Page 13 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
“For a man to admire his soon-to-be wife?”
“The Marquess—”
“Is absent.” The Duke moved closer, the fingers stroking her neck, pushing the sleeve from her shoulder. She froze, stomach in knots and fear holding claim to her ability to move.
She yanked herself away, leaning away from him. “You dishonor me. I am a gentlewoman. A diamond. A—” He grabbed her arm. She pulled back, expecting him to draw her closer, but instead, he pushed her down, the momentum of her incorrect judgment making it far too easy. “Your Grace, please,” she trembled.
“Hush,” he snapped in a gravelly voice, pressing a hand over her mouth as he slid his finger along the top of her dress’ neckline.
She shuddered, struggling under his weight when the door banged open. The Duke pulled himself from her, and she scrambled off the couch and stumbled, unseeing, toward whoever had caused the ruckus. Gentle arms and the smell of lilacs encompassed her—small comfort to her shaking limbs. Edna buried her face in her godmother’s bosom, tears afresh on her cheeks.
“You scoundrel,” Violet’s voice clapped the air. “Get out! Get out before I run you through with whatever I find first.”
The Duke chuckled, and Edna entwined her fingers into her godmother’s dress. That didn’t stop the Dowager from snagging the poker from the nearby fireplace. “How about this? Or shall I heat it first, so I can brand you like the swine you are?”
“I am leaving, Your Ladyship. I know better than to rub my affections for another in the face of a jealous woman.”
“You are a braggart!”
Edna heard the disgusting sound of a kiss before the shuffle of feet disappeared down the hallway. Her whole body shook as she sank to the floor, Violet’s arms wrapped securely around her.
* * *
Fool of a man, Albert chided himself as he gazed up the sweeping double staircase that led to the Worthington’s front door. He’d slept fitfully, so much so that the three brandies he’d drunk made no impression but to leave him with a headache come morning. As he made his way up the stairs, his fingers swept the vines of periwinkle on the balustrade. A lovely shade though not the blue that had haunted his thoughts throughout the evening.
“I say,” Jonathan said, “you’re looking a bit peaked, my boy. Are you sure you shouldn’t like to take breakfast somewhere before we carry on with this affair?”
Albert grimaced. It was the third time his uncle had suggested they delay the meeting. He wasn’t nervous for Albert’s sake but his own as his valet had come back with the happy and nerve-tangling news that Violet Rees was calling upon her young goddaughter that very morning—which meant the lady who kept Albert up at night was inside the house at this very moment.
“I’m losing patience with you, you white-livered schoolboy,” Albert said tersely. “Either speak to the woman or never speak of it to me again.”
Jonathan made a sick little noise in his throat. “I shouldn’t want to be an imposition, especially not now with so many unfortunate goings-on around her goddaughter. The poor woman must be positively distraught.”
“Worse than a schoolboy,” Albert muttered.
The door creaked, and Albert started. He snatched Jonathan’s vest and pulled him quickly to the side of the porch. Jonathan began to protest, but Albert silenced him with a quick shake, and the two of them pressed their backs into a tangle of climbing roses. The door opened, and a man in a smart gray suit stepped out, a rancid chuckle on his tongue. Albert knew that voice, that caustic laugh, as well as he did his own name.
He watched his father don his hat as he jogged down the stairs. The villain was not only presumptuous; he was impatient. Albert wondered if he’d been at the house speaking to the Viscount of Bloomsday or if it was the daughter he’d come to call upon.
When the old man was in his coach and pulling away down the shining white cobblestone, Albert extracted himself from the bush and smoothed out his jacket, careful to pluck a pink petal from his shoulder. He took a slow breath and knocked on the door.
“That vulture.” Jonathan tapped the tip of his cane roughly against the ground. “Charles said nothing of his presence here this morning,” he added, referring to his valet whom he’d sent on reconnaissance. “Imagine coming to call on a young woman without even setting a proper appointment.”
Albert gave him a blank stare then slowly cocked an eyebrow. “Not unlike ourselves.”
“We are different.”
“So, you keep saying though I’m beginning to wonder…”
“We’re attractive which means women are pleased to see us.”
Albert was surprised by a dry chuckle in his throat. “Now, who sounds like a rake?”
Once again, he pushed down his jacket and rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen them. He was determined to behave like a perfect gentleman. No rakish comments, no inappropriate questions, no touching. And certainly, no more kisses. As much as the thought of disallowing himself from flirting with Edna disappointed and paradoxically irritated him, the idea of her refusing his help and his council because she judged his character to be of such poor quality was even worse. He had to find a way to make her listen if he couldn’t make her father listen.
She might say she had no choice in the matter, but that wasn’t entirely true. He’d known far too many women that knew how to bat their eyes or throw their weight around to get men to give them what they desired, including, if not especially, their own fathers. Since the Viscount of Bloomsday was a hopeless case, the best Albert could do was appeal to the lady herself and help her find the courage to stand up against the hand which fate was so eager to deal her.
The partition was drawn open by a butler in a starched suit. He was a tall man with a baby face and bright brown eyes that collected the sun like raindrops in a puddle. “My Lord Marquess,” he said, bowing deeply. Turning to Jonathan, he gave another, shallower bow. “My Lord Gettinson.”
