Page 58 of A Secret Desire

“So was insulting Miss Blake!” the other duke shot back.

The earl seethed, his eyes fires of rage.

Valingford sighed. “Calm your friend, duke.” He picked up the bell he always kept on his desk and rang it. John, his personal footman, entered the room. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Send for the duchess.”

The footman bowed and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Calling your wife for pity?” the old earl snarled. “No one else is likely to pity you, you old—”

“Yes, my dear?” The Duchess of Valingford appeared in the doorway.

Prompt as usual—one of his wife’s finer qualities.

“Sit,” he commanded her.

She sat. She, at least, had sense. He’d trained her well.

“You know the Duke of Devonmere.”

She nodded. “He’s brought his son round to sense, then?”

“It would appear not. May I introduce the Earl of Bennington?”

She nodded at the old man. “I’d curtsy, but as you see, I’m already sitting. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” A sign of disrespect he’d usually reprimand, but not today.

The old earl nodded, a curt, jerky movement, his eyes wary. The other duke, too, seemed suspicious. Good. Let them wonder.

Valingford folded his hands together behind his back. Blood had continued to pour from his nose, but holding a handkerchief to it lacked dignity. “These two men are concerned you’re planning to spread rumors about Lord Rigsby and Miss Blake.”

His duchess opened her mouth and snapped it shut. She studied a bookshelf across the room. His wife had no interest in reading. She was keeping her own counsel.

“You are not to go gabbing to any of your friends about either of those personages.”

His duchess shot from her chair. “But—”

“Sit,” he commanded.

She sat.

“Must I repeat myself?”

“No.”

He turned to the other duke and the earl. “Are you satisfied?”

The other duke narrowed his eyes. “My son can marry as he pleases, and we’ll not hear a bad word spoken of him or his bride?”

“Precisely.”

The other duke turned to the old earl. “I’m satisfied. Are you?”

The old earl grunted, shaking his hand out. “Imminently.” He bowed low to his wife before leaving the room. “Good day, Your Grace.”

Neither men wasted a parting word on him. A grievous insult. Valingford raised his handkerchief to his nose. He’d have to call the doctor. A morning of grievous insults. They wouldn’t get away with it. He turned to his wife. “There are to be no rumors and harsh words, madame, but by all means, do your worst.”

She fluttered her eyelids in confusion for a good thirty seconds. She’d never been particularly quick-witted, but then again, a more intelligent woman wouldn’t be as pliable. He’d take dumb and pliable over smart and independent any day. Finally, her eyes widened into saucers and her mouth dropped into an O. “Oh. I see.” A smile slide across her face. “I know exactly the thing. Lord Rigsby can’t marry a dead woman, after all.”