Page 18 of A Lady's Beastly Duke
They are selling her, he thought, horrified. They were discussing her dowry as though she was a sack of potatoes in the market; worth a certain amount and to be sold to the highest bidder. It was not possible.
“I say, old chap!” Giles slurred. “What’s that about?”
Sidney lifted his hand, which he had made into a fist and had thumped on the table without noticing. The two men at the other table looked up, glanced at him, then dismissed him by glancing away. A drunk patron, they must have thought. Sidney shut his eyes.
“Giles,” he said gently. “Can you manage here by yourself? I am afraid I have to return to the ballroom.”
“Ballroom!” Giles declared loudly. Here, nobody turned to stare. The other patrons were, many of them, at least as drunk. “Why should you go back to the ballroom?” he demanded, giving Sidney an angry gaze.
“No particular reason,” Sidney began. “Mama needs me,” he added. He had to hurry.
“Go, then,” Giles slurred. “Mothers know best. Eh?” He laughed. Sidney inclined his head.
“Yes, Giles,” he agreed. “They usually do.”
He stood and hurried to the door, promising the proprietor that he would cover whatever expenses Giles incurred during his evening at the club. Then he hurried out into the night.
The ballroom was a good walk away and he was sweating as he walked swiftly down the darkened streets. He breathed deeply, his head clearing in the cold night air. As he reached the ballroom, his resolve had altered. He could not very well march up to a lady he barely knew and accuse her father of trying to sell her to a strange man. At best, she would not believe him. At worst, she would think he had lost his wits entirely.
He hesitated in the doorway.
“Can I take your coat?” the footman asked. Sidney nodded. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, which he had hastily shrugged on when he and Henry had walked with Giles to the club. Then he hurried into the ballroom.
He looked around, but he could not see Lady Anastasia. His gaze drifted around the room, but he spotted neither Anastasia nor her friend, the red-haired young lady he had seen her talk to. He felt his stomach twist with disappointment. The candles were burning low, and he guessed that the two young ladies had gone home.
“Sidney, dear,” Mama greeted him as he crossed the floor, heading towards her. “Henry and Amy have departed. Might weas well? I feel tired.” She stifled a yawn.
Sidney nodded. He had danced all he ever wished, he was weary of stares, and he had much to think about as they hastily excused themselves and walked out to the coach.
Chapter 7
“Sidney? Sidney!” Mama’s voice echoed through the door of the drawing room. It was muffled by the thickness of the wood, and Sidney could, in all fairness, have claimed he did not hear her. He turned his back and continued focusing on the canvas that stood before him.
A storm-tossed gray sky reflected in a leaden sea was painted in thick lines of oil-paint on the canvas. In the foreground, a lone figure stood on the shore, his black mourning-clothes the only truly black shape in a world of shifting, silvered gray. Sidney reached for his brush and dipped it in the deep blue, adding some highlights to the shadowy figure.
His mind had been in turmoil since the ball at Almack’s the previous evening, tormented with thoughts of Lady Anastasia and confused by the horrid conversation he had overheard. He had told nobody about either thing, and the only outlet for his bewildered and painful thoughts was his canvas.
“Sidney!” His mother called, and this time she was bursting through the door and into the room. Sidney blinked, fixing her with a distant gaze.
“You know what I asked about being disturbed when I paint,” he said reproachfully.
“Sorry, son,” his mother said gently. “But I had to warn you. Aunt Harriet is on her way up and I thought you’d like a moment to get ready before she arrives.”
“Oh.” Sidney blinked again, this time in surprise. He could not be angry with his mother for his aunt’s visit—it was hardly her fault. “Thank you,” he added. He reached for the canvas, carrying it on its easel to a place around the corner of the dressing-table, out of the way. Nobody would see it there, which was how he wished it to be. He struggled to show his art to anyone when it was completed—there was not even the thought in his head of allowing someone to see it uncompleted.
“I told the butler to delay her in the entrance-way,” Mama said swiftly. “He can only hold her at bay for so long, though, before she starts to wonder what is happening up here.” His mother looked up at him with wide eyes.
“What should be happening?” Sidney asked mildly. “Is the wicked Duke of Willowick harming people up here?”
“Oh, Sidney,” his mother said sadly. “Nobody thinks you’re evil. You know that. You just...”
“Look evil?” Sidney demanded, still light as though he was teasing.
“No! No. You look a little different. That’s all. Still handsome. But different,” his mother said insistently.
Sidney grinned. While he hated the fact that society now whispered tales about his distorted, terrible features the way they had once whispered about his beauty, he also took a sort ofperverse pleasure in it. He had to find it funny, because he would go mad if he didn’t.
“Is she on her way up?” Sidney asked, checking that the easel could not be seen from the low table by the fire where they would take their tea.
