Page 82 of His Mad Duchess
The carriage was near bursting with parcels by the time Cecily finally allowed them to pause. Boxes tied with bright ribbons were stacked precariously at their feet, hats perched on their knees, and a bundle of muslins sat wedged beside Margaret like a sulky companion.
“I declare,” Beatrice said, fanning herself with a folded bill of sale, “if we purchase another yard of lace, the coachman will refuse to drive us home.”
Cecily giggled, untangling the ribbons of a bonnet box. “Nonsense. He will only boast of driving the most fashionable ladies in Mayfair. Why, Lady Haversham herself will grow green when she sees us pass.”
Margaret, who had endured the morning with tight patience, murmured, “If Lady Haversham is so easily greened, perhaps we ought to invest in ribbons the shade of her complexion. That would settle the matter.”
Beatrice smirked. “Margaret, I believe you are growing wicked.”
“I am growing weary,” Margaret corrected, shifting the muslin bundle from her lap.
“Then it is settled,” Cecily declared with sudden inspiration. “We must stop at Gunter’s. A lemon ice will restore us all.”
Her aunt’s errand forgotten for the moment, the carriage soon pulled up before the confectioner’s. Inside, the air was sweet with sugar and the happy din of half of London at its most frivolous. They claimed a small table near the window, their parcels heaped in a tottering mountain beside them.
Cecily licked delicately at her spoon, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, this is bliss. Tell me truthfully, Margaret, does not the taste make the whole ordeal worthwhile?”
Margaret allowed the faintest curve of her lips. “I suppose it does not injure matters.”
“High praise,” Beatrice murmured dryly, but her eyes warmed.
It was then, just as Cecily launched into a spirited account of Lady Finch’s horrid turban, that a cluster of young wives, all recent brides of similar standing, swept past their table. Their voices dipped in whispered amusement, then rose again with the bright edge of curiosity.
“Positively troubling,” one was saying. “To faint dead away in her own gallery. The poor butler nearly dropped the tray in shock.”
“And the Duke himself called for salts, did you hear? It seems he is forever in pursuit of her, either catching her up in the ballroom or carrying her off in his townhouse.”
Her companion gave a scandalized gasp. “And yet some call it nerves. I say it is in the blood. Her poor mother… why, everyone remembers?—”
“Indeed,” another interrupted, lowering her voice for effect. “The Everly line has always been… unstable. It would be charitable to call it a delicacy. What sort of Duchess swoons like a schoolgirl and drags her husband down with her?”
“Imagine, a duke’s bride vanishing from the ballroom in such a state! And he after her, no less. Half the company noticed their absence.” One of them murmured, fanning herself with a painted hand. “Some say she swooned, others…”
Her companion gave a delighted gasp. “Or perhaps she was caught in some… compromising predicament?”
The laughter that followed pricked at Margaret’s skin like nettles. She kept her chin high, but her spoon trembled in her hand.
Cecily’s fan snapped shut. “I believe the difficulty lies in too many tongues wagging.”
The nearest lady blinked, affronted. “Well! I should think a family with such… history might prefer gratitude to correction.”
Beatrice leaned forward, her smile dangerously sweet. “Better gratitude than spite dressed as charity. Tell me, madam, does your husband find your tongue so sharp at home, or is it reserved for company?”
The silence that followed was instant, stunned. Then Beatrice rose with a rustle of silk and looped her arm firmly through Margaret’s. “Come, sisters. We’ve indulged enough feminine virtue for one afternoon.”
CHAPTER 29
The lamps in Brooksey’s men’s club glowed low, throwing long shadows over the haze of smoke and spilled brandy.
The air was thick with laughter and smoke, the clink of glasses, the slap of cards against the green baize. A few ladies of uncertain reputation trailed their perfume near the fire. It was a place he had once called home, where nights had dissolved into dawn without memory or consequence.
Sebastian sat hunched at a table near the fire, glass in hand, staring into the amber swirl as though it might hold an answer. He took a sip that burned down his throat, sharp and familiar. For a moment, he almost welcomed it—the numbness creeping, the blessed forgetting.
So this is what I am without her,he thought grimly. A hollow thing. A drunk at a table. A man who once lived only for vice and found it easy.
“Sebastian,” a voice drawled from behind, half-teasing, half-appalled. “Of all the tables in all the clubs in London, must you sit at this one, brooding like Hamlet with a hangover?”
Edward dropped into the chair opposite him, folding his arms.
