Page 106 of Her Beast of a Duke

“If you will not give us a hint, you must at least confirm if it has been painted by the notorious Christian Dawson!” The third lady’s face was so bright and hopeful, too eager, too pressuring, that he almost answered truthfully.

He bit back a smile.

“Have you ever met the artist himself?”

Charles turned around, their voices merging into one.

“You must have! Have you broken your fast with him? Perhaps shared a drink at a tavern? Do you like drinking, Your Grace?”

“I have seen you drink wine, I am most certain.”

Again, he could not keep up with who asked what, who presumed what, and suddenly he felt too suffocated by their presence.

Beyond the wall of feathers and frilly sleeves, Charles struggled to see other faces, who were all looking at the cordoned-off, veiled painting in the center of the ballroom.

The starlight piece.

Only this time, thestarlighttheme had been taken to heart. He thought of the dark spill of hair, of stars falling through the length like they did an inky black sky, a goddess of sleep watching over a slumbering world.

“Excuse me—” he tried again, but to no avail.

“You are the finest gentleman in all of London.” His gaze snapped to the first lady. “Surely you recognize that, Your Grace? It only serves you well to mingle.”

His chest tightened at that, seeing not a friendly or even a hopeful suggestion, but a threat. It echoed in his mind, overlapping with a much sterner voice, one withered with age and grief.

Pushing down memories of his mother’s insistence to join Society, to rebuild the empire, to host and mingle and woo and network, Charles gave a tight smile. “Indeed. And I shall, so if you will just?—”

“Is it true that Lady Phoebe almost poisoned your guests at the dinner party?”

Charles ditched his attempts at leaving at the mention of his daughter. While she could be a tearaway, she washistearaway to defend and reprimand.

Protectiveness flared inside him, thick in his throat.

“No,” he answered, although it was true. “She was well-behaved when she found her way into the banquet hall.”

“She should not have been allowed out of her room at all,” one of the ladies scoffed. The redhead. “The girl would never have done such a thing if she had the proper guidance. She should learn how a true lady acts in public.”

Charles reared back, offended by the slight against his parenting. Ire threatened to overtake him for a moment, shattering his rigid composure, when another voice cut through the tirade of questions.

“Ladies! Ladies, you must part this wall of beauty so I may approach His Grace.”

The ladies gasped in utter joy as they turned to Levi Norman, the Marquess of Trewford.

With an easy, charming smile and short, cropped blonde hair, Levi was an eligible bachelor, but one who was reserving himself for a true spark.

He played his part well, however, appreciating the ladies in full, making eyes at them, before he nodded to Charles.

“Branmere,” he greeted. “You appear rather… swarmed.”

“I am,” Charles said tightly, trying not to scowl.

“Ladies, as lovely as you all are, His Grace must get back to his auction! Branmere, I know a buyer who is greatly interested in the Kiplingcotes painting.”

Charles resisted the urge to frown, knowing he had no such piece on display tonight, and nodded. “Ah, yes, that one. A fine piece that must find its way to a good owner. Show me to him.”

He cast a glance at the three ladies, who were still staring at him, not quite able to settle on him or Levi—envious and greedy at once.

“Enjoy your evening, ladies.”