Loved by a Duke (The Heart of a Duke #4)(86)

The old servant widened his eyes at catching a glimpse of his employer. “The Viscount Wessex,” he murmured, studiously avoiding the gaze of his disheveled employer. He admitted the viscount and scrambled from the room, hastily pulling the door closed behind him.

His lips twisted in a wry, mirthless grin. Ah, yes, the servants, just as all of polite Society still saw the polished, refined Duke of Crawford. They didn’t see this drunken, unkempt, rumpled, pathetic figure of a man.

Where the servant had looked away in horror, Wessex ran a cursory glance over him. He took several steps toward Auric and then jerked to a stop. “Good God, man.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell as though you’ve been bathing in spirits.”

Brandy and whiskey to be precise.

“What do you—?” His words trailed off as Wessex’s gaze fell to the floor and the burnt journal at Auric’s feet. When he looked back to Auric, his expression was carefully blank.

The viscount wandered to the sideboard and sifted through the crystal decanters. He held them up, one at a time, as though studying their color and quality, and then settled on Auric’s oldest, finest French brandy. Wessex grabbed a glass and then the tinkle of crystal touching crystal sounded as he poured a glass to the brim. He turned back to face Auric and propped his hip on the edge of the Chippendale sideboard. “You look like hell,” he said without preamble, his words an observation more than an accusation.

Well, looking like hell was appropriate for a man living in hell and as there was no question there, he bent down and retrieved the book. He carried it to his desk and tossed it atop the otherwise immaculate surface. All the while his skin burned under the other man’s scrutiny. Auric sat.

“She knows,” Wessex murmured without preamble.

He gave a terse nod.

“How—?”

“She discovered my journal.” He’d been careless. Not that such a detail should matter. What was contained within the pages of the journal mattered less than the fact that he’d kept secret the details within those pages.

Wessex said nothing for a moment, merely sat there so casually, sipping his brandy, when Auric’s entire world had tumbled down around him. “She loves you,” he said at last.

The loathing teeming in her gaze and the sneer on her lush, full lips all alluded to the truth—she’d once loved him—but no longer. He shook his head again. “Quite the opposite,” he managed. “She hates me.” I love you… Hated him, when there had once been love in her eyes and heart and on her mouth with those three words that had breathed life back into him and made him believe that he could be happy. That they could be happy.

Fool. Fool. Fool.

His friend shoved off the sideboard. “Come now,” he scoffed. “Surely, you know the lady has loved you for years. That night at Lady Harrison’s ball, she searched the crowd for a certain gentleman.”

Auric tightened his fingers painfully upon the arms of the chair. She would have been better off with any one of the gentlemen on the damned lists comprised by both he and his friend. His stomach tightened and he raised his eyes to meet the other man’s curiously blank stare. “I believed her wedding another would destroy me.” He trailed his palm along the black leather book. “How could I have failed to realize that wedding her would destroy the both of us?”

A sound of impatience escaped his friend and with his free hand, he jerked out the leather, winged back chair and sat on the edge. “She was upset, Auric.”

Hope stirred in his chest. Perhaps Wessex was correct. He tried to imagine the shock of learning everything Daisy had in the matter of moments. Of course she’d be filled with shock, disgust, loathing, but perhaps, in time she could come to see…realize…Auric shut his eyes a moment and gave his head a shake. When he opened them, he found the viscount’s somber, blue gaze trained on him. “There is no forgiving what I’ve done,” he said his voice hollow.

“What you’ve done?” Wessex hissed, leaning forward in his seat so swiftly, the aged leather crackled in protest. He planted his palms on the edge of the desk. “You do not have exclusivity to the guilt of that night, Auric. You were not the only one eager to visit that hell that evening, nor did you force Lionel to go. He went. We all did.”

The memories intruded, as they often did. Sporadic and inconsistent. Auric scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to bring that bloody night into focus. “I forced him—”

Wessex’s chuckle cut into his admission of guilt. “Come, man. I know it is likely a product of your lofty title as duke, but you could not force me to do anything, and you certainly were never able to force Lionel.”

Auric’s breath froze as he tried to sort through his friend’s words. Then, he quickly thrust aside the generous pardon. “I recall that night,” he said flatly.

The leather groaned in protest once more as the viscount leaned closer. “Do you?” he repeated, propping his elbows on Auric’s desk. “Do you truly remember that night?” With a dogged intensity, he held Auric’s gaze.

How could he forget that fateful evening in the seedy streets of London? “Of course.” Except, the memories only lived in fragmented parts that he’d assembled into some frame that made sense.

“Bah,” Wessex said, slashing the air with one of his hands. “Do you truly recall what transpired? Or have you selectively chosen that which you wish to remember?”