Page 88 of Falling Into Bed with a Duke
“No, only the rooms in which we live. The others are left untouched. God knows we could probably plant seeds in the dust that’s accumulated over the years and have a bountiful harvest.”
“That’ll change when you take a wife.”
“I’ll never marry. Madness is not a legacy to pass on.”
“It’ll end with your father. You’re not mad.”
“Maybe I’m simply better at covering it up.” He sipped his scotch, once again studying Ashe. “You’re not yet betrothed, so no exciting news there. I’m still trying to determine what prompted your visit.”
“Wanted to ensure you were all right. You left rather abruptly when we got off the ship.”
“We were gone longer than I’d planned. Needed to make sure all was in order here.”
“Are you coming to London for what remains of the Season?”
“I don’t think so.” He stood. “I need to finish up. Shall we go riding tomorrow?”
“First thing. I’d like that.”
“Good.” He started walking toward the desk. “You can tell me then why you’re really here.”
WHY was he here? Ashe wasn’t even certain he knew. The quietness in the house as he wandered about was eerie. The absence of the ticking of clocks making it more so. When he was a lad, he would sleep with his father’s watch beneath the pillow just so there was something other then the winds howling about. He’d found the pocket watch resting on the table beside his father’s bed. It was strange that it had been left behind, and sometimes Ashe wondered if his father had had a premonition about what would happen. But if he had, why hadn’t he left himself and his duchess behind instead of just the watch?
He stepped into a long hallway, where only one door stood slightly ajar, a pale finger of light slicing along the floor. Even knowing he should turn back to avoid upsetting the old man, he carried forward and walked into the bedchamber that smelled of bergamot and lavender. He thought perhaps the marquess kept lavender sachets around the residence, because there were pockets of the scent in the air here and there. In the marchioness’s bedchamber—which hadn’t been touched since the night she died, other than to remove any evidence of her death—on the vanity had stood a bottle of lavender perfume. Ashe knew because he and the others had snuck into the room one night, even knowing it was forbidden. Grey and Edward had gotten into one of their usual shoving matches. When Grey had pushed Edward into the table, the bottle had toppled over onto the floor and broken into a thousand shards. The sound had brought Marsden into the bedchamber.
He’d been furious at their intrusion. It was the only time that he had ever punished them. In the library, he’d lined them up, made them drop their trousers and grab the back of their knees. He’d taken a switch to each of them, repeatedly, determinedly, and harshly. Until his arm grew tired, until he dropped into a chair, and wept. Huge, gut-wrenching sobs that had hurt Ashe more than the switch slapping against his backside.
After that, the door to his wife’s bedchamber had been locked. Not that Ashe had any desire to return to it. He’d never again wanted to make the marquess weep with such soul-crushing despair.
But still, at nine, he’d offered the man no comfort. With the others he’d stood there, stared, and shifted his feet in discomfiture as the marquess grieved the loss of a fragrance. Not until he grew into manhood did he fully realize the man was grieving the loss of so much more.
“Ashe,” the marquess rasped, as though his vocal cords had grown tired.
“My lord,” he said, walking farther into the room until he reached the cushioned chair where Marsden sat in front of the window. He pressed his shoulder into the casement, welcoming the support, the sharp bite of the wood. The marquess’s hair was stringy, unkempt, the white strands brushing his shoulders. White stubble dotted his jaw. He had no valet, but someone had shaved him recently. Probably Locke.
His dressing gown was threadbare and faded. Ashe wished he’d thought to bring the man a new one from London. Not that he would have worn it. He didn’t like the unfamiliar.
“She’s out there tonight, waiting for me,” Marsden said, his fingers trailing over the small, framed painting resting in his lap. “Do you hear her?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I’ll join her soon. When Locke is happy.” He grinned slightly, his green eyes boring into Ashe. “When you are. When Greyling and Edward are. How are they?”
“They’re well, my lord. In London.”
“Why aren’t you?”
Ashe looked out into the darkness. He thought he’d needed to see Locke. He was wrong. “You loved her very much.”
“No.”
Surprised by the answer, Ashe shifted his gaze back to the marquess, who was shaking his head.
“That does not even begin to describe what I felt for her. What I felt was ... everything. When she was no more, everything was gone.”
“In all my years here, you never told us about her. What was she like?”
A faraway look came into Marsden’s eyes as though he were traveling back through the years. “She was the moon and stars. The sun and rain. I did not like her as much as I liked the way I was when I was with her. I was optimistic, invincible. Kinder, gentler. She brought out the best in me. Does she bring out the best in you?”
