Page 37 of The Duke that I Lost

PROSSER HEIGHTS, MARGATE.

I t was scarcely nine o’clock, yet the Earl of Beresford’s study at Prosser Heights already felt oppressively warm.

Outside, the sun blazed uncommonly bright for England, pouring through tall windows and setting the dust motes aglow.

Inside, the air hung heavy with the mother of the bride’s perfume, clinging stubbornly and making each breath thick.

Dash tugged at his cravat. Edwards had tied it far too tight this morning—so tight it made it difficult to breathe. He would have a word with his valet later. Just because a man was marrying, didn’t mean he required a noose about his neck.

A floorboard gave a faint creak as the Reverend Alistair Compton shifted his weight. Slight and balding, with spectacles perched low on the bridge of his nose, the vicar wore the air of a man determined to get through an unpleasant duty as efficiently as possible.

“Are we ready, then?” he asked.

Dash stepped forward, the motion stiff, and turned toward his fiancée.

“Lady Hannah?”

She hesitated. Not for long—just enough to make Dash wonder if it was habitual, or if such reluctance was reserved for this day alone.

He could hardly blame her if it was the latter.

But then her head inclined in a single, graceful nod.

“Very good. Yes, very good,” the vicar said, his brightness forced. “Shall we begin, then? Your Grace, if you would stand here, and the bride…” He faltered, but was saved when Lady Hannah’s companion pushed the bride’s wheelchair forward.

“Very good… very good…” the vicar repeated.

When he opened his prayer book, a different kind of quiet settled even more heavily around them.

As the prayer commenced, Dash studied the girl at his side. There was a fragile sharpness to her frame, as though even the air might bruise her. Color rose and faded in her cheeks with each shallow breath, while shadows hollowed the delicate skin beneath her wide blue eyes.

Her high-necked muslin gown, ill-suited to the warmth of the day, could not disguise the cruel frailty of illness, nor the spare lines of her body.

Still, her posture was impeccable—back straight, chin lifted—as though discipline alone held her upright.

Only her hands betrayed her: trembling ceaselessly atop the pale blue lap blanket.

For a moment, Dash wondered where all the air in the room had gone. His cravat again—damn it. He was practically choking.

No.

It wasn’t the cravat.

It was her—not Lady Hannah.

Ambrosia .

The memory of her voice threaded through his mind, unbidden.

“ I have not known love, Dash… Just for tonight, won’t you…” An invisible vise squeezed his chest. “ Love me ?”

He’d broken the promise to himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully regret it.

“ I will never hate you .”

He had wanted to believe her. Needed to.

And yet, since leaving her, that voice haunted him, even now, on the one day he ought to be fully present.

“Do you, Dashwood Cochran étienne Philippe Jean-Baptiste Louis Beckman, the Duke of Dasborough, take Lady Hannah Marie Wrottesley to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The vicar’s voice should have chased his memories away.

“I do,” he said, the words landing like a stone in his chest.

His princesse would have felt great compassion for Lady Hannah. She might even have approved of this marriage, in the abstract.

He had done all he possibly could for Ambrosia. She would be fine—more than fine. She was strong, intelligent… beautiful. But even now, the ghost of her presence remained with him, unbidden.

“I do.” Lady Hannah’s voice—so soft he might have missed it—pulled him back.

He barely knew his bride. But that didn’t matter. If not for him, she wouldn’t be in need of his protection.

Her father wanted a duke, and a duke he would have.

“Do you have the rings?” the vicar prompted.

Gideon “Hawk” Rothmoor, Baron Hawkins, stepped forward bearing the rings on a small velvet cushion.

His friend’s dark hair was combed back neatly, his black coat cut to perfection, his cravat a crisp, immaculate white.

Yet for all his polish, there was no judgment in his eyes—only the quiet loyalty Hawk had carried since their days in the infirmary.

They had stood shoulder to shoulder more times than Dash could number.

The weight of the moment pressed hard, but Hawk’s presence lent a steadiness, a silent vow that Dash’s sacrifice would matter, that he wasn’t alone.

And he wasn’t. There were only five men alive who knew the truth, and they were all in this very room. Each had accepted the grim necessity of it, their silent presence a kind of muted absolution. This was for the best, they had agreed… and perhaps, in time, he would come to believe that too.

