“And yet you have been doing so for hours,” Adrian observed. “I take it you have yet to seek your bed for the evening.”
“I saw her tonight,” Northwich said, his voice raw. “At the ball.”
Adrian did not probe for more information. He and Northwich had become not just friends but confidantes of sorts. They had both loved and lost. Northwich was still mourning his.
Instead, he made his way to the sideboard, pouring himself some brandy as well. He returned to the hearth and settled into a nearby chair. “I am sorry, Northwich. I did not intend for my plans to cause you pain.”
“Risking a glass of the poison after all?” the duke asked in a wry tone, deftly avoiding Adrian’s words. “I have already destroyed the clock, so if you feel the need to hurl an object, may I recommend a book? They crackle delightfully in the fire. Particularly the volumes which contain love poems.”
A glance at the bookshelves lining the wall behind the duke gave credence to his statement. There were several notable gaps where Adrian could only suppose books had previously dwelled.
Love poems.
He took a sip of the brandy, trying not to think of Tilly and failing miserably. All those poems she had read to him at Coddington Hall…
Christ.
He took a longer draw from his glass, attempting to chase the ghosts from his mind.
“Here you are,” Northwich said, holding out a slim leather-bound volume. “Give this one a try. Nothing but mutton-headed shite about love and beauty and fucking clouds. Tercets upon stanzas of it.”
He eyed the book, tempted. “I’ll not burn your books, Northwich. You ought not to do so either. That one looks quite dear.”
“I do not find myself in the mood to care this morning. This evening. Whatever the hell godawful hour in which we find ourselves.” There was a rare slur to the duke’s words, indicating he had been drinking brandy all evening.
Northwich was not one to over-imbibe. Which meant that seeing the woman he loved tonight had sent him tumbling over the edge.
Adrian plucked his own pocket watch from his waistcoat and gave it a cursory examination. “Half past five.”
“Morning, then.” Northwich waved the book. “Last chance, Hastings. If you’ll not throw it upon its funeral pyre, I shall.”
“If you insist.” Adrian leaned forward, taking the book in question. His curiosity had him pause, sifting through the pages of the book. He recognized some of the poems. Tilly had read them to him what seemed a lifetime ago.Love’s Philosophyby Percy Bysshe Shelley fell beneath his eye.
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?
“No, no, no, Hastings,”interrupted Northwich. “You are doing it all wrong. You aren’t meant to read them. Just burn them.”
But Adrian’s mind was traveling, whirling through the mists of time. Going back to that day on the lake, when the sun had been shining overhead in Derbyshire. He saw Tilly lying on her back, her bare toes peeping from beneath the hem of her gown, her beautiful face shadowed by a monstrosity of a hat, her elegant fingers dangling over the water. She had been dressed differently at the ball. Every inch of her the duchess. Corseted and tight-laced, her evening gown the finest silk, nary a gold curl out of place. A far cry from the barefoot duchess who had charmed him.
The innocence of that day returned to him, along with the words. He saw it, felt it, heard it as if it were unfolding anew…
“A barefoot duchess. I never would have guessed the like.”
“It can be our secret.” She winked, a smile curving her lush lips.
He eased his grip on the oars. “One of many, do you suppose?”
“What other secrets would you like to keep with me, sir?”
He emerged in the present with a jolt, the book of poetry still open in his hands. So many secrets between himself and Tilly. More than he could have known then, more than those of his making. What would happen when he probed and prodded, when he faced her again?
He flipped to another page.
