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It seemed like he had not heard her, at all. As if he had suddenly retreated to a place very far away from their present location. His green eyes were cloudy.
“Your Grace?” Her voice faltered. What was wrong with him?
But at that moment, Eleanor appeared at the doorway, beckoning her.
“Patricia,” she called, smiling. “I have a lady who would like to meet you. She is hosting another charity event next week and I told her how I could not have done this without your assistance.”
Patricia took a deep breath. “Of course, Eleanor. I shall come inside in a moment.”
Eleanor nodded, disappearing back inside.
“Duty beckons, my Lady,” said the Duke, his voice thick with some emotion she could not identify. He bowed slightly. “It was a pleasure.”
She hesitated, smiling uncertainly. Was he angry with her? But then, he might just still be ruminating about Lord Cardigan. He obviously did not like the gentleman very much, despite the other man’s claim that they were old friends. What was the story between them?
But Patricia had no time to find out or to linger with him any longer. Eleanor wanted her and she could not be rude.
“I enjoyed our talk, your Grace,” she said slowly, taking a deep breath. “I hope that perhaps we might talk more, if you are so inclined.”
He smiled tightly. “Perhaps one day, Lady Patricia.”
Patricia bit her lip, curtseying, before fleeing back inside.
As she moved around the common room seeking out Eleanor, she was forced to admit to herself that she felt bereft in some way. As if she had somehow made a faux pas. And regretful that it seemed the Duke was no longer interested in her at all. And, she was forced to admit as well, it wasn’t just because of his wealth.
He intrigued her. He might not be as handsome as Lord Cardigan, with his scar, but she somehow sensed he was the better man.
She glanced back out into the gardens. He was still standing there, exactly where she had left him. And as far away in his mind as ever, by the look of abstraction on his face.
* * *
As soon as he got into the carriage, Jackson swore underneath his breath, leaning back into the plush velvet seat.Truly, thank the Lord that event was over and done with.He felt like he had just gone ten rounds in a boxing ring.
He opened his eyes, gazing out the window. Stalls everywhere, selling pork pies, flowers, and God knows what else. A seething hive of activity. He watched a small boy pulling along a cart of heavy coal, struggling against the wind. He looked cold, forlorn, and about as weary of life as he felt.
It was a cruel world, indeed.
His mind drifted back to the event at the orphanage. It should have just been a run of the mill charity event. He had almost not attended it at all. He had awoken with a sore head and a bitter heart this morning. It was only because of his respect for Lady Reynold’s good works that he had eventually dragged himself along.
It turned out it had not been a run of the mill event, in any way.
His mind lingered on the young lady, who had so strangely pursued him. Lady Patricia. She had made him feel as if he was whole again; as if the scar had never occurred, and he was still the man that he had once been. It had been an age since a lady had reacted to him in such a way – certainly not since he had returned from war. He still could not quite make her out. She had been flirtatious, but in an almost innocent way, as if she did not entirely know what she was doing. His loins stirred again at the memory of her.
And then, there had been Cardigan.
His blood ran cold at the mere thought of the man, his fists clenching tightly. That he had the audacity to simply walk up to him like that, chatting casually, as if the last time they had seen each other had been over drinks at a croquet match. The last time he had seen that man it had not been so civilized. He could still hear the screams of men dying around him, screaming like banshees in the fog of musket fire, and Cardigan’s face…
He shuddered, as a cold sweat broke out over him. It did not take much to trigger his recollection of his time at war, and Cardigan was a big trigger, indeed.
He swore again, leaning forward in the seat. Why had the man approached him? Just to offer his trite words of condolence? No, there must be more to it than that. There always was, where that man was concerned.
And rather regretfully, his sudden appearance had broken the spell the lady was casting over him.
He leaned back in the seat, feeling sweat pour down the back of his neck. It hardly mattered, did it? The lady had given her calling card to the other gentleman. The fleeting connection he had felt with her must have been an illusion. He was very surprised by the quick surge of jealousy he had felt, when she had done so.
Suddenly, he rapped on the top of the carriage. He did not want to go back to the house on St. James. Not at all.
“The club on Bond Street,” he told the driver crisply. “And make haste.”
