Of him, even.
Blast.Where had the responsive woman who had surrendered to him so beautifully last night gone? He wanted her back. But he would have to settle for a polite duchess who had arranged breakfast for now.
“I will,” he allowed, knowing that both his stomach and his wife would demand it.
He was proving a devoted servant to both.
“Come then, and serve yourself,” she said primly. “Everything has been laid out.”
He moved nearer to where she stood by the sideboard, drawn to her and the feast she had seen prepared in unequal measures. But a few strides closer and he stopped in awe, taking in the vast assortment.
Oranges, butter, poached eggs.Sweet heaven on earth, there were muffins and kidneys and—Christ above—bacon and toast, honey and preserves. It was more food than he had ever seen assembled at once, aside from the luxurious wedding breakfast her parents had hosted. But how much did she possibly think he could consume? There was enough food here to feed all Scotland Yard.
“By the looks of this sideboard, I will be needing to eat breakfast, luncheon, and dinner here,” he teased, still amazed by the quantities.
In Buckinghamshire before his marriage, he had been pleased to eat simple fare, and the cook had done whatever he wished. Buns and cold meat had often sufficed. The domestics had been pared down to a frightfully low number for the size of the household, or so he had been told. Easy meals had pleased him. Less waste, which he had been unable to afford anyway.
But now…why, Elysande’s dowry had solved one problem, even if his marriage to her had caused half a dozen more.
“I did not know what you preferred,” came her hesitant voice, somewhere near his elbow, “so I requested an assortment. You need not fear the additional food shall go to waste. Some can be packed along with you, and the rest shall provide luncheon for the domestics. They will be pleased for all the fresh fruit, I should think.”
Yes, they would. And for that matter, so would he. Was this the life of a duke, breakfast with his wife, a veritable feast his for the taking? If so, there could be benefits, surely.
He turned to offer her praise. “You are so very thoughtful. Thank you, my dear.”
“You are not displeased, then?”
“That my beautiful wife arranged a bountiful breakfast? Only an ogre would be displeased.” He paused, allowing himself the liberty of brushing a stray curl from her silken cheek. Everything in him cried out for more.
Not this morning, you oaf.
You’ve business to attend to.
Right, he did. But first, breakfast.
She was smiling at him, radiant by the fresh light of the morning. “Fill a plate for yourself then, if you please.”
He did as she bade, taking up a dainty dish rimmed in gold and heaping all his favorites upon it. When there was not another speck of room, he settled in at the table with her. The food was excellent, as was the coffee. The newspaper laid out for his inspection by an overzealous member of the staff, however, was not.
There on the front page, he saw a bold headline that made his mouth go dry.
Murder and Mystery Follow the Detective Duke.
Elysande’s eyes seemed to catch upon the journal at the same moment, for she stilled. His appetite abruptly died.
“Hudson.”
His body was moving independently from his mind, rising from the chair. He snatched up the paper and stalked across the breakfast room toward the fireplace. Without a second thought, he hurled the entire affair into the merrily crackling flames. It caught fire instantly, the combustion giving him precious little comfort.
He watched as the words curled in on themselves, burning into ash, and tried to regain control over his wildly fluctuating emotions. Maude’s body, lifeless and bloodied and slashed, the flat look of dead terror in her eyes, the ashen paleness of her, rose in his mind. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the rage roaring inside his head threatening to overwhelm.
It was as if he were there, back in his rooms three nights ago, finding her for the first time. He had been working with the victims of crimes for years. He knew better than anyone the painful vortex of shock, loss, and fear that could poison a man. But it mattered not. There was no making sense of this maelstrom. Maude was dead, and he was to blame in his own selfish way, and now all London believed him a murderer as well.
Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm. He flinched away from the touch until reality returned, and he realized he was in the breakfast room with Elysande, and it had been her tentative caress on his sleeve. She was attempting to comfort him. Of course she was. Sweet Elysande, trapped in this godawful mire with him.
He turned to her, the guilt enough to eat him alive.
“I am sorry,” she said, her face a mask of contrition.
