Page 7 of Duke in Darkness

CHAPTER 2

Silence. Bloody damned silence. Even the fire warming his bedchamber refused to provide sparks and crackles and shifting wood.

Reaching out an unsteady hand, Gabriel poured himself another tumbler’s worth of brandy. Of all the nights to be still and menacing, of course it had to be the one before his wedding to a near-stranger. Noise of any kind would be welcome, preferably a violent storm with howling winds and rain pounding a steady beat on the arched windows. Noise was his friend, offering a distraction from the memories that always lurked on the periphery of his mind, just waiting to push him over the edge into madness.

Silence reminded him of captivity.

When the French had held him, it had been in a tiny cellar about ten feet wide and less than six feet high, so he’d been unable to stand. There had been nothing in it. No straw to sleep on, no blanket, not a hole that allowed water to trickle in, or even rats. No food or drink had been brought to his prison, so there were no dishes or utensils. He’d been stripped of his boots and regimentals, allowed only a pair of ill-fitting breeches and a coarse linen shirt, so he couldn’t even clomp his heels or clink a belt or twist braid through his fingers. Yelling, or banging his fist on the wall had been a waste of time and energy. There were no other prisoners nearby, and his guards were stationed above stairs, two layers of thick stone and several padlocks away. Far worse, there had been no light. No windows. Nothing to signify the passing of day or night. Only darkness, suffocating silence, and sleep-preventing agony to keep him company as he waited, ears straining and heart pounding, for his captors to appear and drag him away for another round of torture.

Pulling the quilted robe draped around him closer, Gabriel then downed the entire glass of brandy and just as quickly poured another and finished it. It made his eyes water, and burned his throat, but the resulting warmth in his gut, and the blessed clouding of his mind brought such relief, he sighed. Another bottle might even allow an hour’s sleep before he had to meet his bride-to-be at Lambeth Palace.

Beautiful Lilian.

Though their conversation had been brief, the keen intelligence in her eyes and the compassion she’d demonstrated after unknowingly speaking of the one topic he wouldn’t discuss with anybody, had offered a sliver of hope. Not to mention her reaction when he’d kissed her hand. The way she’d gasped and blushed, gave lie to her proper ice princess façade. Passion lurked there. Possibly a great deal. Unawakened certainly, for Quentin in his infinite foolishness, would have wanted a duchess for decoration rather than pleasure. But knowing there might well be far more to Lady Lilian Nash than first thought, or her reputation allowed, was incredibly intriguing. And soon, so soon, she would be naked in his bed, that golden hair unbound and spread across his pillow. Finally, he would know the span of her waist, the size of her breasts, the color and taste of her nipples, and the wet heat of her cunt. The sounds she made when aroused, when desperate, when climaxing long and hard…

“Good morning! You are up out of bed, excellent. I’ve pressed your wedding clothing, I’ll just lay everything out. Tis a fine day to be married, the sun is actually shining. I’ll be back with hot water for shaving and a light breakfast in a bit.”

Startled at his valet’s sudden presence in the middle of the night, Gabriel watched him open the curtains on the other side of the room then bustle away. But it wasn’t dark at all. In fact, weak sunlight streamed in.

“Right then, Hobbs,” Gabriel called after him. Then he closed his eyes as a tidal wave of weariness washed over him. Just a few more minutes. Then he’d be ready to proceed.

“Your Grace!”

He jerked upright. Everything hurt. His mouth felt like sandpaper, his neck had a thousand kinks in it from resting against the gilt chair, and the smell of brandy wafted around him. Bloody hell. He’d knocked over the decanter, and a pool of expensive, amber liquid had soaked his right robe sleeve, and trickled onto the floor. “What?”

“Oh, sir,” Hobbs said, his bushy eyebrows drawing together like two caterpillars about to duel. “You didn’t even go to bed, did you? You slept in that chair.”

Flexing his aching jaw, Gabriel scowled. “No, Nanny, I did not sleep. Not nearly drunk enough.”

“Well. It is nearly nine o’clock, and you aren’t even dressed. We must leave for Langton’s Chapel in a half hour at most. You cannot be late for your own wedding, and I have a fine job ahead of me!”

Bloody, bloody hell.

“I’m a soldier. Bathing and dressing swiftly…is not an issue. Shaving, maybe.”

“No,” countered his valet irritably. “You are not a soldier. You were a soldier. Now you are a duke who is about to marry a lady. I will not have you looking like a vagrant, and be made a figure of fun amongst the upper servants.”

Gabriel hauled himself out of the chair. “Ah, keep your wig on, old man. Direct me.”

“I have hot water. There is no time for a full bath, so will have to be a quick sponge. But I must see to that jaw. You look like a pirate.”

“A swashbuckling pirate?”

“No, Your Grace. One who possesses a treasure chest full of seaweed, had his parrot jump ship, and lost his last shilling to a one-armed cardsharp named Big Nose Bertha.”

“Touché,” said Gabriel, wincing at the description as he padded over to the washstand behind a screened-off corner of the bedchamber.

The hot water from the ceramic basin felt good, but even with a soap lathered washcloth, he could still smell the lingering odor of brandy that had seeped into his skin. Damnation. Once he’d scrubbed as best as he could and dried off, he perched on a padded stool in a fresh robe, and Hobbs expertly lathered his face and began the painstaking task of shaving. His valet had the process down to a fine art, standing as far away as possible, making minimal skin-to-skin contact, shaving first the ruined side then the other. A quick trim of his still military-short hair to finish and Gabriel could then dress.

They made it to his carriage with less than two minutes to spare.

Gabriel smiled. “See? All that hand-wringing for naught.”

His valet harrumphed, turning to bow low to Aunt Imogen. “Your Grace.”

“Good morning, Hobbs,” said the soon to be dowager duchess with a small smile. “You have indeed worked a miracle. And at last, I have a wedding to celebrate.”

Her voice wobbled on the last few words, and Gabriel looked at her in concern. “Are you sure…you have the strength for this, Aunt?”