“But my head hurts.”
Her gazed went to the empty bottle of brandy laying halfway under then chaise lounge, then returned to the duke. “I imagine it does. I am having a locksmith install a lock on Weston’s liquor cabinet and the wine cellar. Today.”
Thatgot Sterling to his feet.
“You can’t,” he protested, shoving his hands through his hair, black and tangled, as he stumbled to his feet, toddled to the left, and just barely avoided crashing into a chair before he caught his balance. “What am I supposed to drink?”
“As I said, there is a pitcher of water on the table.”
“Water?” he said, aghast. “But that tastes terrible.”
She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t taste like anything.”
“I know. That’s what makes it terrible.”
“Your Grace…Sterling…I say this as a friend.” She hesitated. “And someone who has experienced the pain of heartbreak. You cannot continue down this path you’ve set for yourself. Nothing good shall come of it.”
His eyes, several shades lighter than Weston’s stony gray, hardened. “Are you responsible for your best friend’s death?”
“You are referring to your brother,” she said quietly. “But you’re not to blame for what happened to him.”
Sterling’s mistress was not his first encounter with tragedy, or with death. Brynne did not know all of the details. No one did, except for the men who had been there on the day of the duel that had taken the life of Sterling’s brother…the rightful Duke of Hanover. There’d been whispers, even then. Ridiculous, hurtful stories that Sterling had planned the entire thing in order to inherit the title. A title that otherwise never would have belonged to him, as the second-born son.
And then to be accused in the court of public opinion (perchance even the House of Lords, once they convened) to murdering the woman he’d loved…
It was clearwhySterling would want to drink himself into oblivion.
It was even clearer that he’d kill himself in the process.
She could have let it go.
Sheshouldhave let it go.
He outranked her.
There was no blood or romantic entanglement between them.
He wasn’t even her friend as much as he was Weston’s.
But knowing what it felt like to suffer, knowing the allure of wanting to make yourself so small that you eventually disappeared, Brynnehadto do something. If nothing else, it would take her mind off her estranged husband…and maybe even save a duke while she was at it.
“You’re not to blame,” she repeated when Sterling’s countenance collapsed into bleakness. “But as long as you keep feeding your demons, they’ll keep convincing you that you are.”
He rubbed his hands down his face. “When did you grow up to be this wise? Yesterday, you were running around in braids while West and I practiced fighting with sticks so that when we grew up we could be knights and defend our Guineveres.” He gave a ghost of a grin. “Mine was much prettier than his.”
“Naturally.” She pointed at the pitcher. “Drink. Then food, then bathe, then get some fresh air. If you care to join me, I’ll be dining at half-past six this evening. Or I can have food sent to your room.”
“How can you be this nice when your brother is such a cold-hearted git?”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “I’ll see you once you’ve made yourself presentable.”
As she quit the library, she thought–of all things–about glaciers. When she was a girl, she’d sat in this very library and read about them. About how they were formed. How old they were. And how the ones with the least amount of ice on the surface were often the largest and the coldest deep below.
When the doorto the formal dining room unceremoniously swung inward, Brynne looked up from her plate of baked herring seasoned with white pepper, fresh broccoli sautéed in garlic, and scalloped potatoes. But the welcome she’d been about to deliver to Sterling died on her lips as Lachlan, not the duke, sauntered in, appearing every inch as handsome and arrogant as he had this morning when he’d approached her at the gazebo.
She noted that he had changed into formal evening wear; exchanging his casual square cut lapel jacket for a satin waistcoat and trim smoking jacket that hugged his muscular torso. Gray trousers had replaced his breeches, and he’d even made an effort to tame his hair. Freshly combed, it was secured at the nape of his neck in a style that invoked images of Celtic warriors of old when men had charged fearlessly into battle armed only with their swords and the fierce love they had for those they’d left behind at home.
It wasn’t difficult to imagine Lachlan as a warrior. Having seen him in the nude, Brynne knew firsthand that he certainly had the physique of one. All hard muscle and sinew with nary an inch of softness to be found…anywhere.
