For Love of the Duke(12)

“She would not want you to live like this, Bainbridge.”

His grip tightened.

Guilford seemed unaware of the volatile emotion thrumming through Jasper, for if he was, he’d surely have known to cease his barrage.

Instead, he continued. “Lydia loved you. She would want you to be happy.”

Jasper looked at a point over Guilford’s shoulder, flexing his jaw. “You dare presume to know what Lydia would want?” Not a soul had known another so well as Jasper had known his wife. From her smile to her gentle spirit, he knew her better than he knew the lines that covered his palm.

Guilford shifted forward in his seat; the aged leather cracked in protest. “Then you tell me, Bainbridge, you who knew her better than any other. Would Lydia be so cold and cruel as to want to see you live your life as this hard, unforgiving, empty man you’ve become?”

“Go to hell,” Jasper snapped.

His friend inclined his head. “I believe your response shall suffice as an answer.” Guilford climbed to his feet, and fished around the front of his pocket. He extracted a small book, no larger than the span of his palm and dropped it onto Jasper’s desk. “Consider it a bit of an early Christmastide present,” he murmured.

Jasper dropped his gaze.

Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.

“It is the story of a world-weary man looking for meaning in his life,” Guilford went on.

“I don’t—”

“Read poetry. I know. But you used to, and I thought perhaps as it is Christmastide, and a time of hope and new beginnings, that you might find a renewed love for the written word.” Guilford opened his mouth as if he wished to say more. Instead, he sketched a short bow. “Good day, Bainbridge. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“You needn’t come by,” Jasper barked when his friend grasped the handle of the door.

“I know. But that is what friends do.” He paused. “Oh, and Bainbridge?” He reached into the front pocket of his jacket once more and fished something out. He tossed the item across the room. It landed with a solid thump atop Jasper’s desk, coming a hairsbreadth away from his ledgers. “I managed to retrieve Lady Katherine’s reticule. I thought you might return the item to your lady.”

“She’s not—”

Guilford took his leave. He closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“My lady,” Jasper finished into the silence. He momentarily eyed the small pale green reticule, reached for it, and then caught himself. With a curse, he shoved it aside and instead picked up Byron’s recent work. He turned it over in his hands. At one time, Jasper had read and appreciated all the works of the romantic poets. When he’d courted Lydia, he’d read to her sonnets that bespoke of love and beauty. Her death had shown him that sonnets were nothing more than fanciful words, not even worth the ink they were written in.

Yet, Guilford somehow believed the remnants of the man Jasper had been still dwelled somewhere inside him. When all the servants had fled in fear of the Mad Duke after Lydia’s death, Guilford had been unwavering in his steadfastness; the one constant in Jasper’s life, when all friends had gone.

And how did Jasper repay that devotion? With curt words and icy dismissals.

Jasper tossed the book down and stood so quickly his chair scraped along the hard wood floor. He proceeded to pace. Guilford dared to drag him away from Castle Blackwood and thrust him back into the joy and merriment enjoyed by mindless members of Society. His gaze skittered off to Lady Katherine’s reticule, and he cursed.

Why couldn’t Guilford have just left Jasper to wallow in the misery of his own making in the country? There, Jasper was not made to think of anything beyond the loss of Lydia. His staff, a deferential lot, knew to judiciously avoid Jasper’s path. Yet, in the span of a day, he’d been forced to take part in the Christmastide festivities upon the Thames River, and he’d not enjoyed any hint of a reminder of the time of year when Lydia had died amidst a pool of her own blood.

He punished himself by dragging the memory of her into focus, except…

He blinked.

And you, well I wouldn’t wed you if you were the last creature in the world, and the king decreed it to spare my life.

And yet, the fiery, vixen whom he’d pulled from the river flashed to his mind.

Jasper raked a hand through his hair. In that moment, he loathed Guilford for dragging him off to that infernal fair, and he loathed himself for allowing Guilford to drag him off, because then he would remain blissfully ignorant of the snapping Lady Katherine, who’d infiltrated his thoughts and robbed him of Lydia’s image just then.