John came home last night in a state I can only describe as agitated, which for him means he paced the library for twenty minutes before confessing he’d seen Theodore at the club. Apparently, your husband spent the evening drinking steadily and refusing to discuss whatever had driven him there.
John, being John, tried to pry information from him with increasingly poor attempts at levity until Theodore told him tobugger off. Direct quote. My husband was rather impressed by the phrasing.
The point being: something has clearly happened. And given that you’re now in London while your husband remains at Ashmere, I have drawn the obvious conclusions.
I’m calling on you tomorrow afternoon. Please don’t try to dissuade me. I’ve already told John I’ll be taking the carriage, and he’s learned not to argue when I use that particular tone.
Whatever happened, you’re not facing it alone. Not while I’m drawing breath.
Yours in stubborn friendship,
Harriet.
Cressida read it twice, then pressed the letter to her chest, her eyes burning.
Tomorrow. Harriet would arrive tomorrow, and Cressida would have to explain what had happened. Would have to say aloud that she’d been foolish enough to fall in love with a man who couldn’t love her back. Would have to admit that she’d believed in something that didn’t exist.
But at least she wouldn’t be alone.
Chapter Thirty
“Whiskey. Leave the bottle.”
Theodore dropped into the leather chair in the corner, White’s familiar mahogany and tobacco-scented serenity doing nothing to quiet the howling in his chest.
The waiter set down the decanter and glass without comment, though Theodore caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes. He’d been coming here since he’d inherited the title at seventeen, and the staff had learned decades ago not to ask questions about the Duke of Ashmere.
He poured. Drank. Poured again. But the burn did nothing to alleviate the ache in his chest.
She’d looked at him like he’d struck her. Worse, she’d looked at him like she’d finally understood what he’d been telling her all along—that he was exactly the cold bastard everyone said he was, that hoping for more had been her mistake.
“You’re a contract I signed…”
Christ. The words had tasted like ash even as he’d said them, but he’d watched them land, watched her face close off into that terrible, dignified composure he recognized too well. He’d done that to her, taught her to hide.
“Ashmere.” John’s voice cut through the fog. “Fancy meeting you here at two in the afternoon. On a Tuesday.”
Theodore didn’t look up. “Go away, Whitebrook,” he grumbled.
“Tempting.” John pulled out the chair opposite and sat anyway, gesturing to the waiter for his own glass. “But Harriet would have my head if I left you to drink yourself into oblivion without at least attempting conversation. She’s terrifyingly perceptive about these things.”
“I’m not drinking myself into oblivion.”
“No?” John eyed the bottle, already a third empty. “What would you call it?”
“Estate management.”
It was a load of bull, and even Theodore knew it.
John snorted. “Right. Because the Ashmere ledgers are famously kept at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.” He accepted his glassfrom the waiter and settled back in his seat. “Want to tell me what happened, or shall I guess? I’m rather good at guessing.”
Theodore refilled his glass. “Nothing happened.”
“Harriet received a letter from your Duchess this morning. Apparently, Her Grace has returned to London rather suddenly and is now residing with her parents. Harriet’s concerned. I’m under strict orders to ascertain whether you’ve done something monumentally stupid.”
Wonderful. Now, the entirety of high society was privy to his marital problems. Splendid, indeed.
“Tell Lady Whitebrook that my marriage is none of her concern.”
