The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(7)

Her heart began to pound. Would he give it to her? The divorce? The freedom? Could it be so simple? Excitement flared. And triumph. And something else, something she did not wish to think on. Instead, she waved an arm in an exaggerated flourish. “By all means, Your Grace. Lead the way.”

They left the main hall of the House of Lords to a cacophony of distaste and judgment. In the quiet hallway beyond, Haven came even with her and said, softly, “Was it worth the embarrassment? That scene?”

“You misjudge me if you believe me embarrassed by the opinions of those men,” she replied. “I’ve suffered them before, and will again.”

“And again and again if you get what you wish.”

He meant the divorce. That she would never again receive social approval. He could not see that she did not care. “You mean, when I get it.”

He stopped at a massive door, designed to loom and impress, and opened it, revealing the extravagant suite beyond, one reserved for the handful of dukes who chose to keep space at the House of Lords. The room was expansive and overwhelming, mahogany and leather and gilt, every surface inscribed with privilege and power.

She stepped inside, unable to avoid brushing past him, hating the way the barely-there touch rioted through her. And that was before the memories came.

She’d been here before. Sneaked in, cloaked and mysterious, to see him. To surprise him. Just as she’d surprised him today.

No. That day was nothing like today. It had been the opposite of today.

That day, she’d come for love.

She ignored the thought and spun to face him, uneasy as the door closed, the quiet snick like a gunshot. He tore the wig from his head, tossing it to a nearby chair with enough disregard to betray his outward calm. He worked at the fastening of the heavy robes, and she found herself unable to look away from that large, sure hand, bronzed and corded with grace and strength. When his task was complete, he swung the garment from his shoulders, the wave of the deep scarlet fabric distracting her, pulling her gaze up to his, where one dark brow arched in unsettling knowledge.

When the robes hung in their place by the door, he came farther into the room. “Where have you been?”

She moved to the massive window that looked east, to where the dome of St. Paul’s gleamed in the distance. Crossing her arms over her chest with affected nonchalance, she replied, “Does it matter?”

“As you ran from me, and half of London believes me guilty of some kind of nefarious plot, yes. It matters.”

“They think me dead?”

“They don’t say it, but I imagine so. Your sisters don’t help, glowering at me whenever we cross paths.”

She inhaled sharply, hating the way her chest tightened at the reference to her four younger sisters. More loves lost. “And the other half of London? What do they think?”

“Likely the same, but they don’t blame me for it.”

“They think I deserved it. Of course.” He did not reply, but she heard the reason nonetheless. She deserved it for trapping the poor, eligible duke into marriage, and not even having the decency to deliver him an heir. Ignoring the pang of injustice that came with the thought, she said, “And here I am, very much alive. I imagine that shall set tongues wagging.”

“Where did you go?” The question was soft and if she hadn’t known better, Sera would have thought it was filled with something other than frustration.

Her attention fell to a row of black crows perched on the roof of the opposite wing of the building, shimmering in the August heat. She took a moment, counting them before she answered. Seven. “Away.”

“And that is all the answer I am to receive? I—” The reply was clipped and angry, but the hesitation was the thing that drew her attention.

She turned. “You?”

For a moment, he looked as though he would say something more. Instead, he shook his head. “So. You are returned.”

“Ever more troublesome, am I not?” He leaned against his great oak desk in shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and trousers, long, muscled legs crossed at the ankles, a crystal glass dangling from his fingers, as though he had not a care in the world. She ignored the way her chest tightened at the portrait he made, and raised a brow. “You do not offer your wife a drink?”

His head tilted slightly, the only evidence of his surprise before he straightened and moved to a nearby table adorned with a decanter and three crystal glasses. She watched as he poured her two fingers of amber liquid—he moved in the same way he always had, all privilege and grace, lifting the glass and delivering it to her with an outstretched arm.

She sipped, and they stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, until she could bear it no longer. “You should be happy with my return.”

“Should I?”

She would have given everything she had to know what he was thinking. “Divorce will give you everything you ever wanted.”

He drank. “How did you ever guess that I longed to be plastered across the newspapers of London?”

“You married a Talbot sister, Your Grace.” Five girls, infamous in the London gossip rags that had named them the Soiled S’s, daughters of the Earl of Wight, once a coal miner with a skill for finding valuable stores of the fuel—skill enough to have bought himself a title. Earldom or no, the rest of the aristocracy could not stomach the family, loathing them for their remarkable ability to climb, labeling them celebrities for celebrity’s sake. The irony, of course, was that their father had worked for his money, not been born into prestige.