“Every evening that is acceptable. I shall inform you of the evenings when I am not able to receive you, and you will be relieved of your duty for that evening. Once the heir and spare are secured, you will be released from your requirements. You need never visit my bedchamber again.”
She had until that very moment kept a firm hold on her emotions, but when she realized at some point Ashbourne would no longer visit her, a coldness passed through her. The awful truth of it was she enjoyed his company. He was easy to converse with and possessed an intelligent demeanor. She had thought she had done remarkably well when it came to the match until she’d learned she was only a pawn in his terrible plan.
She cradled the empty teapot in her lap, wrapping both of her hands around the pottery and squeezing it to stay focused. She was nearly there.
A look passed over his features then, so fleeting she almost missed it. Had she not known better she would have thought him sad that she would be reduced to such an arrangement if only to get the baby she so badly wanted, but Ashbourne didn’t think of her in those terms. She filled a purpose for him. He would fill a purpose for her, no matter how her heart might yearn for more.
Ashbourne nodded, his eyelids slipping.
“I require a verbal affirmation.” She grabbed his arm to keep him from falling back into unconsciousness.
He pitched forward, and she feared he would tumble from the sofa.
“I will gladly visit your bedchamber every evening, Your Grace.” His lips turned up in gleeful smirk before he fell backwards on the sofa with a rapturous snore.
She studied him for several seconds, her emotions in free fall as she thought of the smirk he’d given her, almost as if he looked forward to his nightly visits. It was absolute nonsense.
She pushed to her feet and whistled for Henry even as her gaze remained on her unconscious husband.
But even as she told herself it was rubbish, she couldn’t help but remember what Viv had said.
Men didn’t chase after women for whom they did not care.
He awoke questioning several things at once.
Why was he asleep on his drawing room sofa?
Why did he smell of tea?
And most importantly, why was the sofa and his person so damp?
He struggled to a sitting position and regretted it immediately. The room swam about him like a strange theater show at Covent Garden. He shut his eyes, putting a hand to his forehead to see if he could physically stop the spinning. When he was fully upright and had stabilized himself against the sofa cushions, he attempted to open his eyes again. Just mere slits at first, he worked his way until they were completely open.
He was most definitely in the drawing room of Ashbourne House. He reeked of tea and whiskey, an odd combination of which he had no memory in terms of how it had come about.
He got his feet under him and pushed upward, but it didn’t take. He collapsed back against the sofa just as the door opened. Carver entered with a silver tray. The aroma of strong coffee assailed him, and his stomach threatened to turn over. The butler deposited the tray in front of him.
“Your Grace,” he said with a small bow.
The tray contained an urn of coffee and a plate of plain toast. Bile bubbled in his throat at the sight of it, but he knew if he were to gain his feet this morning, he must consume it. He started with the coffee.
“The house is readying for your departure, Your Grace, and you and the duchess shall be underway as planned.”
He squinted at the butler. “Underway?”
Carver straightened. “Yes, Your Grace. You wished to leave for Ashbourne Manor today. Have your plans been altered? I will alert the staff immediately if so.”
He waved a hand. They were leaving today? How was it here already? He could hardly remember the night before. Where had they been? A ball of some sort, he surmised if his wrinkled attire were any suggestion.
“Carver.” His voice sounded as though it had been mangled by various forms of farm machinery. “Carver, where is the duchess?”
“She is breaking her fast presently in the morning room.”
Dax had almost managed to get his fingers around the steaming cup of pitch black coffee when something in Carver’s voice stopped him. The butler had been with Ashbourne House since before Dax held the title and never had he heard the butler’s pitch fluctuate. But just then, Dax swore he heard the smallest of inflections.
He squinted up at the man. “She’s breaking her fast. That’s superb.”
Carver would not meet his gaze.
“Carver.” Dax struggled to clear his throat. “I appear to be suffering the effects of ingesting dangerous levels of alcohol. May I have committed some act during my state of drunkenness that I may regret?”
Carver’s lips firmed, but man of honor that he was, he did not flinch.
“Your Grace, may I speak boldly?”
Dear God, what had he done? “Yes, you may.”
“The servants and myself and Mrs. Fitzhugh have heard only the rumors that pass so quickly below stairs, Your Grace, and the actions of yourself and the duchess from which to draw our conclusions. I would not think to make assumptions which would impugn your honor.”
“Drat, man, spit it out.” Dax had the cup of coffee in his hand now and attempted a sip. The liquid was hot and rich, and it flooded every sense he hadn’t shredded with alcohol. He could feel each inch of him coming back to life with every sip, and the fog began to lift from his mind.
“Your Grace, something occurred at the Devonshire ball last eve which resulted in the duchess returning to Ashbourne House alone and awaiting your arrival here in the drawing room until nearly dawn.”
Carver needn’t say anything more because just at that moment the previous night came careening back to Dax, and his stomach did give up then. The cup rattled on the tray as he plunked it down before dropping it.
“Carver, I’ve done something unforgivable.”
The night before materialized in sick snatches of memory. Speaking with Sebastian about Eliza. Eliza overhearing what he’d planned for his marriage. He’d chased after her. He remembered at least that, but Sebastian had stopped him. He couldn’t remember why Sebastian had stopped him, but after that, he only had cloudy pieces of memory that involved whiskey and his club.
This time when he got to his feet they held under him.
“I must speak with the duchess.”
Carver took two neat steps backward. “Yes, of course, Your Grace.”
Dax was fully alert by the time he made the corridor, and he raced down the stairs. The breakfast room was just off the main corridor, and he was there within seconds.
Eliza sat with her back to the front windows, and she was illuminated in morning sunshine. Her riotous hair was neatly pinned, and her gown was of an unmentionable blue. Henry was nowhere to be seen.
He stepped into the room, clearing his throat to bid his wife good morning, when he took in the rest of her visage. There were dark bruises beneath her eyes, and a puffiness to her cheeks that was not normally there. He recalled what Carver had said. She’d waited up for his return. She was likely dead on her feet, sleep deprived, and—
With cutting clarity, the sound of her sobs rushed into his memory.
He’d made her cry.
No, it was more than that. The sounds she had been making could only come from someone who had had their soul wrenched from their body.