Page 70 of The Duke Undone

“Champagne?” His eyes glowed. The chandeliers quivered as men stomped and women laughed, scattered lights moving subtly across his face. He flung one leg over the other, boot resting on his knee, a careless pose, but she could sense his agitation.

Now he was distracted, gaze trained on the trays floating past, held high by waiters in black jackets and red waistcoats. Glasses rattled on those trays, contents glinting. Ochre, amber, umber, dragon’s blood, Tyrian purple.

A familiar, lonely little hole opened up inside her.

Weston’s raised finger summoned one of those waiters to his side. Lucy looked away, glanced about the canteen. Couples laughing at round tables. Brassy-haired chorus girls. Young swells in tight suits. Those two shabby men, motionless in the sea of gaiety, still staring. Her stomach leapt again. What an incautious fool Weston was; how weakly he cleaved to his purpose. No wonder he hadn’t found his sister. It was so much easier to find a waiter, potboy, barkeep.

Not her fault.

When the champagne arrived, she emptied her glass before setting it on the table. Weston made a small noise in his throat, surprise or amusement.

“Thirsty?” He handed her his glass and she took it, tipping it this way and that so the foam slid over the lip, dripped down the flute. She licked it off her fingers, and when she looked up, she saw him watching her.

“It’s yours,” he said, waving to the waiter. “I prefer gin.”

Her father had preferred gin too. She leaned back and drank the second glass of champagne. The bubbles filled her throat and she had to work to push them down. A hard swallow, like gravel. She could feel it move into her chest.

“Let’s go.” She spoke without thinking, and Weston offered her a smile, not the boyish grin. A dark smile.

“You’re tired,” he observed, and blood rose into her cheeks. Over his shoulder, she could see those two men, twin lumps, infinitely patient. They’d grow into the furniture sooner than abandon their mission. They didn’t care how long it took.

“I’ll take you home,” said Weston. He reached out as the waiter materialized and lifted the gin from the tray.

“Soon,” he said. “I’m thirsty too.” For a moment, he held the tumbler in two hands, base resting on one palm, long, beautiful fingers wrapped around it. Oddly tender. Loathing lanced through her. She remembered her father sprawled on the staircase, head bowed over a bottle, crooning to it like it was his baby. Lavishing care where it didn’t belong. He’d chosen that bottle over his own wife, his own daughter.

Weston had chosen it over his fellow soldiers. Over his word, his pledge to her. Over his sister. She settled deeper into her chair. A burst of laughter traveled the room.

“How much does it take?” Her voice carried, low and harsh. “How much gin?”

He let one hand drop and held the glass higher, looking into it, as though the gin were a transparent, burning eye, looking back at him. Then he set the glass on the table, looked at her, and shrugged.

“How much gin before I fall over? Attack a Burne-Jones? Wake up naked in an alley? It depends.”

He was striving for lightness, a bantering tone better suited to the merriment around them. But his free hand had flattened on his knee, the knuckles going white, and his face had set in grim lines.

“No,” she said, quieter. “How much is enough? Forever. So you don’t need it anymore. So that . . .”

Her throat felt roughened inside. She stopped, then began again.

“I wanted him to choose us,” she said. “To choose my mother. To choose me. But he wouldn’t.”

Or couldn’t. Did it matter in the end?

“There wasn’t enough gin, ever.” She drew a breath. Why was she saying this? Mortification didn’t make her stop.

“He always wanted more,” she said. “Until . . .”

She knotted her hands, pressed her lips together. At first, she didn’t think he’d heard. Her words had frayed into wisps, scarcely audible, and he hadn’t moved a muscle. He sat perfectly still, his face unreadable. She felt sick. All the red silk, the red velvet, the quaking light. Her chair was sticky. As she shifted, the fabric of her dress resisted, clinging to an invisible stain.

Suddenly, he raked a hand over his face, into his hair. A muscle ticked in his jaw. She realized then, in an instant, that he’d heard; he’d heard clearly. No distraction now. His green gaze was fixed on her, its intensity almost unbearable.

“We’ll go now,” he said. He reached into his pocket for coin, and in that moment, released from his gaze, she glanced over his shoulder. Angling through the throngs, eyes scanning the tables, a tall, pleasant-looking man, who paused now and again to permit some lady’s passage.

No. She exhaled. It was Robert Yardley. He’d come himself to witness Weston’s folly. He hadn’t seen them yet, but he was mere yards away. The glass of gin stood on the table at Weston’s elbow, accusing him. A mad impulse seized her. She would not let him be caught with it. Suddenly, the glass was in her hand and she’d tipped it back. The taste was pure poison. She spluttered, rising, thrusting the glass behind her, wedging it into the cushion. Weston froze. A shilling slipped from his fingers, clattered on the tabletop.

“What are you doing?” His gaze sharpened, slicing her. She closed her fingers on his wrist, felt the warm pulse there, pounding.

“Hurry,” she gasped. He allowed her to tug him forward, but as he did so, he swiveled his head, and she felt the jolt move from his body into hers. He whipped his head around and their gazes locked.