Page 11 of Duke of Eccess (Seven Dukes of Sin #4)
Sophie and Margaret approached to claim their gifts alongside Stella, whilst little Augustus slumbered peacefully against the Duchess of Pryde’s bosom.
Stella, as golden-haired as Lucien, tore into the first of several little boxes with trembling fingers and opened the gifts one by one, gasping when she found sugared plums, books, and painted wooden toys.
Octavius shifted in his seat when he caught the unmistakable gleam in the Duke of Luhst’s eyes.
Tears gathered at the corners as the man watched his daughter’s innocent delight.
Perhaps the joy at seeing children’s happiness was infectious, because Octavius noticed his own eyes prickle watching Margaret’s face light up as she unpacked sugared fruit and looked up at him. “Mama always gave us sugared fruit for St. Nicholas’s.”
He nodded, returning the smile, fighting against the onslaught of emotion whilst Sophie came to him.
“ Merci ,” said Sophie, leaning against the arm of his chair, her eyes wide and glistening. “May I give you a kiss?”
He swallowed a tight, painful knot in his throat. Say a jest. Dismiss her with a charming compliment. But without drink he had nothing, and so all he could do was nod. The little girl gave him a kiss upon the cheek that made him glow with yet more delight he didn’t want to welcome.
The Duke of Rath’s amused sky-blue eyes settled upon him and he gave Octavius a small grin. “Perhaps you will change your mind about Christmas after all,” Dorian said.
Patience, his duchess, looked over at Miss Fields with curiosity as she murmured, “Perhaps the new governess is bringing a long-awaited change.”
Octavius’s stomach tightened. Miss Fields had an expression of peace, pure bliss, and nostalgic joy upon her face as she watched the children.
Her smile was something like Mona Lisa ’s, Octavius thought.
Serene, content, reminiscent. Was she one of those people who enjoyed Christmas genuinely?
For him, every single Christmas tradition was filled with memories of pain and loneliness, and he couldn’t wait for the season to be over.
But perhaps for Miss Fields it was different.
The discussion between the dukes switched to the topic that was fizzing in every salon and drawing room he’d had the displeasure of sitting in for the past few weeks: the Mad Heiress.
“I feel sorry for the young woman,” said Archibald, the Duke of Enveigh. “I believe wholeheartedly women are sometimes deemed insane when they simply want to live their lives independently as men do.”
Modesty looked up at him with interest, gently swaying with Augustus in her arms. “Do you truly believe so?”
But Octavius wasn’t paying attention to her.
He had spotted how Miss Fields paled, her gaze riveted upon Enveigh.
The little book lay forgotten in her lap, and her fingers gripped the leather binding until her knuckles whitened, her entire being seemingly hanging upon Archibald’s every word.
Why was she so affected by this talk of madness?
Not that he cared where she directed her attention, of course, though Archibald certainly didn’t need another admirer.
“I truly do,” Archibald replied, his gaze lingering upon Miss Fields with an intensity that made Octavius’s insides twist. “Forgive me, I hope I’m not out of place by telling all of you a little piece of my history.
My own mama suffered with fits of melancholy.
She would lie in bed for days, would not be dragged out, yet there were other days when she’d make mine and my brother’s world a paradise upon earth.
My father unfortunately called her mad because the swings in her mood were so strong, and there was no explanation as to why or when she would come back from those sad, long days where I felt like she wasn’t even present in my life. ”
There was a murmur of understanding around the room, and Patience, the Duchess of Rath, smiled at him sadly. She was heavily pregnant, her golden locks arranged in the perfect coiffure above her head. It seemed that the more time passed since her and Dorian’s wedding, the happier both became.
“I am sorry your mother endured so much,” she said to Enveigh softly. “That must have been so difficult.”
“It was, and yet I think the even more difficult part was how dismissed she was by my own father. There was no care from him, no kindness. He just locked her up in one of his estates, and I think she was very, very lonely there.”
“Oh, she must have been,” said Patience. “That was surely painful for all of you.”
The conversation then swept to another matter, circling around the latest news from the Misses with Microscopes club for women in science with which the Duchesses of Rath, Luhst, and Pryde were involved.
