Page 28 of While the Duke Was Sleeping (England’s Sweethearts #1)

“Full house.” Rhett rubbed his hands together as the others flipped over their cards. The pots were small this far from London, which meant he had the blunt to buy in with what cash he had in his pocket, but winning enough to fund his way to Europe was going to be a long, hard slog.

“Another ale, please,” he said as the barmaid passed. After he’d run his uncle’s motor into a ditch, he’d been forced to trudge through snow to reach the nearest inn. His feet were still numb, his nose was red, and he was worried his todger had succumbed to frostbite.

Lord Geoffrey Kingston wrinkled his nose. “Ale? Peasants drink ale. Gentlemen drink brandy.”

“I’m no gentleman.” Ale reminded him of where he was going—the big cities of Europe where he could disappear in the crowd, becoming only Mr. Montgomery.

“Don’t tell the ladies, or there goes half of your charm. All you’d be left with is your pretty looks.” Kingston sniggered.

“Plenty of men have lived entire lives based on wit and looks.” Rhett would do just that. Peter wouldn’t reinstate Rhett’s allowance, not now that he’d abandoned the opportunity to take on a proper job. Rhett would have to be more circumspect with the women he entertained. Instead of flirting with the most enigmatic lady in the room, he’d need to look for the one who wore the largest jewels. Generous gifts could supplement his gambling income and any seasonal work he found picking fruit.

“You could run with us for a while,” Lord Ainslie said. “As long as you promise not to thrash us at cards every night.”

“Are you going to the continent?” Rhett asked.

Ainslie shrugged. “Paris, maybe Rome.”

“Cádiz?” The carnival was in a couple of months. It was always a good time—the undulating throng of bodies, the sound of bells and drums, and the wild cracking of fireworks.

Ainslie shuddered. “That’s far too close to the heathens, Montgomery. I was thinking something a little more refined.”

More refined. More like London society, he means. Rhett couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be part of the beau monde regardless of what city it was in. There, he would always be the lesser brother.

“Thank you for the invitation, but I’m planning to travel a little farther than that. Perhaps even Africa.” There were plenty of opportunities for adventure there. Hell, he was a decent shot. Perhaps he could make a name for himself as a game hunter, protecting settlements from lions, cheetahs, and hippos. Then, when he was forced to come home, he could armor himself with stories so fantastical that no one would think to suggest he settle down.

“There aren’t many women in Africa,” Kingston said.

“I’m fairly sure Africa has the same proportion of men to women as England.”

“There aren’t many beddable women.”

Rhett didn’t agree with that. Some of the most exquisite women he’d ever seen had warm, midnight skin. But that wasn’t the point of traveling to exotic lands. He didn’t want to fuck his way around the African expanse. He didn’t want to engage with women at all unless it was purely about money. He was done. After years of protecting himself, he’d once again fallen in love with a woman, and this time, she hadn’t even existed.

His mug was still empty, so he reached across the table for Kingston’s brandy glass and downed it in one gulp, taking pleasure in the way it burned his throat.

“Hey,” Kingston protested.

Rhett tossed him one of his hard-won bills. “Let’s just play.” Africa was at least another twenty pounds away, and then he’d have an entire ocean between him and a certain redheaded woman who’d taken root in his heart.

“Ouch!” Adelaide winced as the local seamstress Jac had found accidentally jabbed a pin into her rib cage.

“Apologies, my lady.” The woman flushed and wrung her hands.

“It’s fine,” Adelaide said. “It was simply unexpected.”

Cordelia, who was watching from an armchair, arched a brow. “Yes, I hear blood red is the look du jour at all the fashionable weddings.”

Adelaide tried to silence her former mistress with a sharp glare. A distraught seamstress with a handful of pins was not less likely to make a mistake. Every sharp-tongued crack Cordelia made further risked Adelaide walking out of this fitting as a pincushion. Even Cordelia’s high-pitched sneezing caused the seamstress to flinch.

