Dylan spent the entire day holed up in his rented rooms at Mrs. Tweed’s. Loretta had given him until the end of the week to vacate the premises. He’d thanked her for the extra time and tried to ignore the pity in her eyes.
Then he locked the door and returned to his bottle, determined to remain here and castigate himself for his mistakes until the very last moment. Tomorrow, he intended to pay one last call on his father and then leave for Scotland.
Until then, he planned to wallow in his misery.
He hadn’t been sleeping well. Whenever he managed to drift off for a few minutes, nightmares plagued him. Usually, he managed to keep all thoughts of the war buried, but the events of the past few days had freed his demons.
Despite the dulling haze of alcohol, he’d come to the realization that it was time to leave London and all thoughts of Lady Natalia Sinclair far behind him. What good did it do to brood about it, when she’d told him to his face she wished she’d never met him?
And Aldabaran called to him.
Still, he couldn’t help thinking of the way she’d held him, or the taste of her mouth against his. She’d offered him a soft sweet haven from the harsh realities of life, made him yearn for things he’d never known existed. She’d said she loved him. Perhaps she’d even meant it, at least until she’d realized he betrayed her.
His self-pitying thoughts ground to a halt when someone knocked on his door. He rose unsteadily, made his way across the room, and muttered profanities beneath his breath as he struggled with the lock. At last, he managed to release the latch, but before he could think ahead to the next step, the door opened from outside.
Stunned, he found himself staring at the last person he’d ever expected to visit his humble abode—the Duchess of Clayton.
“Your Grace. What the devil are you doing here?”
Clarice shook her blond head and entered the room, shutting the door. She stared at him for a long, tense moment, and then wrinkled her pert little nose. “I’ve come to discuss a matter of great importance with you, Captain Blake. Unfortunately, you don’t seem to be in any condition to discuss anything.”
Dylan grabbed the nearest chair, cleared it of a pile of dirty laundry, and shoved it in her direction. “Please. Sit down. Can I offer you a drink?”
If there was one thing he had plenty of, it was gin. As he spoke, he poured himself another shot. The shock of her visit had sobered him to an alarming extent.
“No, thank you.” The duchess settled herself on the edge of the proffered chair, her posture painfully perfect. Dylan took the seat across from her, his heart pounding as he saw a way to make amends.
“I don’t know what you want from me. But I’ll do it. Whenever you want. As long as you promise to tell Natalia I never meant to hurt her. Please, just let her know that when I kissed her, I wasn’t even thinking about that infernal bet.”
“Do you love her, Dylan?”
Clarice’s soft question sucker-punched him, forced him to examine the emotions he’d been unwilling or unable to name. Self-preservation took over and he managed a casual shrug. “I care for her. Far more than I’ve ever cared for any other woman.” He couldn’t bring himself to admit any more than that. Not as things stood.
“Well, I suppose that will have to do.”
“Why don’t you get to the point, Clarice?” Under any other circumstances, he never would have presumed to call the duchess by her given name, but she had initiated the intimacy of informal address. He poured himself another shot, but she put her hand over the glass and barred him from drinking it.
“Drinking yourself into oblivion won’t solve anything. Besides, you’ll need all your wits about you if you’re going to be of any help to Natalia.”
Dylan felt a glimmer of anger. “If you’re here to get me to convince my brother to marry her, you can forget it. Michael’s not talking to me.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Clarice closed her eyes for a brief moment, as though praying for patience. “The duke has already spoken to Viscount Sherbourne. Your brother refuses to wed Natalia.”
Dylan wasn’t surprised. Michael would hate to be anyone’s second choice. He had so little experience, after all. “Surely, the duke can find another suitable match. It isn’t as though everyone in London knows what happened.”
Clarice leaned forward. “That’s exactly what it’s like. Your brother and the duke weren’t the only ones who followed you out to the garden. Lord Jonathan Taylor was there as well. He’s told everyone who will listen how thoroughly you compromise my stepdaughter.”
“What a mess.” Dylan put his head in his hands. His stomach clenched with nausea as he realized the full extent of the damage he’d caused.
“Yes,” Clarice agreed. “How do you plan to fix it?”
“WhatcanI do? Natalia hates me, and the duke won’t let me near her to change her mind.”
His alcohol-soaked brain formulated a sudden plan to hunt down Jonathan Taylor and tear him limb from limb. Natalia might not appreciate the gesture, but it would make him feel ever so much better.
“Well… The duke is running out of options.” She surprised Dylan by grabbing his drink and downing it herself. “Natalia is furious with you, it’s true. But she spoke to me before all of this happened, and I know how much she cares for you.”
She might be telling the truth, but if so, Natalia had changed her mind during those last few minutes in the garden.“I wish I’d never met you.”Those words haunted him, echoed in his head until he thought he’d go mad.
