The Unexpected Duchess (Playful Brides #1)(26)
Lucy kept her tight grip on her friend’s shoulder. “Why not, Cass? What harm will it do now? You cannot want him to die without knowing how you feel.”
Cass blew daintily into the kerchief. Lucy smiled slightly. Even in the depths of her sorrow, her friend was demure and lovely. Lucy would look like a drowned cat if she cried that hard and would be blowing her nose with a Christmas goose’s honk.
Cass drew a deep breath. “For one thing I’ve no idea how bad he is. Apparently, he told Pen that he doesn’t expect to live, but the doctors have no way of knowing how long it will be. Oh, Lucy, what if he’s already dead?”
Lucy pulled her arm away and turned to face Cass, sitting up on her knees and facing her imploringly. “You don’t know that. Not yet. He may be dead but he may well be alive and live for some time, long enough to receive your letter. Don’t you see? You must try.”
Cass trembled. Her face fell. She appeared to consider it for a moment. “Do you truly think he would want to hear this on his deathbed?”
Lucy pulled her hands back and rubbed them distractedly up and down her arms, trying to think of some way to convince Cass of the importance of this decision. “He may, Cass. He may love you as much as you love him. He’s written to you for years, has he not?”
Cass plucked at the handkerchief that now rested in her lap. “There never has been any talk of love in our letters. And I haven’t received a letter from him myself in some time, not since before the battle. He wrote to Pen, not me. That says something.”
Lucy searched her friend’s face. “There may not have been talk of love between you, yet. But what if he’s thinking the same thing you are, Cass? You must tell him. Take it from me. I never got to say good-bye to the one person who meant the most to me before he died.”
Cass bit her lip. She was obviously considering it. Lucy seized the moment to spring from the bed and rush over to the writing table, where she plucked up two sheets of parchment and a quill. She hurried back over to Cass, but not before scooping up a large book to use as a writing surface. “Here, use this. Write to him. Tell him.”
Cass opened her mouth, obviously to protest.
Lucy pressed the quill into her friend’s hand. “No, Cass. No excuses. Do it. You must.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Mountebanks’ dinner party was abuzz with music, laughter, and talking. Course after course of fine fare was served à la russe, and Lucy found herself making awkward conversation with Lord Kramer to her right and Lord Pembroke to her left while giving Jane and Garrett long-suffering looks. Those two were seated next to each other and appeared to be happily engaged in their usual playful ribbing. Lucy envied them. Even the sharp barbs and verbal jabs they were no doubt trading would be preferable to the excruciatingly dull conversation about the weather that she was trapped in with Lord Pembroke. Just how many words might one use to adequately describe fog? Surely they were coming to the end of a finite list?
After dinner, the ladies played cards in one of the Mountebanks’ salons while waiting for the gentlemen to join them.
“I’m worried about Cass,” Lucy whispered to Jane, who’d joined her in the middle of the room during a break in the play.
“I am, too,” Jane whispered back. “She refused to come with you tonight?”
“Yes. All she can think about is Julian. She’s distraught.”
“It’s just so terribly sad,” Jane replied. “And Penelope’s hideous behavior can’t have been easy for her to bear.”
“You know Cass. She thinks the best of everyone. She excused Penelope’s behavior saying she must be in shock or denial.”
“Or Penelope is just awful,” Jane replied, waggling her eyebrows over her spectacles.
Lady Mountebank called for the ladies to take their seats for the next round of cards.
Jane’s gaze darted to the doorway. “Now’s my chance. You don’t happen to know where Lord Mountebank’s library is, do you?”
Lucy arched a brow. Jane took off in search of the library at every event they attended.
“What?” Jane asked with an innocent shrug. “Even if the supply is rubbish, it’s bound to be more fun picking through Lord Mountebank’s moldering books than trying to explain to Lady Horton why she must always follow suit in whist.”
Lucy laughed. “There I cannot argue.” She kept her eyes trained on the ladies seated around her own game of whist and the swift hand of Lady Crandall, who had been known to slip an extra ace from her reticule and blame it on her old age and senility.
As if reading Lucy’s mind, Jane tilted her head toward Lady Crandall. “I, for one, cannot wait until I can act as batty as Lady C without the whole of London thinking I’m too young for it. I’d put a turban on my head and bump people with my cane now if I thought for a moment I could get away with it. Why, I might even consider acquiring a parrot.”
Lucy snorted. She opened her mouth to say something equally saucy just as the doors to the salon opened and the gentlemen strolled in.
“Ooh, I must go.” Jane scooted toward the doors. The gentlemen’s entrance caused just the distraction she needed to slip unnoticed from the room.
The men spread through the room, and Lucy was all too aware of the Duke of Claringdon’s presence. He sauntered in wearing a claret-colored dinner jacket, dark gray trousers, and a perfectly tied white cravat. He looked good. Too good. Garrett wasn’t far behind him.