by Eva Devon
“Go—” he smacked against the dryness of his mouth. “To the devil.”
“I’ve already made his acquaintance, thank you. Now get your arse off the floor.”
Ryder sprawled before the cold fire and forced himself onto one elbow. “Care for a drink?” he asked, waving the crystal bottle, its contents sloshing about.
Hunt snatched the crystal from him and poured the liquid into the wash basin in the corner of the room. “I think you’ve had enough for an entire army.”
Ryder shook his head, though the movement sent nails spiking through his skull. “I can. . . still think. Means I haven’t had enough.”
Hunt turned on him, strode forward and planted his feet right in front of Ryder’s face. “Bullocks.”
“Humph.” Ryder rolled onto his side, ignoring his depressingly well-dressed friend. His own clothes had a bit of a smell to them, but he wasn’t going to acknowledge the fact he’d slept in them and lived in them for well over a day. Or two. Possibly three. He was no longer certain.
Hunt had no right to judge how he dealt with the horrifically cruel hand fate had handed him. Even if fate dealt Hunt a damned bad hand as well.
“Are you really going to entomb yourself down here?”
Ryder wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes tightly as if that might make the damned duke disappear. “Yes.”
Hunt toed him with his boot. “Then you don’t care what your wife’s up to?”
Letting out a harsh breath, he reached out and smacked Hunt’s foot. “I don’t wish to speak about her.”
“Indeed?” A decidedly gossipy tone pitched Hunt’s voice.
“Indeed,” he drawled. Ryder lay still for several seconds, Kathryn’s face, an ever haunting dream, taunted him. He kept trying to remember the smiling, cheeky Kathryn, but all he could see was her tear-stained face as he had utterly let her down. At last, he opened his eyes to the austere and dusty light. He rolled onto his back and looked at the disapproving gaze of his friend. “How is she?”
Hunt shrugged, eyeing his emerald ring. “I thought you didn’t care.”
“Sod off.” Ryder forced himself to a seated position and the world spun at a ridiculous speed. Quickly, he braced his head in his hands. “Tell me. It’s a dying man’s last request.”
Hunt snorted. “Still wallowing in drama, I see.” Crouching to Ryder’s eye level, he braced an arm on one knee. “Oh, she’s the center of society. Everyone loves your wife.” Smiling like a contented bastard, he added, “And when I say everyone, I actually mean every gentleman within a hundred feet of her.”
“I’ll call them all out.” Ryder got onto his hands and knees. “I will.”
“That would be a rather long day of duels, old man. And since you seem to be having trouble standing, I’d say your odds at victory are rather slim.”
Ryder stared down at the intricate carpet wondering how long it would take him to find his bearings and his pistols and swords. “Hmmph.”
Perhaps it might be simpler to buy a cannon.
Hunt pointed an accusatory finger. “You have turned misery into an art form, have you not?”
Ryder climbed to his feet, staggered, then turned to Hunt. “And?”
Hunt looked him up and down, disgust furrowing his brow. “And why the hell shouldn’t you find some cheer?”
“You don’t. Why should I?” Still, Ryder swallowed as he recalled the pain-stricken look on Kate’s face as he called her Jane. As he had cruelly ignored that she said she loved him. When he knew how difficult it was for her to say it. Especially when it had become ridiculously clear he loved her. He loved her so much he’d begun to let himself let Jane go. And now, he couldn’t function. At all.
Hunt’s face pressed into a stony glower. “I’ll ignore that comment given your state. Now go and find her.”
“She doesn’t want to see me.”
“Ah.”
Ryder swayed, narrowing his eyes. “Ah, what?”
“Well, the real question here is why she doesn’t want to see you.”
“I know why.”
“You’re an ass,” Hunt said matter-of-factly.
Ryder blew out another breath and gave a small bow. “I am, as you say, an ass.”
“Glad to see we’re in agreement.”
Ryder closed his eyes wishing he could just shove the problem and Hunt out the door. But the last days had been worse than any he’d ever known. He tried to drown her out with drink. But he couldn’t. Kathryn had taken root in his heart and there was no way he could ever remove her.
