Georgianna: The Last Real Duchess (The Real Duchesses of London) by Lavinia Kent Read Free Book Online Page A

their marriage when he'd fallen asleep to the sound of her soft chatter – and awakened to . . .
    He pulled farther away, hugging the edge of the bed.
    He forced himself to remember his brother lying in his bed, cold and bloodless.
    All desire faded – but there was no mistaking the careful, measured breath of his wife, lying beside him.
     
    #
     
    It was hard to hold back the tears, to swallow the gasps of pain that filled her.
    She didn't understand what had happened. One moment she'd felt closer to Richard than she'd felt since – no, she'd felt closer to him than she'd ever felt – and the next it seemed a wall had risen between them, cold, hard stone.
    Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Do not cry. Tears could not be allowed.
    She'd cried before him once and she never would again. Never.
    The desire rose within her to creep away to her own bed. She knew he would not stop her. He'd probably not even acknowledge that she'd gone. But that would be cowardly.
    And she was no longer a coward. She'd survived too long by herself not to know her own worth.
    And now there was Robbie to think of. He would grow up knowing his mother was brave and strong. He would never know the young girl who had given up on love without a fight.
    The plain underside of the canopy was bare above her. She focused her eyes upward. In. Out. In. Out.
    Sleep would come. It always did. If she stared long enough her vision would blur and then fade away.
     
    #
    He was gone. She knew it the moment she opened her eyes.
    It should not surprise her. The morning sun was shining brightly through the window and Richard had always been an early riser – but there'd been a time when he would have woken her too.
    It should not surprise her, but it did. He'd needed her so much last night – surely that need could not creep away and hide before the dawn? Only it had – at least for him.
    She should have known better. The last time she'd let herself care for him he'd ripped her heart to shreds and destroyed her youthful innocence. It would never happen again.
    Only it had. Part of being brave was admitting the hollow within, admitting that she'd lost something in the fires of last night's passions.
    Enough.
    She was done with shoulds.
    She'd wallowed abed for weeks the last time, letting the world pass her by.
    Not now.
    Now there were things to do.
    Hargrove was dead. A cold lump formed in her chest at the thought.
    Hargrove was dead – perhaps that was why . . . No. She would not think that way. No matter what the reason, she would not be treated like she didn't matter. She pushed up in the bed, in his bed.
    It smelled of him.
    She held her breath and swung her feet to the floor, grabbing her chemise and pulling it over her head.
    She strode over to the door leading to her own chamber. Her maid would be waiting. She would dress and then figure out what needed to be done.
    Her mind was already beginning to list the tasks that must be accomplished. The house was bound to be filled with visitors paying condolence calls. She would need to consult with Cook to be sure the pantry was well provided. And the mirrors must be covered. Black crepe must be purchased. Did Richard have a suitable . . . And what about the duke's house, now Richard's house? What must be done there? Would they need to move? How soon? And what of . . .
    Opening the door she beheld a flutter of maids. It took a couple of blinks to take in the large trunks and the careful folding of muslin. Even then it did not make sense. Why did they need muslin to unpack? Surely that was what they were doing.
    Her second-best walking gown lay upon the bed. Constance lay a clean swatch of white muslin over the dress and began to fold it with care – one blue serge arm and then the other. The skirt carefully folded from the sides and then the bodice folded down. Each fold carefully softened and smoothed with muslin.
    "What are you doing, Constance?" Annie hoped her voice did not sound harsh.
    "Packing, my lady