Page 24

CHAPTER 23

D uncan let out an exasperated sigh.

“Not now, Rowle-” A cough cut off his yell, prompting him to reach for the glass of water on his nightstand.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” the butler’s muffled voice called through the door. “Her Grace recommends that you take another bowl of-”

“I’m fine , Rowley!” Duncan called back. “Tell the cook that while her work is always impeccable, I truly cannot stomach another drop of chicken soup without the risk of going mad.”

The onset of Duncan's illness had been sudden and quick. As expected, poor Mother’s mind had immediately jumped to a rather harrowing conclusion. But mercifully, a quick physician’s visit revealed that this was nothing more than a cold.

“It could be due to the changing weather!” assured the doctor, “Or perhaps you have been working far too hard, in that case, it is natural that your constitution and strength would falter.”

Duncan didn’t want to admit it then, but he knew the true reason he had fallen sick—his drinking had increased almost five-fold in less than a month.

It was difficult to pinpoint exactly when it started, but Duncan had realized that he was becoming increasingly distracted and agitated during work.

He found himself on edge, uneasy, and short-tempered, and he was concerned that it could only get worse. To make matters worse, the Viscount Gloushire continued to call on the house, prancing around as though he actually had a right to be there.

In the hopes of relieving even a sliver of his own tension, he allowed himself one night of unrestrained drink and woke up the next day with an aching head, but a much more relaxed body.

Having found a solution, Duncan eagerly took full advantage of it. But as usual, Harlington had been the first to notice and the first to worry.

“I thought we were endeavoring to be more responsible these days?” his dark-haired friend had reminded him the other night, having intruded on Duncan’s personal drinking bout.

“I am being responsible,” Duncan had growled back. “I’m not drinking for fun, just for some reprieve. After this, I can get some rest and then get back to the paperwork. Besides, we used to drink far more than this back at Louxbridge.”

“Yes, but we only drank so much perhaps once or twice a week,” Harlington had rejoined. “Whereas you’re drinking as much every night.”

“I am well aware of my limits,” Duncan scoffed at his friend, “Do you know yours?”

Harlington eventually acquiesced, leaving Duncan to do as he pleased. But the latter never did get around to his paperwork that night, falling asleep slumped on the sofa of his office instead.

His work did not suffer much during the day, but in the late afternoons, his hands reached for the bottles with practiced ease.

The next to speak up had been Fairhaven. Duncan had been in his favored armchair in Gillingham’s smoke room, attempting to hide the scowls that flashed across his face whenever a discussion got too loud, or a presence became too irritating.

When Fairhaven approached, Duncan had been expecting the other duke to pull up an armchair to join him. But instead, his red-haired friend snatched Duncan’s glass out of his hand.

“We are getting you home,” Fairhaven stated matter-of-factly, almost as though remarking with enough confidence would will it into coming true.

The right corner of Duncan’s lips pulled into a smirk. “I know you said you were excited to become a father. But isn't this a tad too early to be practicing?”

Yet another argument ensued between the two friends as Duncan failed to see how he was doing anything wrong.

“We've always drunk heavily,” he reminded Fairhaven. “And rather than stumbling through the fields of Bechdalla, I am merely enjoying a quiet drink in an armchair where I can’t possibly hurt myself. How is this any worse or any different than our usual custom?”

“It’s different because we used to drink to relax -”

“That’s exactly what I’m doi-”

“No. Given the volume, frequency, and severity, your drinking is clearly not about relaxing from your woes,” Fairhaven cut him off. “You’re trying to drown them.”

His remark cut through the haze and sobered Duncan momentarily, but it was a fleeting sensation. “What can I say? The manifests and reports have been quite concerning as of late.”

“But-”

“I know what I'm doing, Fairhaven. I can more than handle it.”

And he had handled it quite successfully for a good share of the past few weeks. His new routine suited him well—spending his days consumed by work and then spending his nights consuming the drink.

But on a particularly 'fruitful’ evening, Duncan had arrived home and decided he wanted to enjoy the cool evening air before going to bed. He had hobbled to the nearest garden bench with the intention of staying for fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes before he’d go upstairs to get ready for bed.

He had settled onto the bench with his hands in his pockets and his heavy eyelids had fallen shut as he relished the crisp air on his cheeks.

A huge mistake.

Duncan was awoken—not by the gentleness of the rising sun or the prettiness of the birdsong that surrounded him but—by a sneeze so powerful and loud it almost shook him off the bench.