And God, the things he had said. She would never forgive him. Rightly.
Hunt folded his arms across his chest and stared down at his shining black boots. “You know, I’ve been your friend for a very long time.”
Ryder eyed Hunt wondering what kind of inspiring speech the man had up his sleeve this time. The mere thought was enough to send him back down to the floor in search of a seat. After the last days, he was ridiculously tired and Hunt wasn’t helping. One of his rallying talks might finish him.
Hunt finally looked up, his mouth a grim line. “I’ve put up with your self-inflicted hate fest for a very long time because you are my dearest friend. We’ve shared much. The death of parents—”
“I don’t need any sentimental—”
Hunt snapped up a hand, his dark eyes sharp with intent. “Shut your damned mouth and listen.”
Ryder blinked and listened with a new degree of interest. Hunt was hardly ever serious.
“I have to believe you can get over this.” A surprising tinge of desperation intensified Hunt’s rough voice. “I have to believe you can find happiness.”
Ryder slowly stood, wondering where the hell this was coming from. Perhaps Hunt had not overcome his own dark wounds.
“I’ve waited and stood with you through Hell, always believing that one day you’d pull yourself up out of this grave you’ve been hiding in.”
“It’s not a grave,” he lied.
Is this how Hunt thought of him? All this time, he’d been watching him wallow in grief with what he now knew was detestable self-pity?
Hunt snorted. “It is a grave. You won’t say goodbye to the dead so, instead, you’ve said goodbye to the living.”
The words and the truth of them filled the space between them. For years, they’d lived in a tentative truce over all this, but apparently Hunt could no longer keep silent.
“You bastard,” Ryder ground out.
“You’d rather live with the ghosts,” he continued determinedly, “than with me or with, most importantly, Kathryn, a beautiful woman who was silly enough to have loved an idiot like you.”
“That’s not true. I’d give anything to love her freely.” Ryder swallowed. For even as he spoke, he could taste the bitterness of his own dishonesty.
“No, Ryder.” Hunt’s face softened, but he took a step forward, his eyes pinning Ryder to the spot. “You wouldn’t. You’ve cradled your guilt to your chest like a beloved child and now you don’t know how to live without it. And if you don’t stop, Kathryn will—”
“Don’t,” Ryder barked, his eyes stinging.
“Kathryn will live her life without you,” he continued mercilessly, his voice sharp as a blade. “You will never have children with her, you will never grow old with her, in short, you will never have her if you cannot let your guilt go.” The hard lines of Hunt’s face softened and he asked quietly, “Is that what you wish?”
“You’re supposed to be my friend.” The pain of Hunt’s words cut him to the bone and Ryder couldn’t bear it. “Why the hell would you say this?”
“Because I am your friend. And for my own sake, I have to believe you can overcome this.” Hunt’s eyes dimmed as if he were recalling some distant memory. He shook his head. “When you’re ready to join the world again, come and find the people who love you.”
Ryder stared ahead as Hunt strode from the room and shut the door.
A grave.
For Kathryn, he would find a way.
*
The evening air was cool and the groomed grass beneath his bum was growing damp, but Ryder didn’t give a tinker’s damn. He’d sat all day with Jane and he wasn’t quite ready to leave. He’d been talking to her for hours. . .
At first, the pain had been unbearable.
Her pale, buttery headstone stared back at him. But there was also something comforting about the place and the words on the stone. Jane had, indeed, lived and here was the physical proof of it. She didn’t just exist in his mind and his memories. She was here, a part of the earth and the grass beneath him.
Ryder fiddled with the green wine bottle before him. “I—” He drew in a breath and shifted, his heels cutting into the earth. “I’ve fallen in love with someone, Jane. Someone I don’t deserve.” The words which should have been so difficult to utter came from him as simply as water flowing from a stream “You would have loved her. I know that sounds strange, but—” Ryder stopped and trailed his fingers through the cool grass. “I need to be with her. I’ve been meaning to say this all day, but I wasn’t sure how.” He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. “It’s time. ’Tis finally time for me to say goodbye.”
