Page 12 of Denying the Duke (Lords and Ladies in Love 3)

The hours passed slowly by. She kept her eyes riveted on the drawing room door, waiting to see if Alex returned. She still could not believe he hadn’t acknowledged her at all. Surely, he didn’t blame her for the betrothal? She’d known nothing about it until her mother had given her the horrendous news on the very last day she’d seen Alex.

“My dear, it would be best if you stayed with me by the door as the guests leave.” The Duchess of Bedford, who Patience had always thought of in those terms, touched her on the arm.

“Yes, of course.”

A slow, steady stream of people left the house, patting her hand, offering condolences, and smirking when they thought she wasn’t looking. Frankly, she was so pleased by Cyrus’s death, she didn’t care about the circumstances that drew sneers and raised eyebrows. She was rid of him. Were it not totally scandalous, she might have danced on his grave.

What had happened to her over the years that had turned her into a woman who wanted to celebrate someone’s death? She knew she should be ashamed of herself, but as long as no one could see into her heart, it would remain her secret and gratification.

The door had barely closed on the last guest when the duchess spoke. “I hope you intend to stay at the Abbey for a while.” She always made her requests sound like an order.

“I had not really thought about it. I find I am quite weary, and would beg Your Grace to excuse me so I may retire to my bedchamber.”

“Of course. I am sure the distress of the last week has exhausted you. Perhaps it is best if you retire and we will converse in the morning.” Although her words were kind, her eyes held enough coldness to freeze a pond in summer.

Patience’s parents joined them at the entrance hall. “I would have a word with you, daughter.” Her father’s tone once again brooked no argument. He turned to the duchess. “May we use your library, Your Grace?”

“Of course. If you will all excuse me, I believe I will retire to my bedchamber myself. It has been a long day.”

Patience followed her father to the Abbey’s library. What could the man possibly want with her now? Cyrus was dead, and she was free.

Once they entered the room, he motioned to the settee next to the fireplace. Patience sat and adjusted her skirts. Her father stood in front of her, his large frame blocking out the rest of the room. Something about the expression on his face started her stomach tightening. There was no point in asking him what he wanted with her, because he would speak in his own time.

“It is unfortunate that your betrothed is dead.”

Since it was not a question but a statement, she merely nodded.

“Be aware that I have no intention of allowing my connection to the Bedford Dukedom to cease.”

Tired and confused, she merely stared at him. “I’m afraid I do not understand, Father.”

He leaned in close, the brandy from his breath making her want to turn her head, but knowing ’twas better not to do that. “You will marry the new duke.”

“Lord Alex?” All the breath in her body left her in one fell swoop.

“No, my dear. Not Lord Alex. His

Grace, the Eighth Duke of Bedford. Your former lover. The very one your mother said you cried your eyes out over the night of your betrothal.”

…

After leaving the Abbey, Alex arrived at the Bedford townhouse in London having stopped only to switch horses and eat. He dragged his weary body upstairs then collapsed into bed and slept for hours, after which he bathed and left the house, seeking something familiar to anchor himself in this new world into which he’d been so unexpectedly thrust.

He removed his wet greatcoat and handed it to the footman at the door of White’s. There was a great deal of work to be done in the transition of his brother’s affairs into Alex’s name. Since Alex had never been trained for the role of duke, the great deal of work had turned into an overwhelming nightmare. A short visit to London—to finalize the sale of his commission and meet with his solicitors, and to get his bearings before he returned to the Abbey to take up his duties—would help clear his head.

And get him far away from Patience.

As Cyrus’s widow, she would probably remain at the Abbey, but he hoped to move her into the dower house. Day in and day out living, with her completely unavailable to him by law, would make him a candidate for Bedlam in no time.

Pushing those thoughts aside, he looked around the club. It had been years since he’d been inside the familiar walls. So much remained the same, yet so much had changed within him.

He didn’t wish to dwell on the memories of war that lived with him day and night. The nights were the worst. Tortured dreams of bodies falling, dying young men crying for sweethearts and mothers, and the screams of horses as they stumbled and collapsed on top of wounded and dead men. The mud, the blood, the overwhelming stench of death. It awaited him most nights, as he attempted to lose himself in slumber.

No man could emerge unscathed from the effects of war, surrounded by so much death. Death he had a hand in causing.

The betting book sat in the same place with several gentlemen surrounding it, calling out names and writing in the notorious tome. He smiled, remembering the few times he’d written his name in there. It seemed so many years ago, almost as if he’d been a mere lad then.

“Pemberton!” Alex turned at the sound of his name. He broke into a huge smile at the sight of Lord Campbell—better known as Cam, sitting with Lord Hawkins—the famous “Hawk,” and Mr. Giles Templeton—merely Templeton to the group of four friends who had gone through Eton and university together. Hawk had fought beside him at Waterloo, but had sold out a few months later.