That was two days ago. And, as expected, with the loss of his new routine, the unease, and short temper returned but this time coated in a layer of snot.

He was still plagued by constant headaches but now without the pleasure of having downed his drinks from the night before.

Another knock at the door irritated him further.

“I said not now, Rowley!” he thundered. “Just tell Mother I’ll take the soup later!”

He expected to hear Rowley’s usual “Very good, Your Grace!” or “Most certainly, Your Grace!” but no response came through the door this time—highly uncharacteristic for the butler.

Even more uncharacteristically, the voice that came through the door several moments later was higher-pitched and less self-assured, “May I come in, Your Grace?”

Rowley, why do you suddenly sound like Lady Penelope? Duncan almost called out before his lids flew open in realization.

“Your Grace?” her voice sailed into the room again. “I promise I don’t have any chicken soup with me.”

Duncan’s eyes looked down at the state of his covers, wrinkled and miserable against the shape of his sick form. He propped himself up onto his elbows with a groan.

“Just a moment, Lady Pen!” he called out, running a hand through his hair, which—even without getting up to look in his dresser mirror—he could tell was beyond salvaging at this point.

He dragged a hand over his face, his fingers flinching in surprise at the stubble that cropped up since he was last well enough to shave.

Resigning himself to the fact that there was no way he could resolve two days’ worth of unkemptness in the span of the few seconds he had left, he finally called for her to come in.

The door opened slowly to reveal Lady Penelope. She stood healthy, composed, and pristine, the opposite of everything Duncan was right now.

“My apologies for intruding, Your Grace,” she said.

“It’s hardly an intrusion if you’re just going to stand in the doorway,” Duncan teased, “but I suppose it's better that you stay safe rather than catch my cold as well.”

“No!” the young woman exclaimed. “I mean, it’s not that.” She looked down at her restlessly fidgeting hands. “I know we haven't been on the best terms of late and was unsure whether you’d even want to speak to me.”

Duncan reached for a handkerchief and covered his mouth with it as he coughed. When he was done, he gave her a weak smile. “I agree that things have been awkward between us, but not to the point where you have to act as though I’d bite your head off. You can come in if you want.”

She raised her hazel eyes to him, knocking the breath out of his already tortured lungs.

“Alternatively...” he added, “you can return to my mother and let her know that you did as she asked you to and that I'm all right.”

Duncan broke their eye contact as he asked drily, “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because Mother's desperate for someone—anyone—to get through to me.”

“Her Grace did ask me to come,” her voice answered.

Duncan scoffed softly, placing both hands under his head as he stared straight up at the underside of the canopy that hung over his bed.

Her footsteps drew closer. “But I was already worried. I just didn’t have the courage to-”

Duncan turned his head to face her, biting back the surprise at the sight of her form standing so close to his bed.

“Worried?” He raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me, Lady Pen, but I find that very difficult to believe.”

“Why?” she asked, her tone neither mocking nor teasing—but honest. “Is it not expected for friends to want to help each other?”

“I presumed our friendship ended that night under the archway,” he stated matter-of-factly, avoiding her gaze again. “At first, I worried and worried about what had pushed you to act so abruptly. But I eventually let it go once I realized that I have never been privy to your motivations.”

“That’s not true!” she protested.

Duncan reached for the half-filled glass of water on his nightstand once more and downed its contents in a giant gulp. The tasteless juice giving him the strength he needed to meet her gaze again.

“Isn't it?” He rubbed his temples to soothe the dull heaviness around them. “Even when things were going well between us, you still never even explained why a spinster like you suddenly decided that you wanted to get married—and by the end of this Season no less!”

She opened her mouth to answer but closed it again.

Duncan sat up straighter than before, his mind now gathering together all of the thoughts that had been plaguing him about Lady Penelope and pushing them out of his tongue.

“Do you see?" He gestured with both hands. “Even after everything we've been through, you still refuse to give up even a hint of the reason. Perhaps you never considered me a friend and that is why you pushed me away with such ease.”

“No!” she choked out forcefully.

Duncan was taken aback to see her eyes filled with tears, her eyebrows creased in frustration and maybe... pain?