A tear slipped down his cheek and instead of dashing it away, he let it trickle down and splash onto his black breeches. He was here for a reason. For Kathryn and for himself. “I never came to visit you. Mostly because I couldn’t bear the truth. That I couldn’t make you come back. But now I know that was a grievous error. So, today, I think it’s time we celebrate.”
He uncorked the bottle of white wine, Jane’s favorite. He cleared his throat. “Here’s to you, sweetheart. A beautiful, kind woman whom I will always dearly miss. It was your goodness that took you to God.”
Another tear slid down his cheek and he bit down on his lip, forcing himself to continue with the words that so long had needed to be said. “I know you would have hated what I did and I wish you had been here to knock some sense back into my head.”
Ryder lifted the bottle. “Here’s to the future. I think perhaps I’ve kept you from peace by not letting you go. And for that I am truly sorry. Peace to you, Jane. Peace to all of us.” Ryder took a drink then slowly, he poured the wine over Jane’s grave. When he let a healthy toast pour from the bottle, he re-corked it and smiled. “I’ll see you again. But now, I must go and live my life.”
He stood, placed the wine bottle in his coat pocket and walked down from the family plot without looking back. It was time to become the sort of husband Kathryn deserved.
Chapter 26
Kate was going to kill Imogen. It was purely that simple. She was, after all, to blame for her current defensive stance by the immense marble fireplace in the Duke of Portland’s Whig Ball.
Dancers swept by, skirts billowing and wigs bouncing. The crowd around her pushed and maneuvered. A particularly drunk woman in powder blue had loosened her bodice, lowering it until her nipples showed, and the man with her wove through the people lining the dance floor. They were having a splendid time.
Unlike her.
And every blasted man in the place had, at one point or another, asked her to dance. To console her misery, no doubt. As she clasped her champagne glass, she spotted another one.
Pinning what she hoped to be a fiery stare upon her features, she glared at the approaching fop across the Duke of Portland’s ballroom. Decked in puce satin and gold embroidery, his purple waistcoat glittered with a veritable diamond mine. And his hair. Well, it resembled quite the cake. And if he wandered within a foot of her, she might swipe it off his head.
But people—no, men—would insist on asking her to dance. Every person in London knew she and the duke were living separately. Apparently, that made her available to the attentions of any ass who thought to give her a try.
At last, he minced forward on his red-heeled shoes. Sadly, her fiery stare did not affect him. He smiled, his lips slightly rouged. “Your Grace, do me the honor?”
Kate lifted her champagne glass and took a long swallow to steady herself. Throughout the night, she’d been composing more and more ludicrous responses to this question. “I’d rather dance about with a monkey on a chain.”
The fellow blinked at her for several seconds. “But—But—”
She raised her brows and shook her head at him. “No, thank you. Forgive me. I am in ill humor.”
He humphed, causing his wig to twitch upon his head. “Very ill, indeed.” And then he was off, wig high.
Kate sighed, glad to be alone again, even if it would only be for moments.
If another fop, dandy, gentleman or lady of any sort asked her to dance she was going to smash her glass of champagne down upon their head. Oh, it was true, she was standing along the ballroom wall, watching the raucous merriment of the dancers which would lead one to believe she was interested in dancing.
In truth, it was by sheer force of will she wasn’t rolled up in a quilt eating chocolate rolls, drinking wine and sobbing her eyes out. Not to mention the fact that Imogen made it her personal endeavor to ensure she didn’t lock herself up and turn into moldering dust.
Initially, Kate had been grateful. But at this moment, she was inclined to dunk her friend’s head into the exceedingly large, gold nymph-lined crystal punch bowl. When she’d first arrived in London, Kate hadn’t realized how many idiots were allowed to walk freely about, let alone be invited to parties.
A month ago, she probably would have enjoyed the said idiots. Right now, their sugary happiness and carefree bliss only grated on her like sand on glass.
It was beyond painful, standing amidst the merriment.
