Page 97 of From Duke Till Dawn
A footman appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. “Beg pardon, Your Grace. Your men of business are here and await you in the study. Shall I send them away?”
“No, I’ll see them.” He would bury himself in work. Lose the pain by immersing himself in his many responsibilities. Seemed a sound plan.
He gave one last look around before leaving Cassandra’s bedroom. Just in case, he’d ask the maids to keep watchful eyes out for any little token left behind. There was no harm in that.
Downstairs, a trio of men met him in his study. They carried portfolios and sheaves of paper, their faces clear and bright, their minds on business. He’d neglected his duties for some time. The backlog would keep him busy for days, weeks. Thank God. Numbers and laws and crops could shelter him from the cavernous sorrow that wanted to rip him apart.
Hours passed. He industriously applied himself to mountains of work, stopping just long enough to eat quickly—though he had no appetite—before returning to writing letters, drafting bills, and considering proposals.
“A duke is never idle,” his father had frequently proclaimed. “He is—”
Ah, the hell with you, Alex thought, cutting off the memory. His life was his own, not something created out of his father’s template. He was his own man, and, if he ever did have a son, he wouldn’t advise him on the proper way of existence for a duke. Rather, he’d concern himself with showing his son how to be a better person. How to live generously. How to treat others. How to love.
“I love you, Your Grace.”
Bent over a proposal for a new circulating library in the village near one of his estates, he shook his head slightly. She loved him. At last, he deserved love. Yet she had chosen herself over him, as he knew she would and must. He’d never offered her the prize of love, fear holding him at bay. He couldn’t blame her for walking away. That didn’t stop the hot grip of pain in his chest whenever he thought of her, however.
The day waned. His men of business excused themselves to return to their families. He was alone.
Ellingsworth found him by himself in the study as he stood looking out into the garden. A footman announced his friend, but Alex didn’t turn to greet Ellingsworth as he entered. Instead, he gazed toward the gazebo, where he and Cassandra had kissed.
“Given the funereal pall over the place,” Ellingsworth’s voice said behind him, mercifully free of its usual sarcastic humor, “I’d venture that the Cheltenham widow has decamped.”
“She has,” Alex acknowledged. Dusk shadowed the garden. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to see anything out back, just darkness.
Ellingsworth’s footsteps were muffled on the carpet as he came to stand beside Alex.
“I won’t mouth platitudes about how it’s for the best, et cetera,” his friend said, also looking at the garden. “I’ve a feeling if I did, you’d only give me a fist to the face for my trouble.”
“Appreciate your discretion,” Alex noted drily. They were quiet together for a handful of minutes before he broke the silence. “First it was Lady Emmeline, now it’s Cassandra. Both left me. Am I not enough?”
Ellingsworth placed a hand on his shoulder. His friend’s grip was strong. He tried, without success, to give Alex a slight shake. “Never question your value, Greyland. With Lady Emmeline, you both knew in your hearts that you weren’t right for each other. She would have been acceptable as your wife, but neither of you would have been truly happy.”
That much was true. Alex acknowledged it by inclining his head. He couldn’t mourn the loss of Lady Emmeline when she had been a concept, not a person. But Cassandra...
“I love Cassandra,” Alex admitted softly.
“Even a dullard like myself can see that,” Ellingsworth said.
“She went anyway.”
“Did you tell her of your feelings?”
“Not in so many words.” He’d held the words back, like a fool.
“She might need them. I don’t know the woman,” his friend said thoughtfully, removing his hand, “so I can only guess at her motivation for leaving. But if she did go, her reasons were not because of you.”
“It’s my sodding title,” Alex muttered. “Had I been Alexander Lewis, mercer, and not the Duke of Greyland, she might have stayed.”
“There’s nothing to be done about your birthright.” Ellingsworth moved away from the window and walked toward the cabinet that held an assortment of spirits. He poured two drinks, then walked the glasses back to Alex. “Whiskey makes all men equal.”
After taking his glass, Alex threw back the drink, finishing it in one swallow. He couldn’t drink Cassandra away, but might give it a damn good try.
“I don’t know what love is,” Ellingsworth acknowledged. “Hell, I doubt I ever will. But I know that hiding inside your lair like a wounded beast won’t ease your sorrow.”
“Been working all day,” Alex said, nodding toward his desk crowded with papers.
“Work!” Ellingsworth snorted. “That serves one purpose—to make us miserable. What you need is a better distraction.”