Dash accepted the two gold bands, but when he glanced down, he saw it—the slim circle of silver still on his finger. The one Ambrosia had chosen. The symbol of their false marriage which, in another life, perhaps they might have made real.

Discreetly, he eased it off and slid it onto his right hand.

He couldn’t very well keep it on his left, a bittersweet reminder of the woman he’d betrayed.

Ambrosia had believed in him—more than anyone—and he had failed her.

Miserably.

Perhaps he could salvage some scrap of honor here, with this poor girl beside him.

He would take her to Dasborough Park, far from the cold dictates of her parents.

His mother and Beatrice would keep her company.

Befriend her. From all he’d heard, she had been kept shuttered away from the world, denied even the simplest joys.

He would do his best to give her comfort. To protect her.

Maybe, just maybe, he could atone—one dutiful act at a time—for the debt he could never repay.

The rings were exchanged, vows spoken, and a quiet murmur of approval drifted through the small assembly. No cheering, no grand display—only the solemn acknowledgment of a union bound before God and man.

Not long after, the wedding breakfast was set out in the earl’s ballroom to celebrate their union—although, “celebrate” was perhaps an overly cheerful term, as the occasion was marked with a modest arrangement of minimally decorated tables, polished silver, and polite conversation dulled to a hush.

At the head table, Lady Hannah sat beside Dash, her hands tucked beneath the tablecloth. She had hardly touched her plate, and though he noticed, he made no comment.

With Ambrosia, he would have coaxed a bite or two, teased her into eating with a smile or a shared jest.

But Hannah was not Ambrosia.

Where his princesse had looked at a meal with quiet, almost guilty longing, Hannah regarded her plate as though it were a mountain she had neither the strength nor the will to climb.

“I hope this isn’t too much,” he said quietly, angling his body toward hers. “If you’d prefer somewhere quieter, we can move to one of the smaller drawing rooms.”

Her lips curved in a faint smile. “You are kind, Your Grace, but you mustn’t concern yourself. Although, perhaps if I could…” She glanced around. “Lark?” There was noticeable strain in her voice.

Before he could respond, the companion appeared—Miss Lark Montague, a young woman with watchful eyes and an air of calm competence. “Shall we take some air, my lady?” she asked, her tone gentle but decisive.

Lady Hannah looked back to Dash. “Forgive me,” she murmured.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, meaning it. None of this was her fault.

As Miss Montague began to wheel his new bride toward the open French doors, the companion met Dash’s gaze over her shoulder—steady and a little grateful.

He inclined his head in silent acknowledgment.

When they were gone, he glanced toward the other end of the table where the Earl of Beresford stood, laughing with two of the countess’s cousins. The sound was too loud, too false.

But he’d gotten what he wanted. A duke for a son-in-law.

Even if Dash wasn’t his original choice.

Dash’s jaw tightened. The man barely seemed to notice his daughter’s absence—barely seemed to notice her at all.

Dash took a sip of the lemonade that someone had placed in front of him and grimaced. Warm. Diluted.

Hawk arrived at the table, lifting a porcelain cup in greeting.

The tea within nearly sloshed over the rim, dark and steaming, no doubt the strong blend he always favored.

He had long since sworn off spirits, and now brought his own supply to such gatherings—a habit that never failed to remind Dash of that fateful night long ago…

“The first of us to fall,” Hawk said with mock cheer. “Congratulations, old chum.”

“Your time will come,” Dash murmured.

The Earl of Grimstead—Grimm—strolled up a moment later, all languid elegance and wry amusement, though Dash knew how quickly that charm could turn to steel. “Thought you might need fortifying,” he said, passing over a glass of brandy identical to his own.

“Ah, so that was the purpose of the second brandy,” Longstaffe drawled as he came up. “Not like you to be so excessively thoughtful, Ashe.”

Grimm scoffed, hand to his chest in mock affront. “Excessively thoughtful? You make it sound a vice. I’ll have you know I can be considerate when the mood strikes.”

“Right.” Longstaffe rolled his eyes, then turned to Dash. “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you. Honestly, I’m shocked your new in-laws allowed this reprobate to join us at all. He hasn’t exactly courted polite society.”

At that, Dash huffed a bitter laugh. “I doubt that matters to them at all. As far as Beresford is concerned, so long as one holds enough influence, the rest does not signify. Not honor or manners…” He trailed off as a familiar figure caught his attention from across the room. The brandy in his mouth turned bitter.

