Free Lady Vice by Wendy LaCapra Page A

extra cask.”
    “Pity.”
    The duke raised the glass in a silent toast, sipped, and then closed his eyes. Emotions played on his face: felicity and uncertainty, surprise and bliss.
    All melted away as he swallowed, leaving melancholy in his wrinkled brow. Pain engraved every part of the duke’s usually anvil-smooth face. The kind of pain a man never spoke of, even if he acknowledged its existence.
    Ah, but Wynchester was in a bad way.
    Max understood. He had traveled to a distant land with heat indescribable and vistas unimaginable. All the while he’d been haunted by the thought of Lavinia. He had recorded every detail—descriptions of marble buildings with precious stones cast directly into the walls—just to one day share it with her.
    Then, the ambush. His glass rattled as he set it down.
    Pain. Terror. Darkness. Lice. Had he known she’d married a peer, he would have welcomed death. A year later, freedom had brought elation…and the news of her betrayal.
    He recognized the duke’s expression because he had once worn it himself—devastation.
    Devastation strong enough to birth a beast only strict adherence to duty and honor could control.
    He refilled both glasses with an unsteady hand. Why did the duke suffer, when nothing barred him from the woman he loved?
    Wynchester wandered to the mantle as if drawn by mystical magnetism to the fabric Max had hung on the wall. Hanging the piece like some medieval tapestry had been an unusual but meaningful reminder. Max’s wealth was a consequence of his greatest suffering—a lesson he had no wish to repeat.
    The duke studied the gold thread woven into the fabric and the jewels set within.
    “You have done well for yourself,” the duke said.
    “Yes.”
    “I admire that in a man.” Jealousy sung in his tone. He swiveled and pierced Max with a direct look. “I do not begrudge my station.”
    “Of course not, Your Grace.”
    “You do not believe me, I warrant.”
    “I do not presume.”
    “For once, Harrison.” The duke chuckled. “You do not presume, for once.”
    “I am tired, Your Grace.”
    “And I am testy,” said Wynchester.
    An understanding passed between them before the duke straightened. Wynchester attempted to regain an aristocratic air, but with his jaw disfigured, his effort proved futile.
    “I am no fool. I know my advantage, but neither is my station my choice. The title, the money, even my political views—none of them were mine. But I embrace them all, I do my duty.” The duke downed the rest of his drink. “My wife was chosen as well. I ,” the duke placed great emphasis, “did my duty there.”
    The suggestion was clear—the duchess had not fulfilled her end of the bargain.
    Max placed his fingers over his lips. Had he given Wynchester too much to drink? Impossible. The duke must have started drinking before he arrived.
    “I did my duty. But Thea Marie…” His voice trailed to a sandy whisper. “She was enchanting and mysterious. She had an essence I could never capture, let alone conquer.”
    Wynchester dropped his head and his shoulders sagged—the posture of Atlas, struggling under the unforgiving weight of the earth. He’d even used the duchess’s name, speaking from the mud-drenched rapids of despair. Max had seen the duke this way only once before, on the day Max had told him that Eustace, the duke’s only brother, had died—uselessly—at the hands of a madman.
    “Was?” he asked. “You speak as if your wife has died. She has not.”
    The duke lifted his head and stared as if he led a hunt and Max was the target fox.
    “You want the duchess to return to you,” Max said.
    “She will not.”
    “Because your methods—forgive me—are inept.”
    “Pardon?” The duke’s brow angled up like a shot heaven-bound.
    “I believe the duchess could be persuaded to return.” Just before ice crystals formed on the gates of hell.
    The duke flashed a wry smile. “And you think you can help, but you want something in