Page 4 of The Duke Undone

Collins looked inclined to argue. When Anthony’s father was alive, he wouldn’t have dared twitch an eyelid.

“That’s all.” Anthony spoke curtly and folded himself back into the study, slamming the door. For a moment, he leaned against it. Blood was rolling over his elbow.

For months, he’d been honing his performance, acting the well-behaved gelding, blinkered and biddable. Following the rules laid out in the codicil to his father’s will.

No drink. No scandal.

By day, at least.

He’d be damned if he let bloody Perry Forbes jeopardize his future.

“Get up.”

Forbes shuffled on his knees, goggling up at him. Perhaps the command was too complex.

“Up,” he said. Then, in a few short strides, he closed the distance and hauled Forbes to his feet, injured arm burning like fire.

He took a breath through his mouth. Nonetheless, Forbes’s smell flooded him. Stale tobacco. Whiskey. His mouth didn’t water, but it felt . . . awake. Needful. Christ, he craved the heat of alcohol, the way it burned, distracting from the deeper pain. The way it blurred his thoughts.

Forbes was whimpering now with impotent rage.

“Sit,” said Anthony and pushed him down into a chair. He picked up the revolver, checked the cylinder, then pocketed it. He didn’t need a gun to find out what in the bloody hell was going on. Standing over Forbes, he blinked, noticing for the first time that the study was dark, with an unpleasant chill. Before, as he’d sat behind the desk squinting down at that letter, the gloom had seemed natural, an emanation from within.

What was that sentence he’d read again and again?

My babes have grown so thin, I could keep them in my pincushion.

And that was only one sentence, in one letter. He’d received a half dozen letters from tenants on his estate. They’d come bundled together in a small packet assembled by the parson.

Damn. Damn. Damn. The day’s refrain.

Anthony rounded the desk. Sunlight beamed through the bullet hole in the drape. Lucky the bullet hadn’t shattered a pane of glass. He pulled open the drapes and sunlight poured in. He glanced at the splintered wood of the casing, then at Forbes, who slumped against an armrest, head in his hand. The light shone on his white scalp where the dark hair had thinned. Anthony threw himself into his chair. His arm throbbed. He reached for his handkerchief, then thought better of it.

“Give me your handkerchief,” he said, and Forbes silently handed over the square of white silk. He watched dully as Anthony removed his jacket. The sight of the bloodied shirtsleeve made the color drain from Forbes’s face.

That’s right. Anthony felt a grim satisfaction as Forbes blanched. You shot a duke.

The wound was shallow. Just a scratch, really. With his right hand and his teeth, he knotted the handkerchief into a makeshift bandage. Again, the irony struck him. Field dressing a bullet wound at one of London’s best addresses. He laughed and Forbes flinched. Not a complete imbecile, then. He didn’t mistake the laughter for a sign of good humor.

“Start talking.” Anthony’s tone was mild. “Your companions usually beg you to desist, I know. Enjoy the novelty.”

“How long . . .” Forbes whispered the words, head bowed.

“Can’t hear you.”

“How long . . .” Forbes started again, louder now. “How long have you . . . and she . . .”

He lifted his head and met Anthony’s eyes squarely. The idiot was in deadly earnest. It became him. He looked almost ennobled by his sincerity.

“God almighty,” Forbes said quietly. “I love her.”

Comprehension dawned.

“What’s this?” said Anthony, leaning forward. “Forbes, you’re a greater fool than I’d imagined. I’ve never interfered with your wife.”

He cast about in his memory for an image. If recollection served, she’d been the pretty blonde with the curls at Buxton’s masquerade, the one garlanded with flowers. Ribboned crook, vulpine smile. Yes, he could picture her.

“You did. You seduced her.” Forbes’s voice quavered. “Maybe drugged her with some foul tincture.”