Page 7 of Never Beguile a Duke
“No.” Mr. Braddock bowed to Silas. “If you would excuse me, Your Grace.”
“Of course.” Silas waved his hand, dismissing Mr. Braddock, who hastened down the corridor without another word.
Pressing his face to his palm again, Lennox trudged into the drawing room. “That man is going to be the death of me.”
“I assume he feels the same toward you.” Silas chuckled, earning a dark glare from Lennox as he flung himself onto an armchair.
“Roxburghe doesn’t have this issue.” Wincing, he lowered his hand and revealed the discolored skin forming around his right eye.
The aforementioned man appeared in the doorway, holding a half-filled snifter of amber liquid. “Actually, he does.”
“Miss Fernsby-Webb has assaulted you?” Lennox asked, his eyebrows floating near his hairline.
“She would have… had Beaufort not delayed her from discovering Miss Webb and me.” The corner of his mouth pulling, the Duke of Roxburghe handed Lennox the drink. “She threatened to turn her sister into a widow before our wedding.”
“Did you thank Beaufort for his assistance?” Lennox asked, sighing as he placed the cool glass against his eye.
“No, he didn’t.” Silas folded his arms across his chest, stared at Roxburghe, and tapped his foot, as though waiting impatiently to hear the words.
Roxburghe rolled his eyes. “Would you accept a proposal instead?”
“I have no desire to marry you,” Silas replied as he lifted a crystal decanter from a silver tray and filled two glasses with whiskey.
“I’m not asking for your hand,” Roxburghe snapped, swiping the offered drink from Silas. “I have a business proposition for you… act as a barrier between Miss Webb and her sister.”
Sipping his whiskey, Silas stared at Roxburghe over the rim of the glass. “I don’t need more money. You and Lennox lost the wager to remain unattached. Even if Mansfield and Warwick don’t fall to Cupid’s arrow by the end of the season, I’ll still have an additional six thousand pounds.”
Lennox snorted.
“You disagree with my assessment?” Silas asked, his eyes sliding to Lennox.
“Grisham, Roxburghe, and I are all engaged. It’s still January.” He lowered the snifter from his eye. “At this pace, no one will survive long enough to win the bet.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Roxburghe clinked his glass against Lennox’s, then took a deep swig.
Miss Fernsby-Webb’s beautiful face, glowing pink from their sleighing excursion, floated into Silas’ mind. Even after they’d flipped the sleigh and needed rescuing from beneath the vehicle, her enthusiasm for adventure didn’t waver.
A very physical reaction rippled through his body at the memory of her soft form pressed against him as they hunkered in the snow, and the scent of lemons washed over him. He raised his eyes, expecting to find Miss Fernsby-Webb standing in the drawing-room doorway.
However, no one appeared.
Grimacing, Silas shook his head to clear the fantasy.
“What a horrible future to wish upon your friends,” he growled, adding more inflection than he intended.
Lennox flinched, and then, tracing his finger around the cup’s rim, asked, “If we can’t tempt you with currency, what can we use?”
Silas returned his glass to the silver tray. “You wish to employ my services as well?”
“I can’t keep allowing Mr. Braddock to punch me in the face.”
“You could… it seems to amuse him.” Laughing, Silas danced out of Lennox’s reach.
Lennox slammed his snifter down, his face darkening. “I have no desire to duel my future brother-in-law, but I refuse to give up the pursuit of Miss Braddock to ease his mind.”
Irritation flickered in Lennox’s brown eyes, mixing with an emotion Silas had not previously witnessed in his friend—desperation.
Silas sighed. “One favor—from each of you—to be performed in the future… without question, and I’ll assist both of you with your quest to seduce your fiancées.”
