“I don’t mind. I can keep reading Robinson Crusoe in the library.”
He gave a curt nod, already turning on his heels and striding in the direction of his study. Another flash of lightning made his shoulders rise with tension, and she sent him a fond, sympathetic look. She’d seen her father in his cups enough times to know that any loud noise or bright lights would be most unwelcome.
Still, she hoped he recovered soon. She wanted to complete her education in all the ways marrying him would make physical as well as logical sense.
Chapter Seventeen
Hours later, Liv glanced up from her cozy seat by the window as Fletcher entered the library with a tray.
“Tea, Miss Price,” he intoned, his expression one of perfect disinterest.
Livvy bit back a grin. If shediddecide to take Dev up on his offer to be his duchess, she’d take great pleasure in finding out what made this gloomy majordomo crack a smile. There had to be something. Everyone had a weakness.
“Lovely, thank you,” she said as he deposited it on an elegant, lacquered tea table at her side.
“His Grace has asked me to inform you that he will not be joining you for dinner this evening. He sends his sincere regrets.”
Livvy’s light mood vanished, quashed by a sinking sense of disappointment. Or, if she was perfectly honest, anticlimax. The storm had arrived in full force, and the driving rain and crashing thunder echoed her own turbulent feelings. Added to that, reading Crusoe’s adventures had made her imagine being stranded far from home, with no prospect of seeing Dev, ever again, or of watching from afar, powerless, as he marriedsomeone else, and the picture had been bleak indeed. She didn’t want to imagine a life without him in it.
What did it matter if he didn’t love her as much as she loved him? After last night, it was clear he lusted after her, and maybe that was enough of a foundation. Maybe she could build on his physical attraction and show him all theotherways they were well-suited. They both liked reading, both enjoyed pursuing their own interests, shared a sense of humor.
Fletcher was still hovering discreetly at her elbow, apparently awaiting some sort of response, so she gathered her errant thoughts and sent him a reassuring smile.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I trust he’s well?”
“As well as can be expected,” Fletcher intoned, with a small bow. “Considering.”
Livvy assumed that meant, ‘considering the copious amount of brandy he drank last night,’ and nodded sagely. “My father used to swear by a mixture of warm milk with a spoonful of charcoal for the . . . unpleasant aftereffects of too much wine. Perhaps His Grace should try it? Or a mixture of willow bark, for his head?”
“I did offer him some laudanum, Miss, but he’s gone to his room and is not to be disturbed. For any reason.”
Livvy frowned. “He should try to eat some supper, at least. Even if it’s just vegetable soup or plain bread and butter.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Fletcher sniffed regally, “but orders are orders. This isn’t the first time his Lordship’s been so afflicted.” He glanced briefly at the window as another flash of lightning lit the sky, followed almost immediately by a deafening crash of thunder that made the glass rattle in the windowpanes.
Liv clapped her hand to her heart with a little shriek. “Good Heavens, that was close! The storm might be right above us now.”
“Indeed, Miss,” Fletcher said, his tone dry.
“Well, if his Grace isn’t dining downstairs there’s no need to go to all the bother of setting a table just for me. Please tell cook I’ll take my dinner in my room.”
“Very good, Miss. Would you like a bath sent up, too?”
Liv nodded eagerly. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dev pressed himself back against the wood paneling and squeezed his eyes closed, desperately trying to calm his erratic breathing and pounding heart.
He was safe. At home in England. Not Belgium. Not Waterloo.
Nobody was trying to kill him.
He was safe. It was just a storm.
But his palms were clammy, even though he felt chilled to the bone, and the next boom of thunder made him clap his hands over his ears, desperate to block out the sound. He bit back a low moan.
How far away was the cannon? He held his breath, counting the agonizing seconds between the sound and the resulting explosion, a silent, stomach-clenching anticipation of death. Listening for the awful whistle and thud. Would this be the one that ended him?
