Page 40 of A Lady's Beastly Duke
At home, he wished his mother goodnight, then went upstairs to his chamber. He shrugged off his coat, but his mind was racing despite his weariness. He could not rest, and he walked to the drawing room. The portrait he had painted was still on the easel, pulled close against the wall lest anyone see it. He pulled it back and turned it around, fetching a lamp from the mantelpiece.
Anastasia’s soft, gentle face gazed at him, her lips lifting at one corner as though she was about to smile. Her blue eyes had a tender expression. Her pale hair touched her cheek, ringleted asit always was, over her ears.
He stared at it. As he did, he recalled the dance, and how she had laughed and smiled and talked. She seemed to enjoy his company. She was always diverting and interesting and he loved to talk with her.
“My dear,” he whispered to her, as he never could in life. “I am sorry.”
He shut his eyes, a tear running down his cheek. Here, with the household in their beds and nobody to see, he could let the racking grief show. He sobbed and did not try to hide his tears. Her father was right. He could not do this. He could not be seen with her in public. He was flawed and unworthy and she was all that was lovely and good.
“I cannot do it,” he whispered as he turned to face the dark window. “I cannot turn my back on her.”
He stared out at the starry sky, the stars winking overhead like pearls scattered on velvet by a careless hand. They glowed and shone, twinkling more like candle flames than pearls did. He went to the door that led to the balcony.
“Father,” he whispered, tipping his head back to stare up at the night sky. “Guide me. Please? I am in need of your answers.”
He stared up at the yawning blackness, straining his ears, gazing up hopefully. Perhaps there would be a sign. Perhaps Father was up there somewhere and could hear his pain.
Nothing moved. Nothing shifted. The sky was as black, andthe stars were as bright and there was nothing that he could see that he thought might be a sign. He blinked and turned away. He had no right to ask for guidance, to think that his father would be there to help him. He was too flawed, too unimportant.
He walked towards the door.
He had left the lamp on the windowsill, and a big, white moth flapped lazily against the windowpane. He frowned. The moth made bumbling circles, thumping at the window. Sidney felt his lip lift at the corner, amused despite the agony of indecision within him.
“I’m like that moth,” he murmured. “Drawn to a flame.”
He reached over and cupped the small, furry creature in his hand. It had pure white wings, its small feet seeming sticky on his palm.
“Off you go, poor creature,” he murmured to it softly. It sat in his hand, gazing up at him bewildered. He went to the edge of the balcony and shook his hand gently, trying to dislodge the moth. It walked to the edge of his palm, then stayed there, reluctant to leave the warmth and the inviting candlelight.
“Off you go,” he repeated, and shook his hand more firmly. The moth launched itself off his palm and flew off into the darkness, its big furry body still visible as it headed off towards the garden.
“I also don’t want to fly away,” Sidney said softly.
He swallowed hard, through a throat tight with emotion.He had to. He had to do it—not just for himself, but for Lady Anastasia. Like the moth and the flame, only pain was going to result from their interaction. He had to obey her father. But should he? Or, like the moth, was he doomed anyway—either to die in the candlelit drawing room or perish in the unseasonable cold outside?
“If this is your advice, I do not understand it, Father,” he murmured.
He turned his back on the balcony and went into the house to find a book to read in the hope of distracting himself.
Chapter 15
Anastasia gazed out of the window. It was a week since the ball, and she had been nowhere except to Gunter’s with Lord Ridley once and to tea with one of Mama’s friends. She had hoped that they might spot the duke somewhere, but so far, she had not seen him.
“I wish that Papa gave him permission instead,” she said in the silent drawing room. Papa was out at the club and Mama and Lily had gone to a shop in town to buy fabric for new gowns. The house was quiet, and the duke filled her thoughts. She recalled his smile when they waltzed at the ball, the way his green eyes gazed into hers. She remembered the joy of dancing with him. He was a fine dancer. She wondered what had happened—how he had been so terribly scarred. She wished she had thought about asking, but when she was with him the scars never even entered her thoughts. She so enjoyed his quick wit and ready comments that the scars were the last thing that drew her notice.
“My lady?” the butler murmured, interrupting her restless mind.
“Yes? What is it, Mr. Shipley?” she asked politely.
“Lady Camilla is here, my lady. Shall I show her in?”
“Oh! Please do!” Anastasia grinned happily. She had almostcompletely forgotten that Camilla was to call on her. They were practicing a piece for Mama’s musicale that was to take place the day after tomorrow. They had almost perfected it, but they both wished to rehearse several more times before the night, and so Camilla had arranged to call on her to practice.
“At once, my lady.” He bowed low.
“Anastasia!” Camilla greeted her delightedly. She was wearing a blue dress, her rose-scented perfume a familiar smell as she ran lightly across the room to embrace her friend.
“Camilla.” Anastasia wrapped her arms around her friend in a firm hug. “I am so glad you are here.”
