“All will be well,” he whispered against her skin. “You shall see.”
And she believed him.
She exhaled slowly. “Yes. You are right, Lord Rayne. We will marry this afternoon, here at Hamilton House. But first, I would like a chance to speak to my brother, if you please.”
“It will be done.” She felt him smile against her skin. “Thank you, Lady Catriona. You will not regret it, I promise.”
She closed her eyes and breathed him in, wondering how he had already become such a familiar, important part of her life.
Catriona hoped he was right.
Chapter Nine
Alessandro stared downat the Duke of Montrose, who was pale, sweating, and clearly uncomfortable. He was no longer tied to his bed, but he was in a great deal of pain. As he should be.
The foolish drunkard had managed to unleash all manner of havoc upon not only his own household, but his friend’s and, most importantly, Alessandro’s. He was fortunate Alessandro had allowed him two hours of laudanum-induced sleep before seeking an audience.
“Why does it reek of piss in here, Montrose?” he asked the duke.
They were alone now, so he could speak plainly. The bone had been reset. The much-suffering doctor had left. Alessandro had decided a moment alone with his future brother-in-law was imperative. They needed to come to an understanding.
Today was the very last day the duke would cause him or his future countess any grief. He was determined.
Montrose looked shame-faced despite the laudanum he had been administered to aid the setting of the bone, which had rendered him droop-eyed. “I think I may have inadvertently used the carpet as a piss pot.”
Cristo.He had been hoping there was a poorly trained canine about, but it had seemed exceedingly unlikely since he had seen no hint of such a creature.
“Maldición, Montrose,” he bit out. “You are worse than a mongrel.”
“Yes,” the duke agreed. He closed his eyes. “I am a worthless bastard, and I know it.”
No point in arguing against such a statement. From where Alessandro sat, it certainly looked like truth.
“I am marrying your sister this afternoon,” he said.
“The wedding. Christ.” Montrose shifted as if he were about to rise from the bed, but then winced. “Beelzebub’s ballocks. I forgot about the ankle for a moment. And the wedding. And my ankle. Fucking laudanum.”
“Lady Catriona loves you,” he said, unmoved by the duke’s sickbed garble. “She wants you to be present for the nuptials. I want to be certain you are amenable.”
“Hell, yes. Marry her.” Montrose grimaced. “I am more than amenable. As you know.”
“Perhaps I should be more specific.” He paused. “I want to be certain you will not embarrass her.”
“Jesus! Do I look like I will embarrass her?” Montrose asked angrily, before closing his eyes. “Do not answer. Damn it to hell. The room is spinning.”
“Yes,” Alessandro answered, not bothering to heed the duke. “You do.”
“I will not,” Montrose said on a groan. “Christ, my leg hurts.”
“You have your own stupidity to thank for that,” he observed. “Twice over.”
“Yes. And countless other non-blessings as well,” Montrose agreed.
One could only suppose.
Alessandro’s imagination was wicked, populated by the ghastliness he had seen and partaken in over the last few years of war. But somehow, the Duke of Montrose’s foibles seemed equally dangerous.
“You do not have to live as you do, Montrose,” he pointed out. “If you stopped drowning yourself in spirits—”
