Benedict William Montgomery tried his best to not snap at his closest friends as they lampooned him for his unfortunate tumble into the Thames as they sat around a table in their preferred club. They, after all, did not know the sheer fear he had felt as the icy waters had engulfed him, the way the panic crawled up his throat even now. They did not know the amount of posturing it had taken to pretend that getting on a boat hadn't taken every ounce of ducal willpower that he had. He just scowled and played a card from his hand. To his right, his cousin, Lord Phillip Montgomery, made an appreciative sound at the deft hand Benedict had played.

'Rothbury, I don't think we will ever forget the sight of you tumbling off the bloody railing. I bet you smelt for days.' Chuckled the Marquis of Graham, who had attended Eton at the same time as Benedict and now often championed the same causes in the House of Lords. That did not prevent Graham from spearing Benedict with his wit.

'I dare say poor Camilla did not come within ten feet of you.' The Duke of Rutland offered a jab that had him wincing. It was true, his mistress had refused to see him until he was once again roaming through society. It shouldn't have grated, he knew full well that she used him for his money and the access to fine establishments that he afforded her, just as she provided him with physical release without the entrappings of an affair or, God forbid, marriage. Still, there was something almost mercenary about how easily she would forget him if he died. If he were the sort of man who needed human company, he might have wondered at the sheer lack of connection he shared with anyone other than the three men in front of him. He grimaced as he played his next card.

Even his Duchess had written to him, for the second time in the six years of their marriage. Sent him flowers! And his mistress had acted like he hadn't existed. It was...distasteful. And he was already feeling a little contemplative over his life choices following his accident.

At the thought of his wife's letter, a lazy smile tugged at his lips. Just like her first letter, this one was highly amusing and particularly strange. He had read it thrice and yet it had made little sense to him.

Husband,

No feigned terms of affection, he had noted. Good, she had moved past her notions of romantic, loving marriages. Not that he had given her much of an option in that regard.

I have heard of your most unfortunate accident and I write this letter partly to ask after your health, partly to accept blame for my role in your accident.

That had made him start. She had been nowhere near London, she hadn't come to town since their marriage. It had been close to three years since they had even seen each other, six since they had exchanged words.

You may wonder, husband mine, how I could have orchestrated such a feat all the way from Silverton Abbey? Well, I had a horrid day and I was cursing you, naturally, for my horrid day was all because I decided to take some of your advice. But that is neither here nor there.

In the throes of my passion, I wished that you would fall into the Thames and catch the worst cold of your life. I am truly remorseful about that, I shall hope you will be kinder if the need ever arises for you to curse me.

He had been unable to control the bark of laughter. His wife remained a peculiar thing.

I should also caution you that I wished you would take a humiliating fall when speaking at the House of Lords, so if you have any plans for grand speeches you may want to be careful. The Almighty seemed very indulgent when I wished badly for you, I do hope you can forgive me.

Your Wife,

Minerva.

She had written and cut out 'Vera', which was a pet name he recalled Charlie using for her.

At the thought of Charlie, his gut twisted with hot despair, resentment, and no small amount of guilt.

Charlie, who should have been Minerva's husband. Charlie, who would have appreciated her romantic personality. Charlie, who would have been Duke. Charlie, who would not have been in a carriage accident a week before his wedding if Benedict had been home. Charlie, who had lost his life because he was in his cups. Charlie, who had left him alone and alive and miserable. And dirt fucking poor, with no choice other than to marry his brother's American Heiress bride. His mouth twisted in distaste as he motioned for someone to refill his glass. He set down his cards, declining to join the next round.

Why did it feel like there was a ten-ton weight on his chest?

You damned both of us to an unhappy union, you selfish bastard. He wanted to rail at his brother, wanted to wound him as he had been wounded. But Charlie was gone, and he was here alone and there was nothing he could do to make anything better. Benedict's brush with the afterlife had left him feeling disconcerted and bitter and he had not a single outlet for the storm brewing within him, so he just knocked back his drink and asked for another. It did not help with the tightness in his chest and his increasingly labored breathing.

His companions played a few more rounds, oblivious to the dark emotions that roiled within Benedict, until Rutland announced his intention to leave.

'My wife has returned from her sister's country home, I do not wish to keep her waiting.' He said by way of explanation, with a bright twinkle in his eye.

'Never took you for the domestic sort, Rutland.' Benedict rolled his eyes, rubbing his hand over his constricting chest. It was only a year ago that Rutland had enjoyed the most debauched of activities and now here he was, waiting hand and foot on his wife. Pathetic.

'My wife is a delight, Rothbury, I am happy to oblige her. I'm sure it will disgust you to know that we rarely sleep in our separate chambers and take walks in Hyde Park.'

Benedict let out an affronted sound and looked to the other two beseechingly.

'I am far too smart to fall for the parson's trap, unlike the rest of you.' Graham shrugged.

Philip just pointed to the finger that housed his own wedding ring. 'I am the picture of newly wedded bliss, Rothbury, I assure you. You think that you know what women are like, but wives are a different beast altogether. Clarissa and I may have married for all the typical reasons, but the more I know her, the more I appreciate her. Willful and frustrating and loving and endearing all at once.'

