Accidentally Compromising the Duke(72)

“It seems I have,” Edmond said dryly. “I cannot sleep or work, I do nothing but think of her. Every damn day I write her a letter that I have not posted. Sometimes I write a note in the morning, and there are days I still write to her before I sleep.”

“If you care for her, why have you been holed up here for weeks? I confess my ribs do not wish to meet with your fists again.”

He’d chosen to work off the raw edginess—both of body and of mind—by bare knuckle boxing with Westfall. Edmond had refused to even swallow a drop of liquor, he would not drink again to bury pain. Perhaps he would for pleasure, or when he entertained, but never to drown his sorrows again. Westfall had simply raised his shoulders at Edmond’s pronouncements, carefully peeled off his skintight coat and waistcoat, and joined him on the mat in the exercise room.

That morning’s session had been grueling, brutal, and freeing. He fully understood Westfall’s desire not to step on the mat with him again for some time. Edmond had been sparring with him almost every evening, ruthlessly striving to detach himself from the torment he’d put himself under. His friend had been constant, even going as far as to take up residence in one of Edmond’s guest rooms and he had realized Westfall had his own demons to work through.

Then during the day, Edmond would spend hours buried into writing articles and motions for the following year’s debates in the House of Lords. He was dissatisfied with everything he had written and it had failed to distract his heart and mind from being totally obsessed with missing Adeline.

“She is with child. Four months along by my calculation.”

“Congratulations to you and your duchess.” Westfall rose and went to the sideboard pouring brandy into a glass. He raised it to Edmond. “Here is to hoping for an heir!”

Dread coiled through him.

“Good God, man, I wished you an heir, not to be roasted on a devil’s spit.”

“The last time everyone wished for an heir, Maryann died.”

“Hell,” Westfall said softly. “I wish you nothing but good fortune. All Saint’s Eve is next week. I daresay you should be at Rosette Park.”

Edmond frowned and rubbed a hand over his chest. “I confess this is the first time I have thought of Maryann and our son without the bitter taste of guilt on my tongue. Thoughts of Adeline simply bring peace, and I have been a bastard to her.”

“What have you done?”

With clipped words, and for the first time in years, he unburdened himself to Westfall.

Shadows shifted in his friend’s gaze. “I understand your fear, but it is better to hold onto her with everything you have, instead of wasting even a second of time spent with her and lose her forever.”

Edmond smiled to hear his friend echo such sentiments. Westfall was a hardened rake, and society gossip suggested he had not an ounce of feelings for anyone but himself. Despite his friend’s sometimes cruel, sarcastic tongue, Edmond knew otherwise.

He surged to his feet and strolled to the window facing the gardens. “I should not have left her. This is her first child…and I cannot imagine how uncertain she must feel. I shall go to her.”

“And will you tell her how you feel?”

Edmond despised emotions, especially those exercised to excess. Fear and grief were the ones he found hardest to deal with. Even now, the idea of being overly affectionate with his duchess made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. “My presence will be enough to show I care.”

Westfall grimaced. “I have never known you to show sentiment, but how you spoke just now…” He said nothing more, only taking several sips from his glass. “There is also a rumor Mr. James Atwood was seen traveling to Rosette Park.”

Edmond froze. “I beg your pardon?”

Westfall’s lips twisted. “It seemed the man was very happy to hear of your estrangement.”

“And how has he heard such rumors?”

“You and your duchess have become a reigning toast, everyone is interested in your lives.”

Edmond dismissed Westfall’s words. “It does not signify if Mr. Atwood visits Adeline. My duchess has honor.”

“A thing I have never witnessed in a woman. Either way, honor is a cold bedfellow. What she needs is passion and—”

“Hold your damned tongue,” Edmond snapped. He would not even think of his duchess in another man’s arms. “How is your daughter?” Edmond asked, needing to change the subject matter.

Westfall tensed. “She heals as we speak. I swear she will want for nothing, and if society thinks to cut her when she is older they will bleed, Edmond. She has suffered enough.” Rage and icy ruthlessness throbbed in his voice.