“Or a penchant for sadism?” Hawk finished for him, having followed his gaze.

Dash merely nodded.

Dudley Groby was currently exchanging pleasantries with the Beresfords, the dissolution of their agreement apparently not enough to discourage a friendship between the two.

Tall and slim, with dark brown hair and eyes that were cold and empty as a dark pit, Groby only superficially resembled his late half-brother, though it was always a bit of a shock to see him out and about.

“He looks like Sebastian, doesn’t he?” Hawk remarked, as if idly noting the weather—yet echoing Dash’s private thought too neatly for comfort.

Sometimes Dash wondered if his old friend didn’t see straight through him.

Hawk gave a dry snort. “I’m astonished the lout even wanted to attend—after being snubbed in favor of a real duke. ”

He nudged Dash’s shoulder with a weak attempt at a smirk, and Dash replied in kind. Although he wasn’t exactly happy with the outcome, he was glad to have been able to save Lady Hannah from a man who, by his sister’s account, may well turn out to be a true villain.

But of course, Grimm broke up the small moment of levity with ease.

“He’ll find some other victim soon enough,” he threw in like a dagger, callous as ever. “If what he claims is true, that is. If he really does become Lovington, half of London’s debutantes will be trailing after him by this time next year.”

Dash’s small smile twisted into a grimace. Unfortunately, that likely wasn’t even untrue, but it wasn’t as though there was anything he could do about it. He couldn’t exactly marry every naive young lady Groby tried to ensnare, could he?

If it came to it, they might be able to hold him up in the House of Lords, though a solution like that was only temporary at best.

A final figure arrived then, saving him from having to reply one way or another—Camden Rensleight, the Earl of Blackwell.

Golden-haired and possessed of the sort of good looks much extolled in drawing rooms and tittered over behind fans, he was the eldest of them, though only by a handful of months.

And months hardly signified, considering they had all come of age together—figuratively, if not literally.

“Thanks for coming, Black.” Dash dipped his chin.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” the other man said.

“Even if the entertainment’s sorely lacking,” Grimm drawled.

Now that they were all here, Dash came out from around the table, and together they drifted toward the far end of the room, their formation instinctive, a habit born out of necessity.

After a few seconds of silence, Longstaffe looked to Dash pointedly. “There are some notable new arrivals this Season I thought you might like to hear about.”

“The meeting in Mayfair?” he asked, his tone casual.

“It went well.” Longstaffe’s answer was swift. “Everything’s in place. Pleasant chit like her won’t have any trouble, especially with my aunt’s sponsorship.”

Grimm’s mouth quirked, his gaze glinting with something almost wicked. “Pleasant indeed.”

Dash didn’t press. Not today. But the devilish glimmer in Grimm’s eyes lingered, a burr beneath the skin.

Hawk shifted the air by lifting his cup of tea. “To Sebastian,” he said, voice low but unwavering.

A hush fell round them. The wedding breakfast carried on—china clinking, muted laughter, the scrape of cutlery—but within their small circle, silence held. Each man was caught in the same memory, and yet each bore it differently.

Longstaffe’s gaze dropped to his drink. “He was the best of us that summer,” he murmured.

Blackwell exhaled. “Never to see seven and ten.”

The flash came to Dash unbidden—drunken laughter on a cliffside, the salt stinging his nose, the jolt of steel ringing up his arm as blades clashed.

His muscles burned with the effort, yet he and his opponent both grinned like fools, their bravado fed by spirits pilfered from a master’s desk.

What had begun in jest had shifted, stroke by stroke, into something harder?—

And then… nothing.

His grip closed tight around the brandy glass.

They had all agreed this was necessary. The only way to keep Lady Hannah from the man circling to take Sebastian’s place—a man whose reputation for cruelty had grown with each passing year.

Dash met each of their gazes in turn, feeling the solid wall they made around him. “To Sebastian,” he said, his voice low.

Five vessels touched in quiet accord.

And although Dash would never shed this burden of guilt, he felt the very faintest easing around his throat.

Following that first toast, Grimm lifted his drink a second time. “To the Duke of Dasborough.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “May God help you and protect you—and may your conscience allow you to take a mistress.”

Dash groused but lifted his glass nonetheless.

He would not.

It was too soon to think of being with any other woman than the one he’d walked out on five days ago.