Page 56 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
And he could not even blame her.
Chapter Twenty Two
Despite the fact that he’d written ahead, it was clear that Luke’s household had been in no way prepared for the madness that the sudden arrival of the rest of Lizzie’s family had caused. Georgie and Joanna had immediately set about amusing themselves by shoutinghalloosthroughout the corridors and listening for the echoes of their voices, whilst Imogen had begun poking through bedchambers in an effort to pick the choicest amongst them for herself.
Only Willie had proved himself well-mannered, though he’d tried to place himself in the servants’ quarters up until Lizzie had ordered him a bedchamber of his own. Perhaps if Luke had been present, he might have had something to say of it—but if he had wanted an opinion, he ought to have been present to render it.
Lizzie lived in two spheres of increasing volatility. Willie had accused her on more than one occasion of too soft a heart concealed beneath the disguise of her sharp tongue. There had been no mistaking the aura of pathos and misery that Luke had suffered beneath when she had found him in the library, deeply in his cups.
And yet, as much as her heart wanted to claimsympathyfor him, still she felt hurt to have been so abruptly abandoned. But then, this was always what he had intended for their marriage to be. Hadn’t he said as much? She had no right to her hurt, given that he had warned her that their marriage would be one of convenience.
It was just that she’d grownaccustomedto his presence. He’d never missed a dinner in Hatfield—though in retrospect, that was likely only because she’d ceased to bring them up to him. It was so difficult a thing to reconcile; the man that he had been in Hatfield with the one he had so suddenly become here in London. As if he could switch between them as easily as one might don or doff a hat.
Stupidly, she had thought that she had known him. But the Luke she had known had receded within a thick layer of indifference, and ithurther to live within the shadow of a woman who had had so much of his love, while she would have to content herself with nothing at all. Not even the tiniest scrap of attention. Perhaps not even the smallest sliver of respect.
Unless—
Unless that part of who he had been, the man he had left behind in Hatfield, might still be there somewhere, tucked away beneath that shroud of grief. If there existed even the smallest chance that that man still lurked within him, then…perhaps he could be unearthed once more.
∞∞∞
Luke poked at the filet of beef upon his plate and wondered what it was about it that made it so unappetizing. It wasn’t that it was unappealing in and of itself,per se—indeed, the quality of the food served had gone up considerably when London’s premier ladies’ club, Ambrosia, had opened some time ago. The gentlemen who belonged to his club had all but rioted when they had learned that their wives were enjoying fare significantly better than was served to them.
And yet, there sat the filet of beef, smothered in a rich brown sauce, fragrant with the tang of pepper, rosemary, and thyme, and yet Luke did little more than jab at it with the tines of his fork, to the distaste of the gentleman at the nearest table, who frowned at him and made disapproving sounds beneath his breath.
Perversely, Luke was somewhat tempted to lob a spoonful of peas at him. Georgie wouldn’t have hesitated to answer that sort of disrespect in kind—
Christ.
Luke shoved the plate away, raking his fingers through his hair, which earned him yet another censorioustut. “Take it away,” he said to a passing steward.
“Of course, my lord.” The steward swept the plate from the table. “If aught is amiss with your meal—”
“No; nothing. I’m simply not as hungry as I thought.” Probably the man was still reeling somewhat from the row that had ensued over Ambrosia, sensitive to any perceived slights to the food or other accommodations available. At some point he was going to have to ask Susan to see about procuring a subscription for Lizzie—
Bloody damned hell.
His brain was filled withTalbots, it seemed, and nothing could erase them. Georgie kept cropping up, or otherwise Lizzie, or Joanna, or Imogen. EvenWilliehad shoved himself to the forefront of Luke’s mind more than once, with his accusations of a dependence upon spirits.
He didn’t want to be here.
No; that wasnot true. Hedidwant to be here. His club was practically his home, and had been for years and years. Ever since Celia had ruined the townhouse for him. Ever since Celia had ruinedhim. For hours at a time, he had come here to drink, and to forget, and sometimes it had even worked. For years he had stewed himself in liquor, played deep at the gaming tables, caroused until the early hours, and thrown himself unceremoniously into bed to sleep off his drunken stupor only to get up and do it all over again.
Those blessed hours of forgetfulness had been all that had held him together. If one couldcallhim held together.
And yet…and yet there had been hours in Hatfield—days,weeks, even—where he had been neither drunk nor particularly entertained, that he hadn’t thought of Celia at all. They hadmadehim forget, the Talbots, with their petty problems and their tiny jars of marmalade and their depressing lack of plum cake. He had beenusefulfor probably the first time in years. There had been a sense of purpose he had lacked. They haddependedupon him.
Which was quite possibly the mistake of a lifetime. It had all been bound to come to a crashing end. Hatfield had been—at times, literally—a fever dream.Londonwas cold, hard reality. And the reality was that he had a wife who came with a ready-made family whom he could never allow close enough to feel anything for. Whatever part of him that had been vulnerable to love, totrust, had been buried along with Celia. And it had been a decayed, rotten thing even then, only waiting for the casket to swallow up its desiccated corpse.
Eventually, the rest of the Talbots would all realize what he’d already explained to Lizzie—that at most they could expect an absent affection, and to be supported with what resources he could provide. They would becontent, after a fashion. Georgie would go to school, take up a suitable profession, and inherit the property that had been left to him. Joanna would be educated like a lady—excepting the Greek and Latin, of course—and eventually make her way onto the marriage mart. Imogen would be married the moment he could track down Wycombe to do his duty by her. Willie would live out his remaining years in comfort. And Lizzie—
Lizzie would be a marchioness. And that was enough. Wasn’t it?
It would haveto be, for all of them. It would have to be enough for him to bask in the glow that surrounded them, to warm himself by its light. To stand just there at the border of it from time to time—thatwas warmth enough for him, surely. Nothing risked, with no expectations.
Luke scrubbed at his face and motioned for a fresh glass of brandy. It went down in one long swallow, without so much as a burn. He’d had quite enough already, but his thoughts were still obnoxiously sharp, stabbing at the part of his brain where he imagined his conscience had once been located.
And when he lifted his head to call for another, his gaze sharpened on a figure just a few tables away—a man sitting at a table, shoulders slumped, staring listlessly down into his plate.
