Page 91 of Duke of Wickedness

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.

CHAPTER 23

“So,” Phoebe said. “I would like it observed that I have triedveryhard to berespectfulandpatient.” She said the two words like they were oaths. “But I simply cannot wait any longer.”

Ariadne put aside her embroidery, which only had half her attention anyway.

She was—damn her eyes—thinking about David again.

In the month since she’d left his house, she’d snapped back and forth between anger and sorrow at the way things had ended between them. She was furious that he had just decided that things were over whenhesaid so. She missed him.

She daydreamed about kicking him in the shins in front of half theton, making him fall in a way that made him—somehow; she wasn’t clear on the details—look stupid and her look heroic. She kept thinking of things she wanted to tell him.

Back and forth and back and forth. It wasrelentless.

Phoebe, however, had provided a wonderful distraction alongside her unyielding friendship—even when, as Ariadne recognized perfectly well, she had not been her most delightful of late.

Phoebe making such a declaration, Ariadne knew, promised entertainment. In the past few weeks, Phoebe had offered opinions on matters as far ranging as suffrage for women (unsurprisingly, she was in favor), the most comfortable way to stitch a seam on a chemise (French seams), and why she did not trust anyone who favored lilies in their floral arrangements (they apparently were poisonous to cats).

“Go on,” Ariadne said, folding her hands attentively in her lap.

“It’s abouthim,” Phoebe said.

Ariadne picked her embroidery up again.

“No, thank you,” she said primly.

Phoebe made a frustrated, whining sound.

“I told you, I have beensopatient,” she protested. “But there isgossip. I knowgossip. I never know gossip, Ariadne; you know this. Please. Please, please. Please, please, please?—”

“Oh, fine,” Ariadne said, both because secretly, she did want to know and because she felt confident that she would be subject to an unending litany ofpleases until she agreed, anyway. “Tell me.”

“He has—” Phoebe made a dramatic flourish, looking very pleased with herself. “—disappeared.”

“What?” Ariadne yelped, alarmed. “What do you meandisappeared? Is he?—”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Phoebe amended hastily. “Not ‘off the face of the earth’ disappeared. He’s just not attending events, or at least not very much. Sometimes he puts in an appearance and then leaves, or so I’ve heard. But he doesn’t really talk to anyone. Or do anything. Or go anywhere.”

Ariadne pressed a hand to her heart, which—she hated to admit it—was racing.