With yet more displeasure curling in his gut like sour wine, Octavius noticed that Enveigh had risen from his seat across the room and positioned himself in the vacant chair directly beside Miss Fields.
The man leaned towards her much too close for Octavius’s liking, the blackguard speaking in hushed tones that couldn’t possibly reach anyone else’s ears.
Octavius didn’t like that at all, though he found himself utterly perplexed by his own reaction. A strange heat crawled up his neck as he watched Enveigh’s lips moving close to Miss Fields’s ear, her normally rigid posture softening ever so slightly as she listened.
Blast the man.
His friend had every right to converse with anyone he wished, of course, as did Miss Fields, and this tête-à-tête was occurring in full view of the entire gathering.
No improprieties. Yet something about the way Archibald’s eyes crinkled at the corners when Miss Fields whispered something in response made Octavius’s fingers tighten around the arm of his chair.
Enveigh leaned closer and Miss Fields’s cheeks flamed crimson before losing all color.
Archibald’s face transformed into something gentle and understanding.
Damn it all, Octavius’s insides twisted with the need to hear their whispered exchange.
His legs tensed, ready to propel him across the room to demand answers like a savage, propriety be damned.
The double doors to the hallway crashed open and James burst through, prancing about and flashing a familiar gleaming object that stopped Octavius’s heart midbeat.
Father’s dueling pistol.
“Look what I found in his grace’s study!” James announced, already positioned in what he clearly imagined was a proper dueling stance—feet wide, spine straight, arm extended towards Miss Fields. The hammer was already cocked.
Dear God, it was the same pistol. James was twelve, and Octavius had been ten when Papa pulled him into the study and had shoved him against a wall, setting an apple atop his head.
Octavius couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. No.
“James,” he managed to croak through the lack of air in his lungs.
Miss Fields rose slowly, her hands visible and steady. “That’s quite enough, James. Please give that to me.”
“I wanted something mechanical to take apart,” James protested, swinging the pistol as he gestured. “See? I found the perfect?—”
“James, no!” Sophie squealed, ducking as the barrel swept towards her.
And suddenly, Octavius wasn’t in his drawing room. His mind filled with the memory of Papa’s dark study. The reek of brandy, the sour scent of vomit, the sweet aroma of pastries the butler had held as he stood next to a trembling Octavius.
His six friends stirred. Eyes sharply moved to James, bodies taut, ready to move. Any one of them might launch themselves at the boy and grab the pistol—but the trigger could be pulled in the struggle and someone could be wounded.
Or worse.
“Lower your pistol, James,” said Miss Fields, stepping directly into the line of fire between the pistol and Sophie. “I can show you how to take apart an old clock and see how it works.”
The weapon was now pointed at her stomach.
Octavius battled to stay in the moment, but?—
Papa’s slurred voice echoed. “Stand still, little piggy. For God’s sake, don’t flinch.”
Somehow Archibald had stepped between Miss Fields and the gun’s muzzle, his arms raised placatingly. “Take care, now. Let’s all remain calm.”
A deafening boom. The acrid smell of gunpowder. Smoke filling the room. His panicked squeal, like a little piglet. Wooden wall paneling splintering and scratching his ear. Blinding pain in his shoulder. Sticky, hot liquid trickling down his arm.
And something inside Octavius snapped.
He jumped to his feet, crossed the distance to James in three swift strides, and his hand was closing around the pistol’s barrel just as James began to turn.
“Enough, you worthless rascal!” Octavius roared so loudly the glass shook in the windowpanes.
James’s face went pale, his chest heaving with shallow, rapid breaths. He stepped back. He released the gun.
Sophie and Stella began to cry. The smaller child crawled onto Lucien’s lap, and he wrapped his arms protectively around her.
Octavius’s throat burned raw as sounds tore from his lips. Not words, just pain and terror and rage compressed into noise. His own voice echoed strange and distant, belonging to someone else entirely.
James bolted from the room, his face streaked with tears.
Without thought, Octavius charged after him.
“Come back here! Wait—stop!” His voice cracked like a gunshot off the walls, each desperate shout echoing through the corridors as his boots pounded against the floor.