Chapter Twenty-Six

“It’s time for you to learn to be a duke, my boy.”

Giles cracked his lids open enough to allow in a blur of light and color. He must have slept, contrary to what he’d believed would happen, because he hadn’t heard the intrusion. But the words hadn’t come from a dream. Which had to mean…another night. Another morning. Another unwanted visitor. This was becoming a terrible pattern in his life.

Perhaps Holbrook would leave him to haunt Glenrose. Alone. Or as alone as one could be with a selection of a few trusted servants.

The bed curtains were already pulled aside, but this time the light was unmistakably of the morning. It was soft. With the glowing promise of fresh starts. What Miss Emery had said about rising from the ashes beat about in his brain.

“It’s a new day. The day you must begin again.” Silverlund’s voice rumbled through the room. “You’ve had enough time to come to terms with your altered existence.”

The duke sounded as if he were trying to rouse troops, though Giles remained silent on that score. To have remarked as much would have put them too close to treading congenial ground, a place Giles had no intention of going with the man. “I must, must I? Why don’t you get to the point?”

“I already have. You weren’t listening.”

“Humor me.” Giles pushed to sitting and dangled his legs off the edge of the bed. He’d slept badly on his right arm, and the damn thing had gone numb. There was nothing to do but wait it out. He hadn’t the use of the other arm to rub life back into it.

“Every hour of every day and in everything I do, I humor you.”

“Be that as it may…”

“It’s time for you to learn to be a duke.”

Learn to be a duke. How much worse could his life become?

But the thought played in his mind, like a tiny string from a bit of frayed fabric caught in an indifferent breeze. Giles hated his own company. Hated food in his mouth and drink pouring down his throat. Hated the sight of his room.

He stared unfocused, for the thousandth time, into the bedchamber. Into nothing.

Or…something? The light. The new day. Learn to be a duke.

All his life, he’d put his faith in what could be observed through the senses, especially what could be seen. Was it time to put his faith in the unseen? Maybe this whole time, his whole life, he’d been wrong about himself…about everything. He hadn’t been born to paint and fuck. He’d been born to be a duke. Quite literally bred for it.

His right arm started tingling and then bloomed into a thousand hot needles attacking the skin all at once. Giles cringed, thinking through muddled senses and physical discomfort. Oh heaven help him, was his father…did he dare think it? Was his father…right?

Giles blinked his surroundings into focus and stared his father dead in the eye. “Fine.”

If the acceptance shocked Silverlund, not one muscle in his face betrayed the emotion. The duke snapped his fingers in the air. A manservant appeared from the shadows. The duke gave him a single nod and the man set immediately to work—on Giles.

“What’s this about?” Giles spoke to the duke as he allowed the servant to ease him to standing.

“My valet will attend you.”

“What’s wrong with mine?”

“Mine’s better.”

An hour later, the proof of the duke’s words was absent from Giles’s reflection. He’d been shaved and his hair had been cut. Neither smooth face nor the shorter length enhanced his appearance. On the contrary. The hollows in his cheeks were darker and the circles under his eyes more pronounced.

His impeccable clothing was absurdly somber. Black. And white. Nothing else, not a hint, as if the fabric of the finely cut jacket didn’t dare defy Silverlund’s desires.

That, however, was just as well. If the world could betray Giles by retaining color after he was destroyed, he would have to settle into permanent protest and wear none a’tall.

The duke seemed as close to satisfied as the man could probably come. Viewed in particular light, his grimace might almost have been a smile. “You’ll do.”

Down the stairs and outside, Giles allowed himself to be led wordlessly into the Silverlund carriage—a grand affair, not afraid of taking up precious space on narrow roads. It boasted a coat of arms that gleamed rather more garishly than usual. Each of the four carriage horses was an inky black except for one sliver of white above each hoof. Where the duke managed to procure four such horses with no markings but for those perfect coronets was a mystery. Maybe they were painted on.

Giles paused before ascending the conveyance, taking it all in. A duke might be a thing of the mind, but it required a theater of sorts to support the illusion.

No. He wasn’t going to debate with himself the seen versus the unseen. He’d find himself thinking about visual representation again…and his inability to ever again partake in the creation of beautiful things.

A silent hour later, the carriage stopped. In front of a small church.

From the window, Giles peered up and down the street. This was a section of London with which he was not familiar. He leaned back again. “What are we doing here?”

“I would have assumed that was obvious.”

“We’re to pray together?”

“Try again.”

…

It was another tense late morning in the small drawing room where Patience and her parents sat together flagrantly ignoring the gossip about Patience flying about London. Because nobody would discuss the matter, the atmosphere was stifling.

Mrs. Emery set aside her empty teacup and reread the section of newspaper over which she’d already pored, then gasped. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it! My love, you must listen to this.” She waved for her husband’s attention, her eyes never leaving the dark print on the smoothly ironed sheet.

Patience took another rose cake from the tea tray. The cakes were the very slightest bit warm, and Cook had iced them just so. She sank her teeth into the cake and let her eyes fall shut as the delicate flavors and perfect hint of sweetness filled her mouth and melted on her tongue.

Which left Patience in a precarious position at her mother’s next exclamation. “That horrible, depraved marquess—you know, the son of that wretched, odious duke who ruined our Patience’s life—is actually getting married.”

Crumbs spewed across the room. Suddenly, all eyes were on Patience, her parents’ and Frances’s, who’d appeared with fresh hot water. The maid darted to Patience’s side. “Are you all right, miss?”

Patience’s eyes watered as she coughed and coughed. Getting married? Ashcroft? No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

But how many other marquesses did England have that her mother would describe in those terms?

“Quickly, Frances, fresh tea for Miss Emery.”

The maid quickly poured a new cup, filling the delicate cup halfway and swirling the tea to cool it quickly.

Patience’s mother’s hand gently patted her back. She took the tea and gently plied it upon Patience. “This will help, my dear.”

Patience wheezed, trying to breathe. She wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to speak…which she couldn’t. She croaked inelegantly. “Forgive me. I’m all right now, I think.”

She patted the remainder of the cake from her skirts before her dress was ruined, but met with nothing but soft muslin. Somewhere in the commotion, her mother had found the presence of mind to confiscate what she no doubt viewed as a forbidden item.

Patience took the tea and gulped greedily. It was the last thing from refined—not in the least how she’d been brought up to behave—but a momentary lapse would be forgiven.

When her breathing mechanisms returned to working order, her mother shook her head. “Gracious, child, whatever happened?”

“I find—” Patience swallowed. Her mind spun. She had to escape. Had to find him. “I find I’m not feeling well. I think I need to retire to my room.”

“But you just said you were all right, my dear.” Her father’s bushy brows knit as he watched her. He sat by an empty fireplace, but when she rose, so did he.

“Yes, but…well, you know.” It was the best she could do.

As she was exiting the room, she overheard her father speaking in low tones. “You remain here, Martha. I’ll see what it’s about.”

Patience took the steps to her room two at a time. Something was wrong. Yesterday Ashcroft had thrown a fit at the idea of a bonesetter. Today he was getting married?

Not if she had anything to say about it.