Page 22 of All Duke and Bothered

“Ah,” said Robbins with a cheeky smile. He frequented brothels like a lady frequented a modiste. “Is that true, Grandhampton?”

Preston felt rage boiling in his gut. He may not love Penelope and never would, but she was still his. His wife. Spencer’s love.

Before he could reply, Robbins said, “If you’re still unsure about her… That is, if the marriage isn’t consummated, do let me know and I’ll do it for you—”

It was Preston’s drunk mind. Nothing more. Surely not any desire to defend his wife’s honor that made him jerk up, his arms reaching out, fists curling around the man’s collar. He dragged Robbins to a standing position, brought his fist back, and slammed it into the man’s face. The sound of the hard slap of flesh against flesh cracked the air, and a satisfying pain burst through his knuckles. He hit him again and again, meeting nose and cheekbone and eye. Blood burst through the man’s nose.

He couldn’t move his arms anymore. Several men held him by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Grandhampton,” said Robbins, holding his nose. “I didn’t mean to disrespect your duchess.”

“Do not show your face here ever again,” growled Preston, rage still seething within him, his vision red.

“You must leave, Your Grace,” said one of the men holding him. “Please leave. Your membership is hereby revoked.”

“Damn it,” muttered Preston as he walked towards the exit with the floor swaying and tilting under his feet.

He didn’t remember how he got back to Chalworth. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep in the carriage. He only remembered going to the only room he felt was a refuge, his study. Then he found Spencer’s letter and cried reading it.

Then he remembered nothing.

10

Penelope beat her fist into the pillow under her head. Her room was dark, and the duke was long gone—probably in some brothel kissing another woman, since Penelope’s company was so repugnant to him.

The coals must have died in the grate, and even under the thick blanket, she was still cold. She watched the shadows of moonlit tree branches dancing on the wall above the elaborate fireplace. As the wind moved them, they scraped against the window. She turned and looked at the ceiling over her head. Mahogany beams crossed in perfect square patterns with dozens of carved faces in their center, surrounded by a perfect wreath of vines, staring at her.

Unease crawled along her spine. She missed her home. She missed Alex. And, oh goodness gracious, how she missed Mama. She sent a prayer to Mama, for the hundredth time, wishing to ask her for advice, for support…for a kind word of reassurance. Anything to make her feel strong and determined again. Anything to get her through this.

But she was alone. So alone.

And she’d be alone for the rest of her life.

With only the dying coals, the scraping tree branches, and the unseeing faces to keep her company.

No.

She sat up. That was not who she was. She had hidden away in her bedchamber long enough. If this was supposed to be her new home, she wouldn’t let some carved wood and overgrown trees intimidate her.

She turned in the bed and placed her feet on the soft carpet protruding from under her bed, then put on her house slippers. Then she sparked the flint and lit the candle on her bedside table.

In the dim light, she picked up her shawl from the chair by the bed and wrapped it over her shoulders, then stood up. The candlelight casting even more wild shadows against the walls, she walked towards the door separating her and the duke’s bedrooms and pressed her ear to the cold surface. She listened for a while, but there was not a sound.

He must still be out.

Good. Without him present, she could do anything.

She opened her main bedroom door and walked out into the corridor. Light fought the darkness away as she bravely walked towards the stairs, ignoring the screeching of old floorboards and the whispers of the wind through gaps around the windows, and God knew what else.

She’d been told there was a large library downstairs. It must contain books on art. This whole house was like an art exhibition, the pride and joy of any art collector. It was her home now, so she ought to make it her home.

She opened the door to the library and gasped softly as her candle cast light on a large room with bookshelves covering every inch of the walls. There was a massive writing desk, two sofas standing by the dark fireplace, and several chairs for reading were spread throughout the room. It smelled like books—pungent and holy. She smiled as she went to one of the shelves and ran her fingers across the spines. There couldn’t be ghosts in this room. And if there were any, they’d be friendly. She’d have much in common with them.

She briefly noted the author names and book titles as she moved along the shelves. She’d walked the perimeter of the whole room when she noticed a door to what must be another room. What could it be?

Feeling cheeky, and with curiosity bubbling in her stomach, she pushed the door open and froze. Her candle crackled softly as did another one standing on the desk by the window of the smaller room, which housed fewer shelves and fewer books. On the chair next to the desk sat her husband, his chin resting on his chest.

Snoring gently.