“That dress is decades out of fashion,” Cordelia said, sneezing again.

“It was the duke’s mother’s. Jacqueline and Edwina retrieved it from the attic.”

“It should have stayed there, or at the very least, been aired out properly.” Achoo! “I’m allergic to camphor, you know.”

Adelaide rolled her eyes. “I know. It was on the very comprehensive list of directions when you hired me—no camphor in the wardrobe.”

“Precisely.”

Adelaide sighed. “You are under no obligation to stay. I’m sure Mrs. Beetham is more than capable of refitting this dress without your oversight.”

The seamstress nodded vigorously, but Cordelia didn’t shift. “I’m fine where I am. Thank you very much.”

The seamstress’s hopeful look faded, and she turned her attention back to the waist of what was to be Adelaide’s wedding dress.

Your wedding dress. She shivered. Rarely had she allowed herself to imagine a wedding. Marriage was a rather permanent step. She’d always known better than to think any relationship would last that long. Even Rhett had left without even a backward glance.

No, Adelaide didn’t do permanence, except, apparently, she was about to.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Adelaide. The plan was for a home of your own. A walled garden and a heavy fucking dresser. You didn’t go into this looking for a family to lose.

Adelaide had been on a train once. She’d taken the Orient Express from Paris to Constantinople just for the thrill. The speed at which they’d whipped through the countryside had been exhilarating. In the intertwining mess of excitement and fear, she’d wondered how she could possibly trust this behemoth of a vehicle not to tip over around curves or collide with another train. It moved too fast to stop suddenly. She’d realized it was impossible to get off if she changed her mind about her destination or the train itself. She’d been trapped.

Marriage to the duke felt much the same. It was taking her to where she wanted to go—a home and gardens she could sculpt into whatever secret hideaway she wanted. But it also came with family, and so where she should feel excitement, all she felt was fear.

What if this marriage crashed? What if Peter wasn’t like his siblings? What if her secret got out, and the ton was vicious? What if she got bored? What if she never got over Rhett and was forced to pine over him at family occasions for the rest of her life?

She swallowed back the thought of sitting across from him, unable to touch him, watching him smile and joke with his siblings, knowing that he would no longer do so with her.

Adelaide’s heart rate kicked up a notch, and nausea roiled in her belly. She fanned herself with her hand, praying she wouldn’t cast up her accounts.

“Is it too tight, my lady?” the seamstress asked. She pulled free a few pins, loosening the waist, but it did nothing to help Adelaide breathe.

There was no getting off this train. The archbishop had arrived that morning, expecting to perform funeral rites, and was instead readying himself for a wedding. He’d grumbled about the lack of pomp and circumstance but had agreed to perform the service regardless, which meant that in twenty-four hours, she would be the Duchess of Strafford.

“You look awfully morose for a person who’s about to be wed,” Cordelia said.

“I dare say I look happier than you did, or did you forget that you almost passed out at my feet?”

Cordelia scowled. “I was given no choice in who I wed. You are free to do as you like. That is the difference between us.”

She’s right. You chose this, Adelaide. You chose the duke. She closed her eyes against the pain that buffeted her. Rhett wasn’t an option. He wants nothing to do with you. He discovered your betrayal, and he left.

“It was the right choice. Marriage to His Grace gives me everything I’ve ever wanted.” If she said it loud enough, with enough confidence, perhaps she would believe it. Because it didn’t ring true right now.

That morning, she’d stood in a room that would be hers, staring up at an ugly bear’s head with gilded teeth that would also soon be, in theory, hers. She had more knickknacks than she could ever have accumulated on her own, and she still felt a lacking. She had the house, but it didn’t feel like home. She’d gone from room to room, and not one of them had given her that same sense of belonging she’d felt in that disgusting dockside tavern as Rhett had braided her hair.

