Adrian pushed himself up, shrugged off his waistcoat and reached for the port. In a move that he knew would horrify his servants and his wife if they ever witnessed it, he brought the decanter to his mouth and swallowed several mouthfuls of the fortified wine.
Leaning back against the mahogany headboard, he listened to the sounds of whispering outside his door. Two—no, three—people were out there trying to decide what to do about him, and he guessed the group included Thompson, his valet, Sherman, his butler, and perhaps even Webb, his secretary and man-of-business, whose meeting had been cut short with the arrival of the physicians.
No matter. Adrian could not face them until he faced himself and accepted what the doctors had told him. And that called for the consumption of as much distilled spirits as he could handle. Or not handle. He looked at the bottle in his hand and wondered if there was enough port there for his needs. There was always the twenty-five-year-old whisky in the locked cabinet—that would more than meet his requirements.
Adrian lifted the bottle again to his mouth and drank deeply. The warmth settled his stomach and began to spread out to his limbs. Unable to face the reality of his all-too-short future, he decided to drink until the news was blotted from his thoughts.
Smiling grimly, he realized he would need to break into his late father’s private stock for something stronger to deaden the shock of the news of his own impending demise. Facing death was not as easy as he had imagined all those years ago.
Chapter Two
Miranda Warfield, the Duchess of Windmere, stood silently while her maid opened her dressing room door. Allowing a final smoothing of fabric and tucking of loosened strands of hair by her maid, she hesitated for a moment. Then, setting her feet on the well-worn path down the hall, she began the walk that would lead from His Grace’s room down to the dining room for a late supper.
Each of her days was filled with just such repetitive behavior. Rising from sleep, eating meals, dressing for engagements and going to sleep again all fit neatly into a narrowly defined schedule for the Duchess of Windmere. Pausing in front of her husband’s door, she realized that since today was Thursday, the night would end with Windmere’s weekly visit to her bed. And on the morrow, when faced with the dowager duchess’s thinly disguised question about the condition of her health, at their ritual Friday morning breakfast, Miranda could smile demurely and simply nod, saying without words that she was doing her duty to the duke in all facets of their life.
She arrived at the duke’s door and waited for his valet to open it. The slight pause expanded to several seconds and then to nearly a full minute. Startled by this change, she cocked her head and listened for any activity within. It was a regrettable habit from her past, but one that was useful at times. Loud whispers and scuffling feet were evident, but she did not hear His Grace’s deep voice. She had just decided to knock when Fisk rushed to her side.
“Allow me, Your Grace,” her efficient maid said, stepping around her and knocking on the door.
Miranda was reminded once more that she had servants to do her bidding and that something as innocuous as knocking on a door was beneath her now. Standing quietly as they awaited a response, she thought on how strange this was. It was at times like this that she longed to be the squire’s daughter once more, with little or none of the pretense needed to live this life. Shaking her head, she banished the thoughts before they could take hold.
The door swung open and, instead of Windmere, Thompson the valet stepped forward. This, too, was very strange.
“Your Grace,” he said as he bowed deeply to her.
“Thompson.”
“His Grace will be unavailable to join you for dinner, but he bids you to enjoy your outings this evening.” The strain in his voice told her that this was not usual. She swore his left eye was twitching as he spoke. Another sign of this upheaval in the normal decorum?
The two servants turned to her, obviously awaiting her reaction. Before she could speak, a loud crash and a string of rather earthy curses came from Windmere’s bedchamber. Thompson coughed loudly, an obvious yet unsuccessful attempt to disguise the words not meant for a lady’s ears. It was definitely Windmere’s voice, but she had not heard it raised in anger, as it was now, for many years.
“Your pardon, Your Grace. His Grace is indisposed.”
Decorum is more important than anything else in a duke or duchess’s life.
The dowager’s words rang in her thoughts, and Miranda knew what was expected of her. She nodded to Thompson and turned from the door. Walking down the hall and then down the stairs to the dining room, she was pleased that no one who watched her would be able to see the turmoil filling her thoughts as she contemplated her husband’s remarkable condition.
She sat in the chair, held out by the butler, and realized that the last time she’d heard Windmere yelling in anger was before he’d ascended to the title, when he was still Adrian and she was only slightly less suitable for him as a second son. Since he’d become the duke, he never raised his voice to her or expressed anything other than polite enthusiasm during conversations or engagements. This was extraordinary.
The first dish was placed before her and she took no notice of what it was. How could she when something so different had drawn her attention? Sherman repeated its ingredients, but it could have been dirt laced with arsenic for all she heard. Slicing into it and lifting the fork to her mouth, Miranda finally realized what the true surprise was.
Her husband, the Duke of Windmere, was drunk.
The food in her mouth turned to dust as she took in this insight. He had never, not in all the years she’d known him, before or after their marriage, before or since accepting the title, been drunk in her presence or within her hearing. But he was now. Miranda took a sip of the wine in her goblet to ease the food’s way.
“Is something wrong with the scallops, Your Grace?” Sherman leaned in closer to whisper the question to her. It would be unseemly if she were to complain too loudly.
“It is fine, Sherman. Please continue with the next course.”
Drifting back to her thoughts over the duke’s condition, she knew that he was extremely angry about something, angry enough to drink to excess. So angry that he was purposely breaking items in his chamber. What could have him so upset?
It is inappropriate and unacceptable for a wife to inquire about or to meddle in the affairs of her husband or his interests.
Miranda blinked as she heard once more the dowager’s voice issuing another warning about her behavior. The words were as clear as if the woman sat at table with her. Miranda sat up straighter and tried to focus on the food being placed before her; that was surely something appropriate for her attention.
But the surprising behavior of the duke had rattled her. Not that he was drunk, for she knew men drank and sometimes drank to excess. Not that he was angry, although it was out of character with His Grace’s deportment of the last several years.
No, what rattled her and made her thoughts drift into inappropriate directions was that, for the first time in such a very long time, their lives were not following the ritual and regimented schedule that had been established. For the first time, she had been surprised and a bit shocked, something that had not happened between her and her husband in too many years. For the first time in too long, the duke showed himself to be a simple man with faults and weaknesses.
Miranda shivered with a completely inappropriate measure of anticipation that there might be a real person existing within the shell of the duke. For one moment, she let herself remember the promising beginning to their marriage and to wish for a real life instead of this sham and ritual and politeness. Although she regretted whatever it was that caused the duke such upset, part of her was extremely pleased. There was life in Adrian, after all.
The morning dawned bright and clear, and the aroma of chocolate awakened her from her sleep. Sliding up in bed, she leaned against the cushions a maid arranged behind her, and watched as the morning tray of chocolate and toast