“There is much I need to understand.” The broken feeling inside her, which had not dissipated from the moment she had confronted Mr. Hastings during her ball, heightened and became more intense. “I do not want to make a mistake.”
Pippa finished her tea, her smile laced with sadness. “In this instance, I think all you can do is to follow your heart. Make the decision your heart tells you is the right one, for yourself, for Robby. For Mr. Hastings, too.”
How wise her friend was.
If only her heart knew the answer.
* * *
The Duchess of Longleighhad sent a note to him. In it, she asked him for more time to reach her decision. The note had smelled faintly of rose. Not that he had held it to his nose. (Fair enough, he had.) Her penmanship had been neat and precise, yet lovely. He had stared at the pretty words, incredulity mingling with longing.
How could he still long for a woman so desperately when she had been responsible for sending him to hell? He was not sure. All he did know was that for the first time in as long as he could recall, the resentment and rage he felt toward her had been replaced by yearning.
And that was dangerous indeed.
Adrian was determined to give her no quarter.
To that end, he had arrived at her townhome at the appointed hour, only to be informed Her Grace was not at home.
“I shall wait,” he informed the butler.
Not the same fellow who had been the butler in the reckless days when he and Tilly had fled from Derbyshire and boldly taken up residence here at Haddon House until Longleigh’s arrival.
“Would you like to sit in the blue sitting room while you wait, Mr. Hastings?” the servant requested.
The blue sitting room was not a chamber of fond memories. The mere mention of it returned Adrian to that terrible day.
Tilly had been to tea at her friend Mrs. Shaw’s home. Adrian had been reading in the sitting room, awaiting her return when the Duke of Longleigh had arrived.
He could face the room. The memories. Yes, he was stronger now. Time had passed. He was no longer a prisoner of his mind, a prisoner trapped in his physical cell. He was free.
“I shall await Her Grace there, yes. Thank you,” he forced himself to say through lips that had gone dry.
As if in a dream—a nightmare, truly—he followed the butler to the sitting room.
Steps.He distracted his madly churning mind by counting them.Breaths.He concentrated upon them. His lungs inflating, then going flat.Heartbeats.Racing now. Faster, faster. Harder, harder.
He was in the room, trying to keep the demons of the past from him.
“Sir?” The butler frowned. “Are you ill? You are pale.”
Of course he was pale. His world was spinning. His stomach cramping. His ears roaring, the darkness gathering at the edge of his sight. His heart pounded fast, faster, fastest. Chills shook him, and his hands went numb.
He was losing his tentative control over himself. One of the fits was coming. He’d not had one since the early days of his release. He’d thought himself beyond them, and yet it was undeniable. A sickness had flooded him.
His walking stick thumped to the floor.
He swayed. Without it, he could not keep himself standing without severe pain.
The butler was speaking, and there was a flurry of commotion, but Adrian could not make sense of it. The darkness was beckoning, his breathing growing more erratic, his chest so tight he feared his heart might rip itself free.
A wave of memory came crashing over him.
The door to the blue sitting room crashed open. Standing on the threshold, at last, was the Duke of Longleigh. And if his thunderous expression was any indication, the duke was infuriated.
Good. Adrian and Tilly’s plan of living together openly would have reached the bastard by now.
“You.”
