“Attending a funeral, old chum?”
Sidney glanced up from his detached perusal of the bottle of wine to find the Duke of Northwich approaching. “Yes. My own.”
If he was grim, there was good reason.
The woman he had once loved had returned to his life with the force of a goddamn hurricane, bringing with her the daughter he had never known existed. In the span of less than a fortnight, he had become a father and a husband. To say nothing of the fiction he intended to spew upon anyone who asked. A fiction that was a necessity, but a far-fetched and bloody ridiculous one. He had no other choice, however. Julianna had seen to that, and making certain Emily would remain unharmed by her mother’s poor decisions was his driving force.
That and vengeance. He would be lying if he claimed he was not looking forward to punishing her for what she had done. She deserved everything he would dole out to her and then some.
“You do not look dead today, friend.” Northwich settled into the chair at his side.
“Ifeeldead.” He strummed his fingers on the polished rosewood. “My old life is quite gone.”
“Here is a sight I never thought to behold. A full bottle of Sauternes settled before Viscount Shelbourne,” Northwich intoned seriously, but there was mockery in his dark eyes.
Good-natured mockery. The man was not his oldest friend—aside from the Earl of Huntingdon—for no reason. In addition to being an excellent sport, a ridiculously adept athlete, and loyal to a fault, Northwich was also irritatingly insightful. The latter sometimes proved more bane than boon. However, Sidney was willing to overlook it in favor of Northwich’s excellent company.
“There is the acerbic wit of the Duke of Northwich I have come to know and despise,” Sidney returned.
“If you have no wish to drink it, I would be more than happy to take on the duty.” Without awaiting Sidney’s retort, Northwich poured himself a glass. “Tell me. Why the hell do you look as if you just stepped in a pile of horse shit?”
“Ah, old chap. If only it were horse shit I stepped into.” He paused, glancing around them to make certain none of their fellow patrons were within earshot before continuing. “It was the parson’s mousetrap instead.”
Northwich choked on the sip of wine he had just taken. “Never say it has happened already. Lady Harriet?”
No point in correcting his friend’s confusion of Lady Hermione’s name now. The lady herself was as good as forgotten, and she would no longer enjoy—or suffer—a future as Sidney’s wife.
“Lady Julianna Somerset,” he said instead.
Hating the name on his tongue. Hating the woman and the way she made him feel even more.
Northwich’s black brows rose. “Forgive me, old chum. Did you not recently swear you would never marry her for any reason?”
His own words, spoken in haste at their fencing match, and before he had realized what he was up against, returned to him.I would never marry her. Not even if I had to do so. No one and nothing could induce me to accept her as my wife.
Ha.
Past Sidney was so fucking stupid.
But then, so was Present Sidney.
It was Present Sidney, from whom the pleasant warmth of inebriation had fallen away hours ago in a small chapel where he had married Lady Julianna Somerset and consigned his soul to the devil, who answered his friend. “I was wrong.”
Wrong about so many things.
Abouteverybloody thing, in fact.
Northwich raised his glass in salute. “My felicitations. I hardly give a damn about gossip, but I heard no word of your nuptials.”
“Because there was none.” He sighed. “The marriage was quiet and in haste, for good reason.”
“Christ.” The duke settled back in his chair. “Why?”
Hell.Where to begin?
He wanted a drink. He was literally itching, from the inside out, to have one. But he should not. What he needed to do was be the best father he could be to Emily. And the best father did not drink wine at breakfast or give the bottle a black eye until he passed out in a blissful, mindless stupor each night. He had to change.
Today was just the beginning.