Her hands balled into determined fists by her sides, she answered, “I would tell you! I want to tell you! I only pushed you away because-” her voice faltered, her pained expression plunging an invisible knife into Duncan’s chest. “If you only knew how much I- You-

She wiped a tear away on the back of her hand. “After burdening you with so much already, I saw no reason to burden you further with my family's problems.” Her lips pulled into a sarcastic smile. “I’m sorry for wishing to avoid troubling you more than necessary.”

“Your family’s problems?” he echoed cluelessly. “Do you mean Lady Punton’s grief? Because if so, that’s not a burden by any-”

“No, not her! But my-” Lady Penelope buried her hands in her face. “Never mind. Like I said, it’s my family, my problem.”

“I don't understand...” Duncan admitted, his voice just barely above a whisper. “How is this related to your search for a husband? Is Lady Punton forcing you to get-”

But it didn’t seem like Penelope heard him, wrapping her arms around herself as she turned around to leave. “This was a mistake,” she huffed.

“Lady Pen!” His arm extended towards her, but she was already out of reach. “Wait.”

The next thing he knew, the covers hit the floor as Duncan leaped to his feet, wrapping his arms around her to keep her here. To his surprise, it worked.

She didn’t squirm or shove him away, but she also didn’t turn around to face him. Her gaze remained transfixed on the half-opened door.

“I said wait,” he whispered into her hair, his voice cracking slightly. “Please.”

“Wait for what exactly, Your Grace?”

His eyes ran over her delicate frame, dwarfed by his own.

“I- I don’t even know,” Duncan confessed, his chest tense. “Please just... don’t cry.”

From this close, the faint smell of her perfume teased his nostrils, reminding him of their late-night escapades to the library downstairs or his study.

The exposed side of her porcelain neck caught his eye and a small part of him wondered whether that was the primary source from which the scent came. It took all his strength to hold himself back from sating his curiosity by crashing towards the ivory shoreline headfirst.

“Easier said than done,” she sighed. Duncan watched her shoulders drop as she spoke. “I’m afraid I have been crying quite a bit lately.”

His eyebrows drew together in a frown as his arms urgently tightened around her of their own accord,. “You have? Why? What did Gloushire-”

“He didn't do anything.” She cut him off, even without seeing her face he could tell from her voice that she was chewing her lip contemplatively again. “In fact, he... might even propose soon.”

Her words burned his hands off of her waist, and he kicked himself for having them there in the first place.

“That’s... great news.” Duncan cleared his throat, stepping back from her. “So I presume you’ve been crying tears of joy,” he teased, a feeble attempt at levity while also endeavoring to hide his own embarrassment.

She finally turned to face him, her cheeks tinged pink. “He’s... kind to me. But I think it’s too soon for him and his children, it has barely been a year since his first wife passed and I don't know if I can-”

“Don't you dare compare yourself to her,” Duncan growled, a hand reaching up to cup her puffy cheek. “Gloushire should be courting you for, well, you . And while I am sorry for his loss, if he is simply trying to use you for selfish indulgence, then I shall tear him apart with my own two han-”

He choked on a cough, forcing him to withdraw his hand to cover his mouth.

“You’re not tearing anything or anyone in this state,” Lady Penelope chastised him, raising a hand to his forehead to check for a fever. “Sit down,” she urged, her other palm pressing gently into his chest.

Doing as he was told, Duncan sank onto the edge of his bed, reaching for the pitcher of water on his nightstand to refill his glass.

“I’ll do it,” she insisted, her tone almost scolding. “Your ego was always too big for your own good, so at least this cold is a good reminder that you are not indestructible.”

Duncan rolled his eyes—an action he regretted immediately as it only served to intensify the haziness in his head. “Please, this cold is nothing more than an irritating obstacle to my work.”

He accepted the refilled glass from her with thanks, their fingers brushing momentarily.

She waited for him to finish the glass before she began again. “It would seem I’m not the only one harboring mysterious motivations and secrets in this friendship.”

Duncan knew perfectly well what she was referring to.

Much like Harlington and Fairhaven, Mother had made her stance on his new drinking habits abundantly clear. It was not inconceivable, then, that she had also expressed her concerns to Lady Penelope before sending her up here.

But pondering the reasons for his altered conduct was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

“Are you sure you even have the stomach to handle my secrets?” he asked with a sly grin.

His deflection worked. Lady Penelope brought a hand down to lightly smack his shoulder. “You’re terrible!” she groaned.

“Not anymore,” he grinned, leaning back on his palms after returning the glass to its place on the nightstand. “I feel much better.”