years.” Reaching down, Dorothea gathered the skirt of her gown by her fingertips and held it above her evening slippers to prevent herself from tripping. The gesture also helped conceal the trembling of her hands. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’m certain the major has arrived. I do not wish to be rude and keep him waiting.”
Dismissing the duke, she moved past him, ignoring the prickling sensation she felt on the nape of her neck. She glided down the main staircase gracefully, her head high, her back straight. Roddy, bless his heart, was indeed waiting in the front foyer and she practically fell into his arms.
She heard the duke’s deep, commanding voice call to her, but she kept moving, her mind focused on escaping. For a few hours at least, she was determined to forget the unhappy state of her circumstances.
Major Roddington’s heels clicked on the polished marbled floor as he paced impatiently in the foyer. He had been told Lady Atwood would be down shortly and been asked to wait. Normally he wouldn’t have minded, but being kept out of the private rooms of this particular house gnawed at his gut. It was a stark reminder of how he had failed to complete his task, of how the passing of time was only making this more difficult, more challenging.
Lady Atwood suddenly appeared, a tight smile of greeting on her face. Above her, Roddy could hear a voice of masculine discontent.
“Is that Lord Atwood shouting at you?” he asked.
“No, it’s the duke.”
She gestured toward a footman, who held out a silk evening cloak, but Roddy was no longer paying attention to her. At the sound of that same, low masculine voice, his head swung toward the landing and he felt a sudden, quick explosion of emotions. Close. He was so close.
He glanced up. At the sight of the elderly man clutching the banister with outstretched arms and frowning with such clear disapproval, a coldness like he had never felt seeped into Roddy’s bones. Oh, he had seen the duke before, but always from a great distance or in a very crowded room. This was the first time since he was a lad of fifteen that he had been so near the all-powerful Duke of Hansborough.
The temptation was almost too great. Yet Roddy straightened, his inner discipline overtaking his impulsive inclination to rush up the staircase and have his say. Now was not the time for confrontation.
“He sounds angry,” Roddy commented.
“I believe that is his normal tone.” She tugged on her evening gloves and hastened toward the door. “Shall we?”
Roddy’s eyes narrowed. He had come to know a bit about Dorothea over these last few days and he found her to be a pleasant, congenial woman. Her stiff, formal reticence was clearly out of character and obviously caused by the duke.
He escorted her silently from the house and assisted her into the carriage, then waited until the vehicle had rounded the corner before speaking. “Did you have a disagreement with the duke?”
She glanced over at him, her face pale in the moonlight. “His Grace finds much at fault with me. I fear the only way I shall ever gain his true approval is to present him with a grandson.”
She blushed and Roddy realized she felt embarrassed at discussing something so intensely personal with a man who was not her husband. It made him feel like a real cad for even bringing the subject up.
“Well, I hope you present him with a whole pack of boys, each as sour-tempered as his grandfather.”
She smiled, as he intended, and they let the matter drop. But the incident made Roddy start to wonder. Where was Atwood tonight? Why wasn’t he there to defend his bride, to shelter her from the duke’s barbs?
They were newly married, yet as far as Roddy could tell, Atwood spent most of his time away from his wife. He had seen him at Tattersall’s yesterday, the boxing club the day before, and a local gaming hell last night.
He knew it was society’s way for married couples to live separate lives, but this seemed to drift beyond acceptable standards. Roddy gritted his teeth and gazed out the window, deciding this was yet another prime example of how the wealthy, spoiled aristocracy did not appreciate the real treasures in their lives.
“I’m for home,” Benton announced as he threw down his losing hand of cards.
Peter Dawson smiled in appreciation and raked in the substantial pile of coins. “Are you sure you won’t play one more round?”
“No. I wish to leave before my pockets are totally empty.” Benton turned to Carter. “And what of you, Atwood? Are you done for the night? Ready to go home at last to your lovely bride?”
Carter felt his jaw twitch. It was uttered in jest, but the barb struck at the heart. Though nothing directly had been said, Carter knew his friends wondered why he was not at home with his wife, but instead spending all of his evenings, and most of his days, out with them.
In fact, his life was going on exactly as it had before he had married. Actually, a bit better, since he was no longer plagued by the duke to find himself a wife. So why didn’t he feel more content with the arrangement?
“Tell me, what is your opinion of love?” Carter asked.
The viscount paused in the act of putting on his coat, his expression curious. “Love of what? Drink? A new set of prime cattle? A pair of well-fitted, perfectly polished boots?”
“A woman,” Carter snorted. Perfectly polished boots, indeed.
Benton fell silent. “Dear God, don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with your wife?” he finally asked.
Carter shook his head. “No, but I fear she might fancy herself in love with me.”
Benton’s brow lifted skeptically. “There is little to fear. She is a reasonably intelligent creature, well, for a woman. She will come to her senses soon enough and realize her mistake.”
“Don’t listen to Benton,” Dawson interrupted. He stacked the deck of cards and left it in the center of the table. “I think it’s bloody marvelous. Lady Atwood is a fine woman. You deserve the happiness her love and affection will bring you.”
Was Dawson right? Should he just accept this gift of love and be content with it? But with love came the expectation of reciprocation, and therein lay the rub, for what Carter feared most was that he was incapable of loving her. Wholly, completely, the way she deserved.
She was his wife. He respected her. Adored her, really. They could build a solid, happy life together. It was what they agreed before they married, it was what they both wanted. And in his eyes, the volatile emotion of love seemed to threaten that stability.
Didn’t love take time to develop, time to grow? How could Dorothea be so sure, when he was so conflicted?
It made him feel weak and foolish not to know his mind, not to understand his own emotions. It made him feel unsure, unsteady, inept. He reasoned by keeping his distance from Dorothea these past few days, the problem would somehow sort itself out, the solution would become clear.
Alas, he had been wrong. Just because he refused to confront the dilemma did not mean it did not exist.
The biggest irony of all was that he cared for her too much, respected her too much to declare an undying love until he was certain it was what he truly felt.
Carter jerked to his feet. He signaled for his coat to no one specifically and a servant raced off to fetch the garment. The three friends parted ways outside the gaming club, entering their respective carriages. Carter’s mood was reflective on the ride back to the duke’s mansion.
The hour was late when he arrived home. Carter dismissed his valet the moment he entered the bedchamber. Dunsford had a hovering, fussy air about him tonight that Carter found particularly annoying. The valet left in a snit, and a few moments later there was a soft knock.
Carter turned toward the door, ready to bellow at his servant to stay the hell away, when the interior door to the shared sitting room opened and Dorothea glided into the room.
She was dressed for bed in a long blue satin nightgown that dipped low in front, exposing the plump roundness of her lovely breasts. Her hair was unbound, floating around her shoulders in a shimmering golden wave.
Carter’s groin tightened at the sight of her delicate, sensual beauty. He was hard before she made it halfway into the chamber.
“Forgive my intrusion.” Her hand went to her throat and he could see the slight trembling of her hand. “I waited up to tell you that I will be leaving in the morning. I’m going to visit my sister Gwen and will most likely spend a day or two with her and Jason.”
It took a moment for Carter to wrap his brain around her words. She was leaving him? No, that wasn’t what she said. She was visiting her sister. Gwendolyn. The pretty woman with the very pregnant belly. He slowly regained his breath. “Is there any news of her child?”
