The hairs on the back of Izzy’s neck prickled.
Ever-proper Duncan was waving both arms in a frenzy, gesturing for Izzy’s attention.
“What is it?” she whispered to the valet. “What’s wrong?”
Duncan’s eyes widened as he pointed at the letter in her hand and mouthed, That.
This?
As the duke stormed from the room, she searched the letter again, trying to find the words that would cause such dramatic offense. Nothing, until . . .
Until her eye landed on the sender’s name. Her heart and her stomach switched places.
Oh, no. No.
Emily Riverdale.
Lady Shemily Liverpail.
Chapter Sixteen
Lord, but she was an idiot.
The letter in Izzy’s hand was from Ransom’s own intended. The flibbertigibbet. The same woman who’d run off with a farmer, leading to the duke’s disfigurement and brush with death. And she’d just read this letter aloud to him as proof of everlasting love.
Izzy gave the letter to Duncan in passing. Then she picked up a candlestick in one hand and her silk skirts in the other.
“I must go after him.”
Moving as fast as she could in her sausage casing of a gown and corset, she chased him down the corridor. “Ransom, wait.”
He didn’t break stride, firing a warning over his shoulder. “Not now.”
The words hit her square in the sternum, stopping her in place. His wasn’t a tone one could easily ignore. Eleven generations of ducal authority rang out in that command.
He was angry, hurt, and on a very short fuse to explosion.
Izzy gathered her nerve and followed anyway.
She struggled to keep pace with him. He knew these rooms and corridors so well, having walked them every night in the dark.
At last, he turned into a room, and Izzy knew she would have him cornered.
He’d ducked into the library.
Ironically enough, the library was one room Izzy had avoided thus far. Though the vastness of the space and the floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves were grand, for a true lover of books, the scene was unbearably sad. A cursory glance on the first day had revealed that any books of interest or value had been removed or looted. The only volumes remaining were dry agricultural treatises or outdated almanacs, and even those had been mildewed or chewed to the point of being unreadable.
Someday, Izzy had told herself, she would find the money to clean this out and fill it with lovely books again. Books bound in every available shade of rich, buttery leather: green, blue, red, brown. Someday, she would pass a rainy day sitting by that massive stone hearth, cuddled up in an overstuffed armchair and caught in the grips of a thrilling gothic novel.
Tonight, she would have to settle for living in one.
She stopped in the center of the room and placed the candlestick on a forgotten, dusty table. “Ransom, I—”
He held her off with an outstretched hand. “I’m warning you, Goodnight. Don’t push me right now.”
“Please. I don’t want to argue. Just allow me to apologize. I’m so, so sorry. It was terribly thoughtless of me to read that. I’ve had the letter for ages now, and I never drew the connection. I had no idea she was your Lady Emily.”
Rage flared from him. “So you know.”
“Yes. I know.”
He took two confrontational steps in her direction. The candlelight sent fearsome shadows playing over his scarred face. “You’ve been gossiping about me. Or maybe it was somewhere in my stack of correspondence. Have you been snooping through my letters on your own?”
“No,” she hastened to say. “Nothing like it. I learned about it from Duncan.”
“Duncan. He told you.” He cursed violently as he turned away. “That’s it, then. There’s not a soul remaining on this earth I can trust.”