Clara made a moue. Finishing her drink, she strutted naked over to the cabinet of spirits. His brows raised as she helped herself to another generous helping of the whiskey and tossed it back. Good God, he hoped she didn’t plan on getting a trifle disguised. He would never be rid of her then.
Clara dribbled more amber liquid into her glass, spilling some in the process. “Speaking of marriage, how is your wife hunting coming along?”
“Fine,” he said curtly.
“All those ladies pining to be the next bride of theDevil Duke.” Clara waved her glass drunkenly. “They’re even willing to accept your scandalous requirements.”
In his rounds of the marriage mart, he’d made his prerequisite clear: no virgins need apply. Nothing was more deceptive than innocence, and he wasn’t going to replicate the disaster of his first marriage. This time, there would be no talk of love, an emotion that he neither wished for nor was capable of. His next duchess would be worldly, prepared to give him what he wanted: an heir and complete obedience—in and out of bed. In return, she would want for nothing, would have everything his wealth and status could provide.
A fair exchange, all in all.
Alaric flicked lint off the sleeve of his robe. “I believe in making expectations clear.”
I’ll not be betrayed again.
“You’re quite the challenge, you know. Rich, handsome—and then there’s that legendary cold heart of yours. All the ladies dream of making you fall in love with them.”
“Do they?” he said indifferently.
Clara smirked. “They don’t know the hot-blooded man I know.”
Actually, she didn’t know him at all. He didn’t bother to disabuse her of the notion.
“The topic grows tiresome.” His temples were becoming tight.
“I wish I wasn’t married to Osgood,” Clara said suddenly. “Then I’d be free to marry you.”
Alaric stilled in his seat, the ticking of the ormolu clock uncomfortably loud in the silence. He did not wish to show her disrespect, but he would not lie. The possibility had never crossed his mind.
Clara’s brittle laugh broke the silence. “Don’t look so horrified, Strathaven—I was just jesting. I have no need of another husband. Speaking of whom,” she said, her words slurring, “I still have a few hours before Osgood returns home from his evening’s depravity.”
Alaric had no desire to couple again with her tonight. It struck him that he felt more than tired. He was oddly off-balance, his mind cloudy. His stomach suddenly churned, and the sharp, familiar wrenching cut short his breath. Memories flooded him: bedclothes twisted and damp with his disgrace, the stifling sickroom, vile medicines poured down his throat…
What the devil? It can’t be. I haven’t been ill in years.
Fighting panic, he blinked at his glass. The crystal facets winked in a dizzying manner. The whiskey? It had never affected him this way before. His forehead burned; his palms were clammy.
“Strathaven, I don’t... feel well...”
He could barely make out Clara’s mumbled words. Her image suddenly split into two, a disorienting blur of red hair and lips. Her arm swept out, knocking the whiskey decanter to the ground with a smash. She followed, collapsing in a heap.
“Clara!” Alaric stumbled to his feet. He took one step, and pain tore at his midsection, the world spinning. The floor hurtled up toward him, and he tumbled into a pit of darkness.
***
A gull’s shrill cry stirred him.
Sleepily, Alaric burrowed deeper into the sandy mattress. He was in his cave, the secret grotto he’d discovered along the loch’s sandy shores, and here he was safe. Here, the illness that twisted his stomach into agonizing knots, that weakened his muscles and earned him the duke’s disgust, seemed to fade for a short while.
Alone, things were better.
But the duchess… she would worry. Flit about her gilt and velvet-lined sitting room like a canary trapped in a cage. He felt her small hands fluttering over his hot forehead and cheeks, bathing him in cool water. Making it better. Making it worse…
Mama, why did you leave me? Da, why did you make me go?
Seabirds shrieked—or was it Laura? Her tantrums lashed at him even in his cave, no escape from her mad accusations, her volatile behavior. God, he wanted only to rest, yet her screaming grew louder—
He jolted awake, blinking. No Laura and not the loch… a room? The cottage—why was he lying on the floor? The ormolu clock was chirping with mad insistence. He drew his hands over his face, and they came away slick with sweat. Groggily, he pushed himself to sitting, orienting himself. His gaze circled the room—and shock slammed into him.
