The Duke's Wicked Wife by Elizabeth Bright

Author:Elizabeth Bright
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2020-02-17T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

The weather had turned. Gone was the mellow autumn sunshine, replaced with rolling gray clouds and intermittent flashes of lightning. A glorious shock of thunder rattled the window and Eliza gleefully snuggled herself deeper into the chesterfield. There was little she loved more than a good storm.

Dinner had finished an hour ago, and since then the guests had sought various means of entertainment. Most of the gentlemen had congregated in the billiards room with snifters of brandy and cigars. The ladies were divided between two drawing rooms—one in which they played spirited games of whist, and the other in which they gathered around the pianoforte and sang.

Eliza had chosen neither and instead sidled away to the library.

Another rip of thunder enticed her out of the comfortable chair and toward the window. She parted the curtain and peered out into the dark night.

“Miss Benton,” came a voice at the precise moment a bolt of lightning lit up the sky.

She jumped guiltily and dropped the curtain, then spun around on her toes. “Your Grace.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “You called me Sebastian in the greenhouse.”

“I ought not to have taken such liberties.”

“Hmm.” His mouth quirked. “I don’t mind.”

He prowled forward until he was almost right in front of her, then swerved suddenly to contemplate the bookshelves. She watched him, puzzled. There was something strange about him, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He seemed almost to thrum and vibrate like the storm outside.

“Your Grace—”

“Why are you not with the others?” he asked abruptly.

“I have been with the others for much of the last several days. I very much enjoy the company of your other guests, but by evening I want the company of no one but myself. House parties have a way of making one crave solitude, don’t you think?”

“I never feel that way. I hate being alone.”

He did not look at her as he spoke, and instead leaned closer to the books, as though they consumed his attention and his words were unimportant. Small wonder that the Sensitive Plant had captured his imagination. They were similarly made.

“You must have been very lonely after your parents died, with no other family in England,” she remarked quietly. “Did your American relatives visit?”

His head swiveled slowly, and he regarded her with narrow eyes. “Why do you ask?”

She blinked in surprise. “Because I think you were. Lonely, I mean. And I thought you might want to discuss it.”

“I do not wish to discuss it.” He paused. “They did not come to visit. I was often forgotten by my relatives. A child would have been sent to live with a guardian, but I was a man, you see, and expected to act as such. I received an occasional letter or card, but no more. Fortunately, Abingdon took pity on me and invited me to stay with him when school was not in session.” He removed a book, examined the cover, and then returned it to its place. “You are not the only one to form theories, Miss Benton.

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