Page 94 of Courting the Wrong Duke

The evening had left him unsettled in ways he could not easily separate. There was Rosalind herself, who had somehow become far too easy to think about when she was nowhere near him, and then there was the warning she had delivered before leaving the ball.

He had spent the journey home trying to dismiss what she believed she had seen. He had watched Algernon leave London. He knew what he had seen just as surely as Rosalind seemed to know what she had seen.

Both things could not be true.

William loosened his cravat and crossed the hall, but instead of turning toward the staircase, he stopped.

That was what troubled him most.

He trusted his brother. He always had. The certainty had been so deeply rooted that he had never thought to question it. Yet tonight, for the first time, Rosalind had placed the smallest crack in something William had always considered immovable.

He did not like it. Nor could he seem to put it from his mind.

Sleep, he realized, was unlikely to come anytime soon.

Perhaps a book would fare better.

William turned toward the library.

Books had rescued many restless nights before. If nothing else, an hour spent with history or philosophy might finally silence the endless procession of thoughts chasing one another through his mind.

The corridor was cool and almost unnaturally still, the only sound the soft echo of his own footsteps across the polished floor. Every lamp but one had been extinguished, leaving long stretches of shadow between pools of warm candlelight.

He was only a few paces from the library when something made him slow.

Light.

A narrow band of gold stretched beneath the heavy oak door, bright enough to catch his attention immediately.

William frowned.

At this hour the room should have been empty.

His mother had retired hours ago, and both Algernon and Augusta were supposed to be well beyond the outskirts of London by now, their carriage carrying them toward Aldermere. Perhaps one of the servants had left a lamp burning.

Then he heard voices.

He stopped instinctively.

They did not belong to servants making their final rounds, nor to the butler ensuring the house had been secured for the night. He knew both voices too well.

Algernon.

And Augusta.

William stood motionless, one hand resting lightly against the brass handle. Every instinct urged him to announce himself at once. He had no desire to overhear a private conversation between husband and wife, and for a brief moment he considered turning quietly away.

Before he could move, Augusta spoke.

“This cannot continue forever.”

The words themselves were unremarkable.

Her voice was not.

William had known Augusta for years, and in all that time he could not remember hearing her sound anything less than perfectly composed. Even in disagreement she remained measured, almost impossibly controlled, as though she weighed every word before allowing it to leave her lips.

Tonight there was no trace of that composure.