Page 88 of A Duke in the Rough

As Charlotte unlocked the door, Anne protested, “Burwood isn’t irascible. He’s wonderful.”

Charlotte gave an unladylike snort and exited with Anne close on her heels, still arguing the point.

Honoria touched Miranda’s arm, stopping her. “You won’t say anything, will you?” She swallowed. “About what you saw in the orangery?”

Her face as placid as a summer pool, Miranda stared at her. “But I find oranges such an interesting topic of conversation.” She smiled, patting Honoria’s hand. “Don’t fret. But I expect you to someday return the favor should I need it. In the meantime, if you require it, Icould ask for the key to this room and lock both you and Mr. Merrick inside until you’ve both come to your senses.”

With that, she left in a swish of lily-of-the-valley.

Honoria sank to the settee again, pondering everything that was said in the locked room. CouldThe Muckraker’sculprit be among them? What did that silent exchange between Charlotte and Anne mean? Would Miranda remain mum about the compromising situation she’d witnessed?

But most importantly, did Honoria want her to?

Drake rana hand down the silver waistcoat as he gauged his appearance in the dressing table’s mirror. It contrasted nicely with the jet black evening clothes he had custom tailored by his Grandfather Abernathy.

His valet gave a nod of approval. “Very befitting, Your Grace. Abernathy does excellent work. Should you announce your true identity this evening, you shall look every bit the duke.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that, Dawson. But thank you.” Drake tugged a little at the elaborately fashioned neckcloth.

Dawson’s brow knit, and he reached toward Drake’s neckcloth. “Is it too tight, sir?”

Drake shook his head. “I’m sorry. Nerves.”

“Your Grace, as duke, if you choose to muss your cravat or even discard it entirely, no one would dare say a word.”

“No. I need to do everything correctly.”Especially if I’m to win Honoria.

“I have faith in you, sir. Will there be anything else?”

Drake shook his head. “Leave the door open if you would. I’m in need of some air.”

Alone, he stood at the window, staring down at the darkened terrace.

“Oh, Drake. You look so handsome.”

He spun around at his mother’s voice. Framed within the doorway,she looked lovely. The deep shade of sapphire complemented her skin and blond hair.

“I pale compared to you. We should have your portrait done. To go with Father’s.” He pointed next to the painting of his father Aunt Kitty had brought.

“Oh.” The tiny whisper escaped her lips as she floated forward, her hand clutched to her throat. Tears formed in her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She shook her head, and her lips trembled in a wobbly smile. “Just memories.” She touched his arm reassuringly. “Beautiful ones. You look so much like him, but still seeing this . . .” She stopped, her voice choked with emotion. “Do you see the decoration on his waistcoat?”

Drake leaned in, examining the portrait closer. “Are those pink flowers?”

His mother nodded, wiping her eyes. “Yes. Rosebuds. I embroidered them—in error. His father was furious. But Henry...Henry said he loved them and would be proud to wear them in his portrait. It was the beginning of our romance.”

Drake wrapped an arm around her waist, and they stood admiring the portrait together. “Tell me more about him. Aunt Kitty provided some information, but you knew him best.”

“Do you see how his mouth curves upward in one corner?” She pointed to the lopsided smile his father wore in perpetuity. “You do that, you know. He always said it was his secret weapon. But his smile and the sparkle in his eyes belied the seriousness he held within. Although he was the youngest son and was expected to live a life without care, he had a strong commitment to doing what was right. It was imperative to him we pass that on to you.”

“Is that what you meant when you arrived?”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving the image of his father’s face. “He never gave up hope that his father would open his arms and welcome him—us—back. But when Henry wrote to him, informing him of your birth”—she shook her head, sadness overtaking her—“he never received a reply. But your father still held to the belief that we rear you as a gentleman. With his last breath, he made me promise to educate you, to teach you torespect women, and to act with honor.” She gave a tiny laugh. “It wasn’t difficult. Even at an early age, you devoured any books I provided, and it isn’t in your nature to act any other way than with integrity.”

Tilting her head, she studied him. “Although this nonsense with Miss Weatherby is unlike you.”

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