Page 16 of The Scarred Lyon

Duncan set his plate on the small table on the other side of his chair, then sipped his tea. “My father died about two and a half years ago. My uncle died shortly after my cousin. The shock and grief were too much for him, I daresay. His heart gave out. My father was the duke for about three years. I honestly believed he would be around for many years, as Father was only three-and-sixty and in generally good health. A winter chill took him.”

“I am sorry for all the losses you have endured over the past few years,” Augusta said empathetically.

“Yes, losses. Including my career and my face. I mourned them at first, along with my cousin, but I soon realized I was being selfish and self-pitying. My cousin’s death was devastating, none more so than for my uncle. Jon was all he had; my aunt had died years earlier, and there were no other children.”

Augusta heard the sorrow in his voice, not only for his personal losses but also for his war injury. Duncan told her during the journey that he did not wish to discuss his scars, and she would steer the conversation away from them. “I heard most of your description of Bamford Park before I fell asleep. It sounds lovely.”

Duncan sipped his tea. “It is.”

Heavens, what should they discuss now? “As for getting to know each other better, I should warn you I am atrocious with a needle. I never took to embroidery, nor can I play the pianoforte very well. I have not done any entertaining, so my hostess skills are somewhat rusty.”

“I do not entertain,” the duke replied, his tone flat.

This conversation was not going well at all. It was also the first sign of detachment he had shown since they first met at the Lyon’s Den. What had she said to cause such frost to gather? Augusta was genuinely perplexed. She had forgotten, over these past five years, how a man’s mood can change as rapidly as the weather. Where was the amiable man he had become by the end of their first visit? And during the first part of this journey? The duke had completely shut down.

They sat in silence. The only sound was the logs crackling in the hearth. The loud knock at the door startled Augusta. Duncan rose to answer the door.

“Dinner is ready, Your Grace.”

Well, this should be interesting. Augusta sighed resignedly and stood to join the duke.

Their arranged marriage was not off to a good start. Not at all.

Chapter Seven

They consumed the hearty meal in silence, and Duncan was unsure of his next step. After escorting Augusta to the room, he announced, “I will join McGloin for a nightcap. This will give you time to prepare for bed. I have the key.”

“There is no need,” Augusta replied. “Why not have a nightcap with me by the fire? I believe the proprietor left a decanter of whiskey.”

The invitation wasn’t overtly warm, but it didn’t feel perfunctory either. Duncan felt all at sea, hesitant amid the conflicting emotions swirling inside him. Since sharing the way he felt about his scars, he felt foolish. When Augusta didn’t even comment but instead changed the subject to trivial topics, it made him feel like even more of a dupe. It was as if his admission meant nothing to her. Usually, he would retreat behind his well-guarded defenses, but this was his wife. Duncan could never tolerate misunderstandings and awkwardness when they weren’t necessary. All it did was sow discontent and resentment.

“Yes. Allow me to tell McGloin. I will return directly.” Duncan hurried downstairs and found Patrick seated at a table in the common room. Boisterous men drinking ale, smoking pipes and cigars, filled every corner of the space. When he stepped across the threshold, the room’s loud racket quieted, as everyone turned to stare at him. And Laura wondered why he had not ventured out in public. Frowning, he marched across the room, his discomfort in such crowded and noisy places evident. The patrons continued their conversations. He sat across from Patrick, who was already nursing a drink.

“I didn’t order you Irish whiskey because I wasn’t sure if you were coming,” Patrick said.

“Good. I won’t be staying,” Duncan replied, waving off the approaching bartender.

“And why would you? It’s your wedding night,” Patrick winked.

“I am not having our first time be in a raucous inn.” Perhaps that was too much private information to share with one’s valet, but Patrick was much more than that. There was a more personal reason, but that was between him and his wife. “Have the horses been looked after?”

“Briggs is in the stables now. He’ll come in later, so I won’t be without company. Go and become acquainted with your pretty wife. You never mentioned she was so attractive. Well done.” Patrick raised his glass. “To the Duke and Duchess of Allenby.”

“Thank you, my friend. I appreciate your good wishes. We’ll try to start early tomorrow morning.”

“Briggs said an early departure would be wise because heavy clouds are gathering. We might encounter rain tomorrow; it is almost a certainty.”

“Fair point. See you in the morning around eight.” Duncan nodded and then left the room.

When he entered the front hallway, Mr. Jemison hurried toward him. “Your Grace, my wife wondered how much food you would like in the hamper?”

“There are four of us.” If they encountered bad weather, they might need extra food if they had to seek shelter somewhere. Not every coach inn was as luxurious and well-equipped as this one. “Pack three days’ worth of the usual: cold chicken, bread, beefsteak if you have it, cheese, biscuits, loose tea, boiled eggs, and the like.”

“Mrs. Jemison also made a venison pie, Your Grace, along with cheese scones.”

“Brilliant. Provide generous amounts of everything. We will discuss the terms in the morning. I will pay handsomely.”

The innkeeper touched his forelock, then disappeared into the common room. Duncan glanced at the stairs before him. Perhaps one drink before facing his new bride.