A Rake, A Spinster, And An Arrangement

Chapter 33: Mistakes (Ep 7)

"You're drunk."

Draco paused at the top step and turned slowly to look towards the Duchess's chambers. Hermione had never inhabited them when they were last in London, seeing as how he had been residing at Nottingham House and they had left after the wedding. He had imagined, time and again, just what she would do with that bedroom.

After all, they were to share his rooms. His rooms were darker in the morning, had the larger softer bed, and he had had no intention of allowing her to be far from him, ever. Her rooms, well, the Duchess's rooms, had such a natural light to them, he had imagined her sitting on a chaise, reading, while he was on his knees devouring her...

Now, he wondered if he would ever see her within those rooms. Now, he wondered if she would ever again be in his bed.

"I am not," he answered slowly, careful to hide any slur to his tone. He could understand why she would assume that he was drunk, given how he must smell like liquor, but—"I have sobered up before returning home."

"Why?" she asked, forcing him to look at her once more.

He had not intended to do so. In fact, every step up the large staircase, he had reminded himself to simply turn right once he reached the landing and enter his own room. He hadn't wanted to look her way and see her door shut. He had been trying to spare himself from his regret and his longing. He had been trying...

Well, it was futile now, and so, he allowed his gaze to pass over her.

He wished it had not.

She was a vision, standing there in her nightdress, covered in lace. He so rarely saw her in them, seeing as how they were constantly at each other. What was the point in her wearing a nightdress when he would immediately be pulling it off of her? Now, he understood the appeal. Her hair was down, the curls teasing him as a few strands covered her breasts, and he imagined pulling the ribbon from the front, slowly unlacing it. He imagined lifting the hem, exploring her legs as they became open to her.

He imagined—

"Well?" she asked, cutting off his thoughts.

He couldn't even remember her original question.

"How is the Viscountess?" he asked, taking a few steps towards his door, and away from her. He needed distance between them before he made a mistake, or worse, fell to his knees and...

Well, he should beg for forgiveness, and he should tell her everything, and he should do a thousand things, but it was late, and he was exhausted. He knew that she had spent the day with the Potters and that they had not had a good night's rest while traveling the evening before, so...

As much as he wanted to speak, wanted to tell her the truth... he could not find the words.

And in truth, even if he could find the words, they would be far too jumbled to make any sense.

"Ginny is..." Hermione let out a long sigh, and he watched as her brow furrowed and her fingers ran into her hair. He could tell immediately that Hermione was unable to find an answer to his question, which felt absurd. Pansy had said nothing, but Longbottom had confessed, while peeling a bottle out of his hand, that Harry had been drunk the night before.

To think, only a month or so earlier, he and Potter had been drunk together, with Draco beginning his web of lies while Potter lamented the fact that he couldn't give Ginny a child. And now... Now, well.

He wondered if Potter blamed his wife for the loss. He knew that his father, the late Duke of Wiltshire, had held his mother accountable time after time for every single loss. He imagined Potter doing the same... but could not see it. No. Not Potter. The man adored his wife.