Page 27 of Mad Duke March

The duke hadn’t even acknowledged her as his wife. He’d taken away her allowance. She was living under his roof like a beggar and she looked like it too.

Fury and shame burned inside her, traveling from the tip of her toes to the top of her head. She felt the spark of anger that was threatening to ignite.

She was not angry with these people, who judged her without knowing her. No. She was angry at her reprobate of a husband who let this happen. Who left her all alone and unprotected while drinking himself into oblivion.

And then things got even worse.

A few feet away, she noticed the O’Malley family walking toward them. In the first row, Astrid walked, her arm entwined with her mother’s, and a few discrete paces away was Bernard with a beautiful young lady on his arm.

Something stuck inside Emily’s throat resembling a large boulder, obstructing her breathing. Her face burned even more, scalding her cheeks and drying her mouth. She couldn’t feel her legs, or any of her limbs really—it was a miracle she managed to move at all.

She turned toward Astrid and directed her a wobbly smile, ready to greet the woman, except at that exact moment, Mrs. O’Malley pointedly turned away, shielding her daughter and openly cutting Emily in front of the park full of people. “Some people should learn,” she proclaimed loudly as they passed Emily, “that it requires a lot more to be a duchess than just marrying a title.”

Emily swallowed hard. Her eyes burned with tears and she bit her lip painfully to keep from crying out. Her lost gaze met Bernard’s and for a moment, she thought she’d found solace.

They were friends. They used to be in love. He cared about her, she knew.

But instead of support or encouragement, he took a cue from his mother and pointedly turned away.

Emily was ready to pick up her skirts and scamper away right then and there. She’d be happier if the earth opened up and swallowed her whole. But her mother tightened her grip on her and spoke through her feigned smile. “Just keep walking, darling. Don’t give them more reasons to gossip. You did nothing wrong.”

Emily swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe again.

No, I’ve done everything wrong.

Chapter Nine

The dimly lit tavern was ablaze with vibrant colors and sparkling lights, casting a glittering haze over everything in sight. Tyrone picked up a glass of whisky and tossed it down his throat. The lively music was like a symphony of pure bliss and joy, each note resonating within him and filling him with inexplicable delight.

“Let’s dance!” He tugged on the arm of a bar wench and spun her onto the dance floor.

The people around him became dazzling figures, their movements as graceful as swans. The women in their flowing dresses and shining hair seemed otherworldly, and his friends were like jovial giants, booming laughter and jokes that seemed to fill the entire room.

In this dreamlike state, Tyrone felt like he was on top of the world. All his worries and troubles had vanished, leaving him with nothing but pure, unadulterated joy.

The world was spinning around him, the lights flickering and the people’s faces blurring into one. He didn’t care. He was lost in the magic of the moment, a child again, free of all the weight and worries of adulthood. He could feel the eyes of the women on him, admiring his charm and style, and it only added to his sense of elation.

For Tyrone, there was no sadness, no regret, no pain.

Someone tapped on his shoulder, and he turned around to a large, bald man, staring down at him from his great height.

“What’s the matter, good sir?” Tyrone slurred.

“Get your hands off my wench, you toff!” he growled.

“Which wench?” Tyrone theatrically looked around. Then he snaked his arm around the woman’s waist and brought her closer to his body. “Oh, this one?”

The next moment he was sitting on the floor, the area around his eye radiating pain. Someone rushed past him and tackled the giant who’d just threatened—quite possibly punched—Tyrone.

A sudden loud bang sounded as someone smashed a bottle on the floor. Chaos erupted as fists started flying and chairs were hurled across the room. Tyrone rolled to the side, then deftly got to his feet and punched some man in the face. He didn’t care who he was punching, as long as he got a few shots in. He was caught up in the brawl, swinging his fists wildly at anyone who came too close. His blood boiled and a smile broke out on his face. In this state, Tyrone knew he was invincible. He was a king, surrounded by his loyal subjects, and everything was bright, shiny, and perfect.

He didn’t quite notice how it happened, but before he knew it, he was thrown on his arse, polishing the cobblestones with his breeches. The cold air hit him like a slap in the face, sobering him up a little. But the exhilaration of the moment was still with him, and he knew he couldn’t let the night end just yet.

He laughed loudly, looking at his friends who were lying beside him in a drunken heap, then waved a hand. “The night is still young, gentlemen. I know a place where we can find a few more bottles of whisky.” He grinned with wild abandon.

A racket downstairs woke Emily up. She sat up, squinting in the dark, listening intently when a loud knock sounded at the door. Her doorknob rattled before Sophie flew into her room.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered, her eyes wild as she climbed frantically into Emily’s bed.