Page 8 of Never Beguile a Duke
“Agreed.” Lennox swung out his arm, but Roxburghe blocked him.
“I want some assurances,” Roxburghe said, his eyes narrowing. “Access to my fiancé, or Lennox’s, will not be granted.”
Silas didn’t register that he’d swung until after his fist struck Roxburghe.
“Insult my moralities again, and the threat of Miss Fernsby-Webb’s ire will seem miniscule compared to the beating you’ll suffer at my hand.” Silas forced his arms to his sides. “I have no interest in either lady.”
“But,”—Lennox retrieved his glass—“you are interested in someone.”
Frowning, Silas turned to Lennox. “Why would you claim that?”
“Because you didn’t say ‘any lady’… You said, ‘either lady’.” Lennox winked at Roxburghe. “What’s her name, Beaufort?”
Winifred.
Dull pounding echoed in the foyer, and Silas, grateful for the escape the opportunity offered, bowed to his friends, excused himself, and hurried down the corridor toward the outer door.
His gaze flicked to the floor beneath the small table, confirming Mr. Aylett had cleared the water puddle and orange blossom buds, then returned to the shadowy feminine figures framed by the frosted windows surrounding the entrance.
Was it her?
Fingers closing around the door handle, he froze. Perhaps a week in close proximity with the beguiling Miss Fernsby-Webb was not the best plan. He’d need to keep close to Mr. Braddock at all times.
Lennox spoke, startling Silas. “For someone who claims to be against supernatural guests, barring visitors from entering your residence seems a sufficient yet slightly cruel method to go about causing that result.”
“Your eye looks horrific,” Silas said, twisting his head to the right. “I hope it doesn’t frighten the ladies.”
He jerked the door open before Lennox countered and stepped aside, hiding the grimace that accompanied the revelation of the identity of the ladies—neither of whom possessed the dark brown hair he hoped to find, and bowed.
“Mrs. and Miss Wilmington,” he said, forcing a grand smile. “Welcome to my home.”
“Your Grace,”—Mrs. Wilmington offered a stiff curtsey—“we were honored to receive an invitation.”
“After holding your daughter on suspicion of murder at the Venning’s ball, inclusion in this week’s celebration seemed the proper step toward making amends.” Silas shifted his attention to Miss Wilmington. “I do hope you accept our apologies.”
“Your Graces,” Miss Wilmington curtsied, her unusual violet eyes sliding between Silas and Lennox. “Thank you for your concern. However, I was not offended. I appreciate the logical manner in which the situation was handled.”
“I wish others shared that sentiment.” Silas exchanged a glance with Lennox.
Another detainee, Mrs. Creasey, penned her vehement refusal, stating that until a social event was hosted without a death, neither she nor her daughter would attend another function. Silas supposed the threat was meant to encourage him to beg for their presence, but he didn’t consider the loss of either lady to be a detriment. Therefore, he set the missive aside without sending a reply.
Footsteps crunched outside, causing the ladies to spin around. They parted, revealing a scowling Mr. Aylett, balancing two trunks, one on each shoulder, his steel-gray hair dusted with fresh snow.
Silas’ mouth twitched. “While we await the remaining guests, you may retire to your chamber where you can rest and prepare for tonight’s banquet.”
Exhaling a heavy sigh, Mrs. Wilmington favored him with a smile. “Thank you, Your Grace. As you know, the journey from town is quite wearisome for someone of my age.”
“You cannot convince me that you have more than thirty-six years,” Silas replied, lifting her hand to his lips.
Mrs. Wilmington beamed.
“If you would follow me.” Mr. Aylett bumped the door closed with his hip, adjusted his grip on the chests’ handles, then trudged across the foyer.
As Mr. Aylett and the Wilmingtons disappeared up the staircase, Lennox leaned over. “Neither lady mentioned my injury. You claimed I looked horrific.”
“You do.”
Another knock sounded at the door. Silas’ heart skipped. Then, he growled.
