Page 56 of A Lady's Beastly Duke
“Mostly the people who don’t look away are family,” Sidney retorted.
Giles let out a sigh. “Yes. But they like you for who you are. They won’t be the only ones, you know. We’re family butwe’re not saints. If we didn’t like you, we wouldn’t.” He laughed. “You’re a pleasant person. It counts for something.”
Sidney shot him an angry glance. “Maybe.”
Giles just smiled. Sidney looked at him closely. He had become used to his cousin having unfocused eyes, his clothes rumpled and his hair a mess. This evening, he did not look like that. If Sidney breathed in, he could smell a little brandy, but nothing like the usual torrent.
“Just don’t forget about tomorrow, cousin.” Giles gazed at him. “It’s the most magical thing we have. We are aware of the events that transpired on the morrow past. The happenings of the day before us remain uncertain—we may hold our assumptions, yet we cannot be certain. As for the morrow to come, well... it is a realm of infinite possibilities.”
Sidney swallowed hard. “I know what will happen,” he whispered. He knew too well. He would never be happy; he would retire somewhere to a monastery and Giles would take over Willowick. Mama would die of a broken heart and the dukedom would wither away.
Giles raised a brow. “No, you don’t. You don’t even know what’s going to happen in an hour’s time.”
Sidney shook his head. “Yes, I do. Absolutely nothing. It’s almost three o’ clock, Giles. Nothing happens at three o’ clock in the morning.” He felt frustrated. His cousin had made some sense, but now he did not want to hear what he had to say. It was difficult to think about tomorrow. He wanted to sit in the dark and not think.
“The collier’s going to come soon,” Giles said, stifling a yawn. “And I’m going to go to bed. And the cook is going to get up and start baking the morning bread and pastries. So, you don’t even know what’s going to happen in an hour. Don’t imagine that you can say what will happen tomorrow. Tomorrow, it could all be different.”
Sidney just shot him a cross look.
Giles grinned. “You may be as vexed as you desire, my good fellow, yet do not direct your ire towards me. I assure you, I am well informed. Indeed, you shall come to understand as well.”
Sidney grunted. Giles walked to the door.
“Goodnight, cousin,” Sidney called as Giles stepped into the hallway. He felt a little guilty. Giles had sat with him and talked with him, listening to his sorrow as nobody else had. He had spent time with him when nobody else had and tried to talk to him about his deepest sadness.
Giles grinned. “Goodnight, cousin. The lamps are still burning in the hallway.”
“Thank you,” Sidney murmured. It was good to know that he could safely walk down the corridor without risking his neck on the stairs. He heard the door shut and he leaned back and closed his eyes.
The blur of conversation drifted through his thoughts like smoke. He tried to sift it for sense. Oddly, after Giles’ words, he felt something that he had not felt before. While he did not exactly feel happy, he felt as though fresh vitality had beenpoured into him. He opened his eyes.
“Maybe Giles is right,” he said to himself in the darkened billiard-room. “Maybe I should see what happens.”
He shut his eyes briefly again. His head was pounding, a feeling as though he had whirled around very fast making his temples ache.
“I should go to bed,” he told himself aloud.
He stretched and yawned, standing up and limping to the door. The fire was burning, and he raked ash over the coals, then went out into the hallway, where, as Giles had said, the lamps were still lit.
He followed the lighted trail to his bedroom, and there he collapsed on the bed, his thoughts whirling, his head aching.
He shut his eyes, images of Anastasia pressing close. He was not going to lose hope. As Giles had said, there was always tomorrow, and he did not know what was going to happen.
He had to hope. He had to hold on just a little longer to see what would happen next.
Chapter 21
“I cannot,” Sidney whispered. He barely looked up at his mother, who stood in the doorway to the billiard room. He stared into the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and twist, folding together in a dance so complex that he could watch it for hours, losing himself in it and trying to imagine how to paint it, as though it was the only thing on his mind
“But Sidney...you ate no dinner last night. You must be starving. Please, I beg you, come and have breakfast.” his mother said.
Sidney swallowed hard. He could not eat. He was aware, distantly, that he felt shaky and exhausted, and that not eating was probably not helping him, but he could not make himself sit in the breakfast room. His mother would expect him to talk—worse, Aunt Harriet and Giles, who were visiting, would expect him to talk. He had nothing to say to either of them. Since hearing the news about Lord Ridley, he had not left the billiard room. He had shut himself in—though it was a room he hardly used, it was upstairs and away from everything and he disturbed nobody. He could seclude himself there and forget everything. For six days he had stayed there, leaving only to sleep and sometimes not even then.
“Mama, I cannot,” he murmured.
“Sidney. You’re going to make yourself ill,” his mother began, but when he held her gaze, she stopped. Sidney never insisted on anything, but when he had to, his stubborn streak outdid what his father’s had been—or so his mother always said.
“Mama, please. Let me have my peace.”
