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Elizabeth wanted to scream the words at her. Holding herself back was an impossible feat, especially when her friend added, “Yes, but not everyone is lucky in that regard.”
Elizabeth couldn’t even manage a tight smile. “What of Will—the new Duke? Do you happen to know anything about him?”
“Nothing, other than his title. Quite the enigma, I must say. Though, I suppose when you live on the very outskirts of London, it is easy enough to stay out of the public’s eye.”
The outskirts of London? He moved from where he last lived?
Relief crippled Elizabeth’s legs. She rested a hand on the table, trying to pull herself together, but both Lady Blackpole and Lady Joneshire noticed her sudden pallor.
“Are you all right, My Lady?” Lady Blackpole asked. “Are you unwell?”
“Heavens,” Lady Joneshire gasped. “Surely, you cannot be…” She glanced at Elizabeth’s midsection, eyes wide.
“I am fine.” Elizabeth straightened, met their eyes, and saw their disbelief. She couldn’t believe how inappropriate an insinuation they were making, but she couldn’t very well say anything considering she hadn’t been very polite herself. “I only grew a bit lightheaded for a moment. I think I shall go to the terrace for air. Please, enjoy the rest of the ball.”
She swiveled and walked away before they had the chance to make a comment. Elizabeth didn’t see the people she went by, didn’t see anything but the doors that led out into the gardens. Once the cold air hit her skin, she shivered but she didn’t stop walking until she came to a lonely gazebo.
She sank onto a bench and let out a shuddering breath.
He is alive. He is in London. He is well.
Elizabeth had kept close watch on the obituaries the past few years. She did not like entertaining the idea that he might have passed and consoled herself by reading that somber section of the paper, feeling relief every time she was finished.
She’d also considered the thought that he might have left London, but long trips away from her home were not something she could do very often. Not to mention the fact that the countryside was far too vast for her to have a single idea where to look first.
To think that all this time, he’d been in London. Quite a distance from her, yes, but close all the same.
She let out another breath, a small giggle. Then, she laughed again, lifting her teary eyes to the full moon above.
Are you looking at this moon as well, William? Do you miss me just as badly as I miss you? Don’t worry. Now, I will make sure that I find you.
Chapter 3
In this part of London, the streets were bare before night fell. Only the brave dared to be out at night, or perhaps the foolish, and William fell in only one of those two categories. Silence seemed to cling to his clothing as much as the cold did and he tucked his hands into the folds of his greatcoat, watching the streets.
Lingering nearby was his carriage bearing the crest of his household. William had no doubt it was a sight often found around here considering this community was home to one his father’s favorite whores. A part of him hoped that the familiar sight would steer robbers away from him, though the community was quite decent by the standards of regular citizens. Another part was longing for any reason to let out his frustration, especially if it meant punching someone in the jaw.
“Well, the apple certainly does not fall far from the tree.” William turned around, facing the sultry voice that had spoken. She approached him with her arms crossed, wearing very little despite the fact that it was a cold night. She ran her eyes down the length of him then back up to his face with intrigue. “You look just like your father, you know.”
“So I have been told.” William’s own voice sounded odd to his ears, since he hadn’t spoken much in the past few days. Not since he’d learned of his father’s death.
Benjamin Hervey, the late Duke of Brandon, had died of a heart attack in the arms of his whore—the very same woman standing before him. Three days ago, William had visited this community for the first time to retrieve his body but had not left his carriage except to confirm that it was, indeed, his father. He wasn’t happy to be back, nor did he particularly like standing before this woman, despite her unnatural beauty.
Her name was Carolina, a graceful name quite unfitting for who she was. William couldn’t tell her age. At times, she seemed to be an older woman, certainly past her fortieth year. But tonight, draped in a rather revealing gown with her black hair hanging over one shoulder, she appeared to be no older than thirty. A deceptive image that only added to his hatred of her.
