “Did you enjoy the tale, Michael? The duke terrorizing unlucky politicians?”
“Terrorizing politicians,” Michael repeated, his voice sharp and cutting. “Richard, you assaulted several men—not just politicians. You created a scene causing damage to property as well. It’s all anyone can talk about!”
“Leave it alone, Michael,” Richard growled, turning back to the window as his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked glass. “Just leave me to my misery. This is none of your concern. You’re not my brother.”
“The hell it isn’t my concern!” Michael clapped back, his voice rising angrily as Richard knew he would not scare off that easily. “John was my friend too, you know! And Lydia, well, that poor child needs you. You’re her only living relative! I am sure Catriona has not received word from you and that she’s worried sick. How long have you been rotting here?”
Richard flinched at Catriona’s name, the guilt twisting in his gut along with the bile. He could talk about this no more.
“She’s better off without me. If I am sure of one thing, it is that,” Richard said, flinging himself back down on his desk chair. “I have nothing else to say.”
Michael shook his head, silence hanging between them for a few moments.
“Richard, you need to pull yourself together,” he pleaded once more. “John is dead, and that hurts like hell. But you have a responsibility. You have Lydia now, and John would want you to take care of her. And you also have Catriona. What more could a man ask for? All this…” he gestured around the room, “This is self-destruction.”
“Don’t you dare preach to me, Michael,” Richard snapped, turning back to face him, his blue eyes blazing with cool anger. “Since when were you an expert in matters of duty and responsibility?”
Michael flinched. Then, he sighed, “I am no expert in such matters. But I know what it looks like when a man drowns himself in sorrow and drink. I saw it happen to your father, Richard. Don’t become like him. You would never forgive yourself if you did.”
The words hit Richard like a punch in the face. In fact, he would have preferred a punch in the face.
His father had probably once been a kind man, but the loss of his wife threw him into a world of bitterness and isolation. He pushed everyone who loved him away, caring only for an antiquated sense of duty and power.
A shiver of unwelcome recognition down Richard’s spine as he stood to his feet. The conversation had gone too far.
“Get out, Michael,” Richard said, pointing to the door. “Get out of my house.”
