Page 45 of A Virgin for His Grace
"We are to be true to ourselves," Arabella corrected softly. "Even if it destroys us in the process."
Before Devon could respond to this devastating admission, they were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Mrs. Henderson appeared around the corner with her usual composed efficiency, though her expression suggested she had news of some import.
"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Mr. Whitmore has called and requests a private audience with you. He is waiting for you."
The announcement sent tension crackling through the air, and Arabella saw Devon's entire posture shift to one of barely leashed violence.
"Did he indeed?" Devon asked with dangerous quiet. "How... thoughtful of him to call."
"Shall I tell him you are not at home?" Mrs. Henderson asked with the sort of diplomatic tact that suggested she was well aware of the animosity between the two gentlemen.
"No," Devon replied with grim determination. "Show him to my study. I shall join him presently."
As Mrs. Henderson departed to carry out his instructions, Devon turned back to Arabella with an expression that held both apology and fierce determination.
"Whatever he wants, whatever poison he seeks to spread, I want you to know that my feelings for you will never change.No matter what happens, no matter what choices we are forced to make, you will always be the only woman I have ever truly loved."
The declaration was both a benediction and a farewell, and Arabella felt tears prick her eyes despite her determination to remain strong.
"And you will always be the only man worthy of such love," she replied with quiet conviction. "Whatever the future holds, I shall treasure what we have shared."
With that whispered confession, they parted—she to join Livia in the morning room, he to face whatever confrontation awaited him in his study. Yet both carried with them the knowledge that their time was running out, that in just two days she would be bound to another man for the remainder of her life.
***
Devon found Whitmore standing before the tall windows of his study, examining the leather-bound volumes that lined the walls with the sort of casual inspection that suggested he considered himself a welcome guest rather than an unwelcome intruder.
"Whitmore," Devon said with icy courtesy as he closed the door behind him with deliberate care. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
Whitmore turned with a smile that held more malice than warmth, his pale eyes glittering with satisfaction as he took in Devon's obvious hostility.
"Your Grace. How kind of you to receive me on such short notice. I trust I am not interrupting anything important?"
The emphasis he placed on the final word suggested that he was well aware of having interrupted a private moment between Devon and Arabella, and Devon felt his temper flare white-hot at the man's presumption.
"State your business," he said with dangerous quiet, moving to stand behind his desk in a position that would grant him some measure of psychological advantage.
"My business is quite simple," Whitmore replied with obvious satisfaction. "I wished to thank you personally for your cooperation in facilitating my betrothal to Miss Greystone. Your willingness to release her from her position here demonstrates a nobility of character that I had not expected."
The mocking gratitude was clearly designed to provoke, and Devon felt his hands clench into fists beneath the desktop.
"Miss Greystone's decisions are her own to make," he replied with forced steadiness. "I have no authority to either facilitate or prevent her choices."
"Have you not?" Whitmore asked with raised eyebrows. "How remarkably restrained of you. I confess I had expected more resistance from a man whose attachment to his sister's companion was so widely remarked upon."
The crude reference to the gossip surrounding their relationship made Devon's vision haze with rage, though he managed to maintain his composure through sheer force of will.
"I am not certain what you hope to accomplish with such insinuations," he said with lethal calm. "But I would advise you to choose your words more carefully."
"Oh, I choose my words very carefully indeed," Whitmore replied with evident satisfaction. "Just as I chose my bride very carefully. Miss Greystone possesses so many admirable qualities. Beauty, intelligence, passion—though I suspect you are already well acquainted with that last attribute."
The implication was unmistakable, and Devon felt his control snap entirely. In one fluid motion, he rounded his desk and seized Whitmore by the throat, slamming him back against the wall with enough force to rattle the picture frames.
"You will speak of Miss Greystone with respect," he snarled, his face mere inches from Whitmore's increasingly purple countenance, "or I will forget that I am a gentleman and give you the thrashing you so richly deserve. Do not forget yourself, do not forget that I am a Duke."
"Release... me," Whitmore gasped, his hands clawing ineffectively at Devon's iron grip. "You... prove... my point..."
With visible effort, Devon forced himself to step back, though his hands trembled with the desire to inflict real damage on the man who dared to speak of Arabella with such casual disrespect.
