Chapter Seven
Hugh was notnecessarily given to drinking morosely in inn parlors, but when occasion knocked, he never failed to open the door.
The embers of the unnecessary fire burned in the grate as Hugh tossed back the ale, swallowing the watery stuff and considering asking for brandy or Scotch. Then again, whatever they might have in this establishment—and there was no guarantee there would be anything at all—would hardly be worth having.
As he drank, he ripped off his gloves and stared at the ruined flesh of his right hand. The other remained unscathed, but this was bad enough. Near-constant pain, irritation, that infernal tightness across his knuckles no matter what he did or how often he bathed his hand.
He had not missed the way Christiana had looked at his gloves more than once. Wondering, no doubt, what lay underneath.
Wondering what sort of devil she now danced with.
He drained the glass and poured another.
What a sorry excuse for a man he was, sending his wife to bed alone on his wedding night because he was afraid of her reaction should they be intimate.
Fortunately, it seemed she had no hopes of that; evidently, she had believed him when he had told her of his expectations—or lack thereof.
His head throbbed, and he massaged his temple with his good hand. The other lay uselessly in his lap.
This was all for Amelia. She deserved a chance to have more than his fate, consigned to his estate to rot. As bright and beautiful—and willful—as she was, she could marry well and have a good home, if only she were accepted by theton.
The minutes ticked by as he drank and thought, sinking back into the quiet despair that characterized his days. Eventually, as the clock struck twelve, he rose with a sigh, replacing his glove and fastening the mask over his head. Though he would never admit it, he hated the necessity of wearing it—hated that he had been rendered so deformed that this was the only way the world could accept him. But there was no point lingering in those particular feelings.
His hand itched, and he scratched it absently as he ascended the stairs to the chambers he had hired. One for Christiana and her maid; one for himself. His valet would sleep elsewhere, but Hugh had chosen to keep Christiana’s maid close by. It was unlikely that anyone would risk harming a duchess, but Hugh wanted to be certain.
And this inn, while one of the best on the road, was not in and of itself particularly safe.
The room spun as he reached it, and he rubbed at his eyes, casting the mask once more on the chair. His valet had yet to arrive, so he took the liberty of finding the door between the rooms and opening it a crack.
Christiana’s light breathing filled the air. She snored a little, just enough to color her every breath, and he found something strangely comforting in the sound. For a long moment, he stood there, listening to the sound of her sleeping, knowing he could never go to her.
Then he closed the door and began undressing, his hands clumsy.
“Is everything all right, Your Grace?” his valet asked him as Hugh fumbled his way into his nightclothes.
“Perfectly all right.” Hugh sighed as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I hate these places.”
“Yes, sir. I ensured the linen was twice washed for both rooms.”
“Thank you, Rogers.”
The valet undressed him briskly, and Hugh climbed carefully between the clean sheets, his head swimming with everything Christiana had confided in him. She had been little more than a maid in her own home. And although he hoped he had allayed her concern about his drinking, it was clear she’d endured something terrible from her father.
What had he done, bringing her into his household?
Would she be the wife he needed, or had he ruined his last chance for peace?
The journey tooktwo more days. Each time they were obliged to enter a posting house, the duke sent Baxter and his valet in a separate carriage to clear the way and hire a private parlor.
Christiana suspected that even if there had been no parlor available at the point of asking, the innkeepers would have contrived to find one.
No one denied a duke.
And His Grace, the Duke of Somerset, was evidently not in the habit of being denied. Christiana watched him organize everything with the quiet efficacy of someone who knew he would be obeyed without question.
No doubt that was why he’d reacted so strongly to hisrequestthat she keep him company over dinner that first night. If they were to get along, he would have to learn how to bend, and she would have to conquer her dislike of being told what to do.
As they rattled along the road on the third day, he turned his gaze to her as though sensing her thoughts. They had spoken little, but she was always aware of his presence and the graveness of his eyes.