“I’m not,” Miss Webb said with a nervous chuckle as she detangled herself from Miss Fernsby-Webb. “Nor should you suggest such a scandal. I am the fiancée of a duke.”
“Yes, you are.” The Duke of Roxburghe’s voice boomed as he appeared behind her, holding another chair. “And we’ll withstand whatever rumor your sister has heard.”
“It wasn’t a rumor,” Miss Webb replied, moving aside to let him pass. “It was merely a concern of hers.”
“After your wedding,” Miss Fernsby-Webb said, her tone severe, “that issue will no longer plague me.”
The Duke of Roxburghe shifted his intimidating gaze to her sister. “And what is Miss Fernsby-Webb’s fear?”
“Children.”
He dropped the chair, his eyes swiveling back to Miss Webb, an unreadable expression on his face. “Is this something we need to discuss?”
“No, Your Grace.” A tiny smile cracked Miss Webb’s face. “That is not a concern at this present moment.”
“I think I’m in need of a drink.” He sank down onto the chair and exhaled.
A soft chuckle crawled into the room, announcing the arrival of the Duke of Lennox. “I see it wasn’t necessary to sway Roxburghe’s mind toward escape; his own worry has done that for me.”
Scowling, the Duke of Roxburghe rose and shoved his chair into place. “Had you received the same distressing news, you would have reacted in a similar manner.”
“I,” replied the Duke of Lennox, carting his chair across the floor, “wouldn’t place myself, nor the woman I loved, in that disreputable position.”
“Ah! You admit yourself capable of love.”
“I am capable of a great many things.” The Duke of Lennox’s gaze flicked to Helena.
His eyes remained on her for a fleeting moment, just long enough to make her question his intentions and her sanity, then returned to the Duke of Roxburghe.
“And you, Roxburghe, have delayed long enough. We need to finish this task.”
“Do you miss your new living companion that much?” the Duke of Roxburghe snickered as he strolled out of the parlor.
“He’s not living at my house!” The Duke of Lennox’s irritation echoed down the hallway.
“Who isn’t?” Helena hissed the question.
Miss Webb burst into laughter and pressed a cloth napkin to her face, trying to stifle the sound. She failed.
When she regained her composure, she said, “Mr. Philbert’s ghost.”
“The man who was murdered at the Duke of Lennox’s party last month?” Helena gasped, her legs trembling as she leaned against the nearest table.
“It’s a fallacy,” the Duke of Lennox said, struggling to squeeze himself and two chairs through the doorway. “There is no need to fear my home, Miss Rowe.”
“Your Grace,”—Miss Webb extended her arms as she glided toward him—“I believe your hour of service is concluded, and though I do not wish to part from the Duke of Roxburghe, his constant presence makes it near impossible to cause any sort of noteworthy trouble.”
The Duke of Lennox laughed, then bowed to Miss Webb. “Then I shall remove that offensive blockade. Good day, ladies.”
Abandoning the chairs, he turned around, strode into the hallway, and stopped the Duke of Roxburghe before he entered the parlor.
“We’ve been dismissed,” the Duke of Lennox said, his curt tone surprising Helena.
He seemed so intent on leaving, but when the opportunity presented itself, the opposite appeared to be true. Could she, a wallflower cast aside countless times for younger versions of herself, have attracted the attention of a great man like the Duke of Lennox?
“Your Grace!” Helena darted after them, catching them as the Duke of Lennox opened the front door.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, pausing on the doorstep.
