Page 4 of Two Blessings For His Duchess
“Maybe we should just go back,” Euphemia said, her voice small and hollow. “Growing up, all I ever wanted was to leave the country home, dreaming of love. Lady Byron was strict with us, and sometimes, unbearable, but it was not as terrible as this. Maybe I should just pack our trunks, crawl back to the country with my tail between my legs, and admit to Lady Byron that she was right. We should never have come to London. It’s a cruel place.”
“Is that truly what you want?” Emily asked.
“No,” Euphemia answered after a short pause, her eyes flying open. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Then don’t think about it right now.” Emily squeezed her hand once and released it. “We will figure it out, Effie. But for tonight, you’ve done enough fending off of vultures.”
Emily squeezed her hands one last time. “I have to return to the ballroom. I’m certain, His Grace will be looking for me, and if I’m gone too long, he’ll likely start a search party. If you find you’ve had quite enough of thetonfor one evening, don’t feel obligated to return to the floor. We can have own little party tomorrow. Just the two of us. Retire to your room in the West Wing. The guest suites there are quiet, and the staff has already prepared the hearths. I’ll try to check on you before I go to bed, or first thing in the morning. Is that all right?”
Euphemia felt a surge of gratitude that threatened to bring back the very tears she had just suppressed. “Thank you, Emily. For letting me talk and talk until I made sense of the noise.”
“You can always talk and talk… to me,” Emily assured her with a wink. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Euphemia watched her go, threading her way through the room, and then she was gone into the crowd and the party closed around the space she had left.
Euphemia walked towards the other direction until she found a stray bottle of wine on a side table and poured herself a glass. Then another. The wine was crisp, cold, and did a magnificent job of dulling the sharp edges of the whispers that still seemed to echo in the hallway.
By the time the clock struck midnight, the fatigue had settled deep into her marrow. She couldn’t stay a moment longer. Every laugh from the ballroom felt like a needle prick, and every shadow looked like it was watching her.
She set her glass down and began the long trek toward her room. Her head felt heavy, her thoughts drifting like autumn leaves in a stream. She passed the grand staircase and navigated the labyrinth of corridors, her footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rugs. She was so focused on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other that she barely noticed the change in the decor, the way the portraits on the walls grew older and the air grew stiller.
She turned a corner, her hand trailing along the wainscoting as she made her way toward the East Wing of the house. The silence here was absolute, save for the distant, rhythmic ticking of a longcase clock. She found the first door that looked familiar, turned the handle, and stumbled inside.
She didn’t bother with the lamps. She didn’t even call for a maid. In the dim moonlight filtering through the drapes, she kicked off her slippers and collapsed straight onto the bed, sinking into the velvet coverlet.
She was asleep before her head fully hit the pillow, unaware that the room smelled not of lavender and guest linens, but of sandalwood and old books.
CHAPTER TWO
“You are in my bed.”
Euphemia did not open her eyes. She was warm, the pillow was exceptional, and the voice… though severe, was also rather nice. It carried a low-frequency rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and settle right in Euphemia’s marrow.
It was a lovely way to wake up, truly.
Instead of opening her eyes, she drifted in that hazy, golden space between sleep and reality, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
‘How vivid’,she thought. Most of her dreams involved the likes of Mrs. Pembrook chasing her with a giant ledger, or Lady Byron, her godmother warning her not to ruin everyone’s life, but this… this was new.
A man with a voice like aged brandy telling her she was in his bed.
“Miss? Would you like to explain yourself?”
Euphemia’s brow furrowed. The dream-man was remarkably surly. She forced one eye open, then the other, blinking against the light that flooded the room.
A figure was silhouetted, standing over the edge of the bed. He was tall. Impossibly tall. She really was dreaming of men now. That was new. That was a development. Three months of spectacular romantic failure and her mind had apparently decided the solution was to manufacture one while she was unconscious, which said something about her current circumstances. She appreciated the effort. She did not appreciate the tone.
She pulled the blanket up, feeling, a pang of profound self-pity. ‘Oh, Effie’,she thought, “You really have reached a pathetic new low. You are dreaming of exceptionally large, brooding ones who look like they’ve been sculpted out of granite and bad intentions.’
She blinked again, trying to clear the wine-induced fog. But as her vision sharpened, the dream didn’t dissolve. In fact, it became alarmingly detailed. She could see the crisp white of a linen shirt, unbuttoned at the throat. She could see the shadow of a jawline that looked sharp enough to draw blood.
Euphemia blinked at him.
Well, she thought. If she was going to imagine a man, at least she had imagined a good one. Her subconscious, apparently, had standards.
She blinked again.
He was still there.
