Page 20 of The Curious Life of the Unfortunate Duchess
“Is he more to your fancy?”
Elizabeth tensed and moved her head to look at Lord Cooke. It was quite clear he was a trifle disguised, his eyes bloodshot, and reeking to the high heavens of scotch. She did not justify his crassness with a response. Instead, she reached for a napkin and began to pile samples of finger foods upon it. Lord Cooke, however, did not appreciate her silence and moved closer to her side to demand her full attention.
“I do believe I asked you a question,” he growled and Elizabeth felt a hand reach up to seize her waist. She stepped back, shocked that he would be so bold when so many people stood near. Elizabeth reasoned that his liquor intake had much to do with his dishonorable actions. She gritted her teeth together before managing a taut smile.
“Forgive me, Lord Cooke. I did not hear you,” she fibbed. “Do ask me again.”
She fixed her eyes upon him, in hopes that her flat stare would sober him well enough to bring him to his senses as it had the last time. It did not.
“I said,” he slurred. “Do you prefer the company of dukes to the company of lowly lords?”
Once more, his palm rested against her waist and Elizabeth knew he would not go quietly. She did not wish to create a scene in such a festive circumstance, particularly not where the cousin of the bride was involved but Lord Cooke was leaving her with little other option. Once again, Lord Cooke had underestimated her as a meek woman. She weighed her options closely, debating her next move with careful deliberation but before she could shove his roaming hand from her dainty dress, a voice boomed out with force.
“Good heavens, Cooke, have you no shame, speaking with a lady in that state? I imagine the mere smell of your breath will get everyone drunk for yards about! Do step away from Miss Elizabeth and sleep off your debauchery before your cousin is shamed by her poor relations at her own nuptials.”
Elizabeth did not raise her head for she knew already who spoke. She sensed that she would oft hear that voice in her dreams. Even without looking, she felt the Duke’s eyes on her. Lord Cooke sneered but removed his hand from Elizabeth’s waist.
“Are you not betrothed, Your Grace?” Lord Cooke mumbled, jutting his chin out defiantly as he spoke. “Have you not other matters with which to worry yourself?”
“You need not worry about my schedule, Cooke. I have broad shoulders to carry a great load. You should worry about where you put your hands and how you behave among the ladies. I realize you are ape-drunk at the moment but I suggest you walk away before you regret your actions in the morning.”
Elizabeth was left to wonder if the morning was the only time which Lord Cooke might be faced with regrets. The look of ire in the Duke’s eyes was quite nearly of murder. She hoped he would not act impulsively and strike Lord Cooke, regardless of how much he might deserve such a blow.
Lord Cooke glowered and for a terrifying moment, Elizabeth was certain he would be the first to throw a punch. She cast him a sidelong look but the Duke of Pembroke held the lord’s gaze steadily until the fire dimmed from Cooke’s eyes. He must have realized the match was not even and that instigating a fight in his inebriated state would not end well.
“You must learn the art of accepting rejection,” the Duke continued, smiling pleasantly when Lord Cooke turned away. The lord muttered something unintelligible but Elizabeth was unbothered by whatever it was he cursed. The moment of awkwardness had passed and violence would not ensue, not that evening. Elizabeth exhaled in a long, swooping breath.
“Are you well?” the Duke asked when Lord Cooke had stumbled away. “Did he harm you before I arrived?”
“I am unharmed. Thank you, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth darted her eyes about, unsure of where to look. While she was grateful to him for intervening, she also did not want to grant him a smile, lest she encourage his blatantly flirtatious behavior. She could not forget the lady who had interrupted them earlier. Yet as she felt his eyes continue to bore into her, Elizabeth was unable to resist and she lifted her chin to meet his eyes. There was a sincere concern glittering against the emerald of his irises.
“Are you certain, Miss Elizabeth?” His tone was demanding, anger creeping in like he meant to go to blows with Lord Cooke if he had dared hurt her in some way.
What does he want from me?She wondered and shook her head at the ridiculousness of the question. It did not matter what he wanted. She could give him nothing while he was betrothed to another. Perhaps her innermost thoughts attracted the loud blonde lady whom the Duke called his fiancée for before she could speak, Miss Priscilla appeared again.
“Your Grace! How do I manage to lose you when you are the most dashing man in the room?” she cooed but her blue eyes were fixed on Elizabeth, her meaning unmistakable.
“Good night,” Elizabeth muttered and turned to collect the morsels of food she had found for Lucy.
“Miss Elizabeth!” the Duke called out but she did not turn. It did not matter what he said or what kind of strange attraction she reasoned they shared, he was not to be trusted.
Elizabeth darted up the stairwell once more, grateful that she did not encounter anyone else she knew. She had had more than enough interaction for one day and there was a far more pressing matter waiting in her bedchambers.
She allowed herself back inside and saw, to her horror, that Lucy remained standing in the same spot she had left her.
“Sit down!” Elizabeth exclaimed, noting the pale of the girl’s cheeks. She was amazed Lucy had not swooned in her absence as the maid appeared ready to fall with a second’s notice.
“Miss Elizabeth?” Lucy asked in confusion. “Where would you like me to sit?”
“Anywhere that suits you. I have brought you something to eat. I did not mean for you to stand in wait for me,” Elizabeth sighed. In her household, she would not have needed to explain such thing to the servants. Elizabeth handed the girl the linen but Lucy’s mouth formed a fine line and she refused to accept it.
“What is the issue?” Elizabeth demanded. “Do you not fancy cheese? Bread? Fruit?”
Tears welled in Lucy’s dark eyes.
“Forgive me, Miss Elizabeth,” she breathed. “I am not permitted to accept gifts from the guests.”