And she just should have stayed home, because forcing cheer to her face was about as far from her ability as a woman winning a seat in Parliament. She missed Ryder. Missed him so intensely, she felt hollow inside.
Many times, she almost bolted into her coach and headed back to the house Ryder purchased for them. It had been her happiest home. Luckily, Imogen had always been there to present a sound argument. Still, sound arguments didn’t comfort one at night nor uplift one’s spirits while sniffling into a pillow.
“You look like the champagne has gone off,” Imogen lilted from behind her.
Kate jumped, sloshing the bubbly liquid. “For goodness sake, one mustn’t appear out of nowhere. It’s rude.”
Imogen leaned forward, placed a quick kiss to Kate’s cheek then waggled her brows and pressed a hand to her dark green and gold filigree stomacher. “And you wouldn’t know anything about rudeness. I saw you send off Baron Caraden. Silly man.”
“Ha. Men are the devil.”
“I won’t argue that, my dear.” Imogen placed her hand on Kate’s arm. “But I do hate seeing you so out of sorts.”
Out of sorts? Kate swallowed at the sudden pain in her throat. She’d thrown her happiness away. Hadn’t she? She drew in a slow breath and eyed Imogen with new interest. Her cousin’s cheeks were particularly bright. “Why do you look so happy?”
Imogen’s smile dimmed a little.
Kate frowned, instantly sorry she sounded so sharp. “Forgive me?”
“Of course you are forgiven.” Imogen glanced back over her shoulder towards the entrance into the ball. “And I am only happy because a plan is working just as it should.”
Kate rolled her eyes, unable to share in her friend’s unabashed enthusiasm in whatever machinations she was up to. “You are going to get in very serious trouble one day.”
“Ah, but just think of all the fun I’ll have getting into it.” Imogen patted at her curls then took a sip of Kate’s champagne. Bouncing on her toes in time to the orchestra, she looked out to the crowd of merrymakers. “Now, I won’t have you pouting any longer. I want a smile upon your lips. You’re going to dance with someone.”
�
�No,” Kate said flatly, folding her arms under her breasts in protest. She would not be convinced into anything else which Imogen deemed good for her spirits.
“Whyever not?”
“Because,” she said dryly. “I usually end up wanting to skewer whoever I’m dancing with one of my hair pins.”
“Hmm.” Imogen stopped swaying for a moment. “That would be a rather intriguing end to a dance, but you’ve caused enough scandal this year.”
Kate did not even wish to dignify the comment with a proper response.
Imogen blinked, a slow smile curling her lips as she stared towards the far end of the room. She snatched a glass of champagne from a passing servant. Slipping Kathryn’s glass away, she gave her the new one. “Here, you shall need this.” Batting her long blonde lashes, she said coyly, “I don’t suppose you’re willing to dance with anyone? Anyone at all?”
Tears stung her eyes. Quite irritatingly. “There’s only one person I want to dance with.” She swallowed determined not to cry before the ton. No doubt it would be in Snodgrass’ column if she turned into a watering pot in public. “And he’s not here.”
Imogen pressed in close to her and whispered in her ear, “And if he were?”
Kathryn’s breath stopped in her throat and panic immediately throbbed through her veins. “What?!”
“Don’t hate me, dearest. But he begged to know where you’d be tonight.” Imogen squeezed her arm. “I’ve seen your unhappiness and I had to tell him.” She gestured slightly with her chin to the end of the ballroom. “He’s here, by the entrance, looking as gorgeous as ever.”
“Imogen, I swear I am—” The moment she spotted him, her throat squeezed off because her heart jumped up into it.
Ryder Blake, the Duke of Darkwell, the Duke of Death, the man who had stolen and, in turn, broke her heart stood by the Duke of Hunt in a shocking suit of ivory and silver.
Instead of one of the Devil’s damned, he looked like a blasted angel.
The ivory coat clung to his broad shoulders, an extreme contrast to his dark hair. His waistcoat was silver cloth, shot through with gold embroidery. But even more superb, he looked perfectly at ease in it.
