“I find myself in need of advice,” he told his valet.
Winston calmly and efficiently dragged the razor over the patch of skin on his chin. “What manner of advice, sir?”
“As you know, I have become…betrothed to Lady Clementine,” he said with care, for although he shared a comfortable friendship with his valet, he had not confided in Winston entirely.
No one knew the true nature of his betrothal with Lady Clementine, and he intended to keep it that way until they severed their agreement. Which would preferably happen just after breakfast.
London was calling to him.
Ladies who were not innocent awaited him.
Women who would join him in bed without expectation. Jaded wives and mistresses who did not require anything in return save pleasure and mayhap some baubles.
Why did the thought leave him feeling hollow?
“I am aware of your betrothal, sir, and I do believe I offered my felicitations? If not, it was unbearably remiss of me, and I must beg your pardon.”
“You did, and we both know it, Winston.”
His valet remained silent as he scraped the razor along Dorset’s cheek.
“Here is the problem,” he began, careful to avoid moving his lips too much as he struggled to find the right words. After a pause he cleared his throat and began again. “Ahem. Perhaps you might tell me if there have been any whispers below stairs concerning my betrothal to Lady Clementine.”
“Of course there has not been any gossip, sir,” Winston reassured him.
“Excellent.” But even as he said the word, his valet’s response left him feeling anything but comforted.
If gossip had not managed to swirl through the domestics, that meant the only people who had witnessed his debacle with Clementine had held their tongues. And that also meant that, if he and Clementine were to plead their cases with all involved, he was reasonably certain they could break off their engagement without any ill effects for either of them. He had yet to formally petition Clementine’s father, but he had no intention of doing so. Freedom loomed.
“Did Lady Clementine’s lady’s maid promise to deliver the ointment to her mistress this morning?” he asked as Winston finished shaving him and began applying the cooling solution he had concocted himself for just such a purpose.
The man was a wizard, Dorset was convinced.
But not even the pleasant effect of the post-shaving solution could assuage the unease roiling in his gut. Nor could it chase the trifling sense that he was about to make a dreadful mistake.
“She did indeed assure me she would take the calming salve to Lady Clementine at once,” Winston said.
“Also excellent.” He nodded, swallowing down the uneasiness rising in his throat. “Thank you, Winston.”
Dorset stroked his smooth jaw and frowned at his reflection in the looking glass Winston had positioned for him to review his results. The valet busied himself with tidying the shaving tools, cleansing and organizing them with efficient movements that bore evidence to the years he had spent in service.
“Have you ever been in love?” he asked his valet.
Why the hell was he asking Winston if he had ever been in love, for Chrissakes?
Dorset was most certainlynotin love with Lady Clementine Hammond.
“I was, once,” Winston said, finishing up his task.
“What happened?” he asked, wondering why, for all their easy camaraderie, he had never spoken with his valet about something of such a personal nature before this morning.
“She fell ill before we could marry,” his valet answered, a distinct note of sadness underlying his ordinarily imperturbable voice.
“I am sorry,” Dorset said instantly, feeling guilty for dredging up Winston’s painful past. And feeling guiltier for never having known such a loss had occurred. “Has it happened since you have been with me?”
“No, sir,” Winston said with a sad smile. “It was long ago now. Twelve years.”
It was a story not unlike Clementine’s, save the disparity in time.
