Page 40 of Duke of Wickedness (Regency Gods #4)

She spun on her heel. She hadn’t sat down, and she hadn’t taken off her cloak. She’d only been in the house for, what, five minutes? Maybe even less.

She thought that maybe, just maybe, she saw him take a step toward her, thought that she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye as she turned. But she didn’t dare look back. If she tried to look back now, she would lose her nerve—or worse, her composure.

She nearly faltered in that resolve when she saw that the butler was lingering in the front hallway of the house; he’d clearly expected to see her emerge from the study again quickly, or else he would have returned either to his duties or his bed.

It stung beyond measure to think that she’d been so foolish, so blind, that even the staff had known she would be summarily turned out on her heel.

But she kept the burning in her eyes in check by sheer force of will, if nothing else. She was a Lightholder, damn it all. She wasn’t going to crumple like some pathetic little girl.

“If you could fetch me a carriage, I would greatly appreciate it,” she said. She didn’t stutter over the words. She did not sound teary or like she wished to burn down the world.

“I’ll have the groom come around,” the butler said immediately, but Ariadne shook her head.

“No; don’t bother him. A hired hack will do,” she said.

The butler hesitated. “I’m sure His Grace would prefer?—”

She held up a hand to stay his objection. “A hack, please,” she said firmly.

Another hesitation and then, to Ariadne’s great relief, he nodded.

“Very well, my lady,” he said, offering her a bow and then hurrying away.

Ariadne breathed out a slow sigh. If David was going to be gone from her life, she needed him to be fully gone. She didn’t care that it was a little childish to start with something like refusing a carriage. She needed to be away from here.

Besides, she told herself as the butler handed her up to the hack he had quickly summoned from the street, in this anonymous conveyance, she could be free to cry as much as she wanted.

David had never really had a problem with his reputation, which was, if not respectable in the eyes of Society, at least honest.

He found the first flaw in being known as an inveterate pleasure-seeker five days after he’d sent Ariadne away, however.

If he withdrew from Society, people noticed.

And then people—loose-lipped busybodies that they were—told other people.

Namely, Percy.

David knew that his staff had to be gossiping, too, because they let the Duke of Seaton right in.

“David, what is—are you not even dressed?” Percy asked when he barged into the bedchamber—the bloody bedchamber— where David was whiling away the hours of another interminable day.

Not his own bedchamber, of course. He hadn’t been able to bear sleeping there. He’d known this would happen, but he had still been stupid enough to bring Ariadne in there anyway. And now he had to stay here, in his own guest wing.

Not that he managed to get any decent sleep here, either.

“If you don’t want to see me in my dressing gown,” David said, taking a sip of scotch, “don’t come into the private areas of my home. It’s as simple as that.”

David had flirted, these past few days, with that age-old strategy of drinking himself into a stupor so that he didn’t have to feel or think about anything.

It didn’t work. Mostly, it gave him a blistering headache to accompany all the other terrible things he was feeling.

Sometimes, though, if he timed it just right, he would fall into a fitful sleep for a few hours before waking to the horrible headache.

It was all about balance, he kept telling himself. He just had to endure this for now. Until it faded. It would fade.

It had to fade.

“Allow me to assure you that I didn’t want to see any of what I am currently seeing,” Percy retorted, sounding appalled.

He snatched the glass of scotch from David’s hand and put it on a table that was too far away for David to reach.

He could have gotten up and gotten the drink, he supposed, but it seemed too much effort.

“But,” Percy went on, “someone asked my wife recently if you were well, given that you suddenly vanished from Society.”

David swallowed down the questions he wanted to ask—where had Catherine been? Was she with her sister? How was Ariadne? Was she well? Was she sad?—and instead drawled, “You might have written a note.”

“I did write a note,” Percy retorted. “You did not reply.”

“Huh.” David supposed he vaguely recalled someone bringing him correspondence. He’d put it…somewhere. “Well, I’m fine. As you can see. Go away.”

Percy snorted derisively. “I’m not sure what I’m seeing yet, but you are not fine. What is wrong with you?”

David looked vaguely out the window, not really seeing anything. It was gray, he noticed absently. Fitting. Both for England and for his mood.

“I’m having a rest cure,” he ventured when he remembered that Percy had asked him a question.

“Jesus Christ,” his friend muttered. There was a beat during which David dared to hope that his friend would just give up and go away, but then Percy said, “Right. Well, whatever this is, you need to stop it. Organize one of your parties, perhaps. That always seems to cheer you up.”

“You aren’t supposed to know about those,” David said.

He didn’t manage to summon any real surprise about it, though he supposed that it was surprising.

Paying any mind to this revelation also felt too far out of his grasp to reach for, just like the scotch—and unlike the scotch, it wouldn’t give him any much-needed sleep.

“Oh, please,” Percy scoffed. “Of course, I know. You really aren’t very subtle, though I will grant you that you’ve done a good job keeping your guests’ identities secret.”

He sounded approving, not that David particularly cared.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he said. “I’m not going to host them any longer.”

He wasn’t looking at Percy, but he could feel the frown on his friend’s face in the way he paused.

“Why not?” Percy asked gingerly.

David shrugged. “No point,” he said.

Again, Percy was feeling his feelings so loudly that they were practically words, shouted directly into David’s ear. This was something else that David simply did not need. He was trying to get away from feelings.

“What happened, David?” Percy said, sounding genuinely worried. He reached out a hand and placed it delicately on David’s shoulder. “If this is about that woman you mentioned?—”

“Stop,” David commanded, voice hard as he batted Percy’s hand away. “Just—just stop .”

In the periphery of his vision, he could see the way Percy’s hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. It reminded David of the way he’d reached for Ariadne—too late and too soon—as she’d walked out the door.

It was good that she had left. He had wanted her to leave.

He had needed her to leave. She wanted to marry.

He had little faith in the institution overall, but he had an abundance of faith in her .

She was perfect. Any man could see that.

She would find the one she wanted. Knowing her, she would no doubt be part of that precious, rare group that could find themselves in wedded bliss.

David would have to be a monster to keep her from that, and if there was one thing he’d fought not to be all his life, it was the kind of monster who made others’ happiness impossible.

After a long, long pause, Percy sighed loudly. “Very well,” he said, sounding resigned. That resignation reminded David of Ariadne when she’d finally begun listening, had finally agreed to go. Then again, what didn’t remind him of Ariadne? Half his house was ruined, now.

“I will go,” Percy continued, then, with a distinct note of warning, added, “for now.”

David waved a hand at him in acknowledgment. That would be fine. It would be. Because this would pass.

It had to pass.

He would get enough energy to talk to his friend eventually. He wouldn’t name names, but certainly he’d be able to name these feelings.

Eventually.

There was another long pause, then another loud sigh.

“I’ll be back,” Percy warned.

David said nothing.

And finally— finally —he heard the door click shut.

David closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the armchair with a slow exhale.

And he waited, hoping that soon, each second would not feel like an eternity, hoping that this weight upon him would grow lighter, would make him feel like himself again.

Beyond that, however, a quiet part of him feared that relief, because if these feelings were gone, then he would have nothing left of her at all.