“ Does this marriage give you everything?” Cordelia’s tone suggested that she thought otherwise. “I admire your practicality. I can’t help but want one particular person to love.”

And there it was, the first clue to explain why Della was in this mess to begin with. “Is that why you ran away from Hornsmouth?”

Cordelia narrowed her eyes. “That’s still an impertinent question, Adelaide. You’re not a duchess yet.”

“Will you answer it when I am?”

“Have you never wanted that one person?” Cordelia countered, refusing to answer the question or acknowledge her momentary slip.

Rhett. You wanted Rhett. She pasted an unaffected look on her face. “Relationships are fleeting. One needs to make decisions based on common sense.”

You should leave now, Adelaide. Common sense says find another path. This one will hurt too much.

Before she could act on the thought, Jac and Winnie bounced into the room. Their unbridled joy for tomorrow’s events should have been a comfort. Instead, it was a sharp contrast to her own hesitation. She could not match their eagerness to be sisters. Losing one’s sister would no doubt hurt as much as losing one’s love.

“Mrs. Carlyle is far from happy about catering such an important event at the last minute, but I have convinced her to prepare goat’s cheese tartlets, as they are Peter’s favorite,” Jac said.

“Then we realized we do not know your favorite food,” Winnie stated. Both girls stared at her, waiting.

“I truly don’t mind what food is served.”

“That’s not an answer to our question,” Jac said.

“Technically, you didn’t ask a question,” Cordelia muttered.

Jac turned her back to Cordelia and prodded Adelaide. “Well, what is your favorite food? We must make sure Mrs. Carlyle prepares it. It’s the happiest day of your life. You’ll want to be eating your favorite foods.”

“Besides, this is the type of thing we should know about our new sister, don’t you think?” Winnie added, taking Adelaide’s hand.

Adelaide smiled tightly. “Beef cheeks, with butternut pumpkin, potatoes, and gravy.”

“Liar.” Cordelia snorted.

Jac pursed her lips, ignoring the comment. Once she’d realized Adelaide was not Cordelia, all her memories of Cordelia’s ballroom smarminess had come flooding back. She was not outwardly antagonistic, but that was the best she could manage. “Beef cheeks are an odd choice for a wedding luncheon, but we will make it work.”

The two sisters left to continue executing the most fanciful wedding they could, given their limited time and supplies.

“Why didn’t you tell them the truth?”

“About what?”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “That you are mad for pastries. Every single stop we made on the way here, you found some excuse to incorporate pastries into our meal.”

“You’re imagining things.” How ridiculous that Cordelia, of all people, had been around long enough to learn this intimate thing about her. That Cordelia was, perhaps, her most enduring relationship.

“But I’m not imagining it. You say you want the Montgomery siblings to be your family, but you refuse to be honest with them. I saw your eyes widen when they showed that dress to you. You think it’s hideous.”

“I—” Adelaide avoided looking down at the dressmaker, who was intently pinning the hem, trying to blend in with the rug. The dress was hideous. She’d much rather get married in something simple—light green, perhaps, or purple. Something with less lace and far less bustle.

“If you’re not going to be honest with them, Adelaide, you should at least be honest with yourself. These people are annoyingly high-spirited and seem to be very fond of you. Are you capable of returning their affections?”

Della threw her hands into the air. “What would you have me do, Cordelia? Run away as you did? Should I wait until I’m at the altar? What am I to do after that? Go back into service or back to the continent, where I’m not even sure when my next meal will be?

“I want a home, damn it. I want a piano so big that I can’t move it and a bed that hasn’t been replaced in decades because no one can work out how to get it out of the room. I want the freedom to stay in one spot for as long as I like. Marriage to the Duke of Strafford gives me that, and I will brook no more conversation on the matter.”

Cordelia raised an eyebrow but said nothing further. Instead, she reached into her reticule and pulled out a fistful of jewels from her ill-fated dress. “Here. Perhaps they will bring better luck to your wedding than they did to mine.”