'Next, you are going to tell me you've dismissed your mistress.' Benedict made a cynical huff. What had happened to the men who had shared his distaste for the fanciful musing of gothic novels?

Love? There was no such thing and his friends were fools. 

Philip tilted his head and gave him a smug smile. 'I did.'

Benedict could scarcely believe it. Phillip's mistress had been one of the most sought-after courtesans in the country. He had spent a fortune just to procure her and another fortune just to keep her.

'You cannot tell me a virgin is a better bedfellow than a woman with experience!'

He cringed at the memory of the unpleasantness of his wedding night. Or what he remembered of it through his drunken stupor.

'It is about the emotion, Rothbury, not that we would expect you to understand. Such mortal flaws are beyond you. You likely haven't so much as touched your wife in years.' Rutland waved dismissively as a footman brought him his coat.

'Sex is just a way of taking care of a bodily need. I don't feel any profound emotion when I eat, why would that be any different?'

Yes, the mighty Duke of Rothbury had always been famed for his steely demeanor, even as a second son who wouldn't have inherited the title. A cliché, perhaps, but Dukes were required to be severe, somber, and exacting. How many times had his father said that he and Charlie should have switched places in birthing order? Hadn't his tenants secretly, traitorously been relieved when he had been the one to inherit the Dukedom following Charlie's senseless death?

The one God-forsaken time he had indulged himself.... Well he was still paying for that, wasn't he?

Good, responsible Benedict. Always looking out for his little sister and older brother. Always keeping Charlie out of trouble, helping Ophelia with her studies. Always trying to keep his father away from the opium. Always reliable if his family found themselves in a troubling situation.

And where exactly had that gotten him? Married to Charlie's bride, who couldn't be a worse match for himself.

'Do you suppose, My Lord, we could ever come to love one another? I understand that you had a beau-' She had asked in her horrid American drawl, looking at him with her impossible sapphire eyes.

'No,' He had silenced her with a lethal look. He did not want to talk about the woman he would have married if not for Charlie's accident. 'I expect no such frivolities from this joke of a union, My Lady.'

Her eyes had shuttered and she had paused as if to gather her courage.

'Then do you suppose we could be friends? Or are we to spend our lives avoiding each other's company?'

'This is what marriage to a future Duke looks like, my Lady Wife. There are no walks in the gardens, no nights spent in each other's arms, and no bloody romance.'

'Well you can hardly blame him, his wife is American.' Graham offered sympathetically, graciously offering Benedict reprieve from the memories of the early days of his marriage.

'What's your point? She's made him richer than a King. Your family didn't seem to mind her American blood when she made the liberal donation to your mother's charity. By all accounts, she is known to be generous, kind, and charitable. And he's going to need heirs eventually.' Rutland huffed.

'I already have an heir. You don't think I keep his interfering hide around because I like him, do you?' Benedict flickered his eyes in the direction of Phillip.

'She is actually quite the lovely woman, I had the pleasure of meeting her when I joined Cousin Ophelia's house party. Granted, the accent takes some getting used to but she would have made someone less uptight than dear old Ben here a wonderful spouse. And seeing as how I would rather go mad than become duke, I'm still of the opinion that you should take an opportunity to know her.' Phillip agreed.

What a strange world, in which other men jumped to his wife's defense. His mood just turned sourer.

'She was supposed to be someone else's wife.' Benedict muttered darkly and all three of his friends tensed. 'And what would getting to know her accomplish? My hand was forced by circumstance, and I damn well won't give up my life for a woman I didn't fucking want in the first place!'

'I didn't mean-'

'I know full well what you meant, Cousin. I tire of company, gentlemen. I shall take my leave of you all.'

'Shall we have a smoke before you married old men all retire, then?' Graham offered, annoyed that his friends were cutting his evening short.

Rutland declined, disgustingly eager to find his way back to his marital bed, but Benedict and Philip obliged. Taking the cheroot between his fingers, Benedict drew in the smoke in hopes that it would dull the edge of his tumultuous feelings. He would send for Camila tonight. Yes, some release may take the edge away from the dangerous hankering for violence roiling in his gut and the strange tightness in his lungs.

Benedict allowed the smoke to fill his lungs, waiting for the light buzz of pleasure that usually followed the high-quality product Graham provided, but instead of the heady feeling, he felt like someone had robbed him of his breath. His lungs squeezed and he tried to inhale but the air just wouldn't come.

Suddenly, he was not in his club enjoying a cheroot, he was back in the frigid waters of the lake near Chatwick hall, drawing water into his lungs, trying to claw his way to the surface that was just out of reach.

Panic surged through his body in powerful tremors, he barely heard Phillip's shouts of terror and Graham's orders to the footmen to fetch a physician.

Drowning. He was drowning again.

Darkness surrounded him, his vision was failing. He was running out of air. Any moment now his body would force his mouth to open in a desperate bid to breathe and he would drown. He had fallen through the ice and Charlie was too far away to have seen him.

He was so damn cold it was burning his skin.

He was going to die.

He was going to drown in this frigid lake and then who would take care of his family?