Page 7 of His Runaway Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #3)

CHAPTER 7

T he study was eerily silent when Daphne approached. She stepped warily inside, and there he was, standing in front of the window with his back turned and his arms folded.

“Close the door.”

She did so, leaning against it and eyeing him suspiciously.

“You’re quite an accomplished liar, Miss Belmont,” he said, not turning around. “I can’t believe I was foolish enough to fall for it. All that nonsense about it being an accident , about only needing to stay for one night. Well, one night was all you needed, wasn’t it? You’ve ruined me, and yourself in the bargain.”

Daphne bristled. “I have not lied to you.”

He spun around. “Oh no? After reading that article, you think you can still look me in the eye and say you’ve been honest with me?”

She took a step forward, holding his stare. His face was flushed red, his eyes glittering.

“I didn’t tell you why I ran from London, admittedly. But then again, you didn’t ask, did you?”

“So, the scandal sheets were right, weren’t they? You tried to take your sister’s place at the altar and fled when you were found out?”

She blinked, dropping her gaze. Something like shame welled up inside her. Not shame at being found out, of course. She didn’t give a fig about that. No, shame at not being able to go through with it.

I couldn’t save her, not when it came to it. That’s another thing the scandal sheet was wrong about. I didn’t protect my sister.

“Yes, that was true,” she answered, tilting up her chin. “If you must know, Emily was being blackmailed into marriage. The scandal sheets didn’t pick up on that , I see. She couldn’t do it, so I went in her place. I thought I wouldn’t mind, that I’d be happy enough to be a duchess, but I panicked at the last moment.”

And he found me out.

She wisely did not mention it.

I’m not sure how he found me out. We look the same. And why would he care? Surely it can make no difference to him if he marries me or Emily. And what will happen to her now that I’m gone? Will she be forced to marry him anyway?

She shook this unpleasant thought out of her head and continued.

“So, you see, Your Grace. If I were trying to catch a powerful husband, why would I abandon one duke at the altar for another? The Duke of Clapton is just as rich as you are and much more handsome. And sociable, too. And he lives in London.”

The Duke gave a harsh laugh, crossing the room to throw himself into a chair by the fire.

“Oh, you think he’s more handsome than me? Why should I care about that?”

She blinked. “Why in the world was that the part you felt you had to mention? My point is that fortune-hunting ladies who are willing to do all sorts of things to catch dukes do not much care which one they marry. If I were such a woman, I certainly would not throw away one duke in order to catch another one who is eminently less agreeable, would I?”

There was a long pause after that. The Duke stared at her, his brow furrowed, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“No, I suppose you would not,” he conceded, at last.

“And I turned up here in such a state, remember?” she continued, pushing her advantage. “I was filthy, and disheveled, and bedraggled. What woman would dare to try to catch anyone while looking like that?”

The Duke narrowed his eyes at her. “Ah, but there’s the catch, isn’t it? You knew you looked very alluring in that state, but you could still feign innocence while knowing exactly what effect it would have.”

There was a long, pregnant pause.

“Alluring,” Daphne repeated faintly. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, are you saying that I looked alluring ? I looked like a hag! The grubbiest hag in Christendom! Any respectable man would be shocked. Of course,” she couldn’t help adding, “if you do find women coated in mud very attractive, then I can’t?—”

“Oh, that’s enough,” he snapped, bouncing to his feet and striding across the room.

For a moment, Daphne thought he was going to walk right out of the room and leave her standing there like a fool. Instead, he headed for a glass whiskey decanter on the sideboard and poured himself a generous measure. Gulping it down in one mouthful, he immediately began to pour himself a second glass. Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder.

“Do you drink whiskey, Miss Belmont?”

Of course, Daphne did not drink whiskey. Ladies never drank spirits or things like that, and whiskey and brandy were firmly men’s beverages. Her mother drank brandy on occasion, but never in public. Daphne couldn’t believe that the Duke did not realize this, so perhaps he simply did not care anymore.

“No,” she said, “but I’ll try some. It might steady my nerves,” she added, saying something she’d heard gentlemen say before.

He grunted, holding her gaze for a long moment. Then, he turned back, poured a second, generous glass of amber liquid, and held it out to her.

Daphne edged towards him, eyeing him warily. The anger seemed to have drained out of him, replaced by a sort of exhausted resignation. She took the glass carefully, trying to make sure their fingers did not touch. It was nearly impossible, and the side of his forefinger brushed hers ever so slightly, and a rush of something splintered down her arm, making her shiver.

He didn’t seem to notice her shudder, turning around and walking back to his desk. He didn’t sit down. Instead, he stood and stared down at the desk, which was covered in papers, ledgers, and books.

Daphne sniffed her drink cautiously. It smelled vile. Men drank it in big mouthfuls, didn’t they? Best to get it over with. She took a modest gulp of the stuff and immediately choked.

Oh, it was awful . It tasted like… She couldn’t even decide what it tasted like, only that it tasted bad , and it burned . Her face screwed up as she forced it down. Spitting it back into the glass would be a mistake, she thought. She’d have to drink the stuff now, one way or another.

Apparently, her choking was more audible than she thought. The Duke turned around to face her, smiling wryly.

“I would suggest small sips, Miss Belmont.”

“Thank you,” she rasped.

She would take a break before the next sip. Perhaps there’d be an opportunity to get rid of the drink, such as tipping it out of the window or hurling the glass, whiskey and all, at somebody’s head in a dramatic fashion. The Duke’s head, ideally.

“What did you do with the scandal sheet page, then?”

She winced. “I burned it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“What, did you think I was going to frame it and hang it on my wall?” he snorted. “Besides, variations of that story will be in every gossip column and scandal sheet in the country, as well as some of the proper newspapers. Burning that page won’t solve our problem.”

“No,” she conceded. “But can’t we just explain it all? Your stepmother was here, wasn’t she? Won’t that be good enough?”

“Of course, it won’t be good enough,” he snapped. “And even if it would be, it doesn’t matter—our reputations are already destroyed. It’s over for us both. We’ll never be forgiven. There’s only one way out of this.”

Daphne took another sip of the whiskey. Yes, it was still awful.

“Meaning?”

He held her gaze. “Meaning, Miss Belmont, you and I are going to marry.”

The pause dragged out for at least a moment. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner counted off the seconds.

“I beg your pardon?” she managed, at last. “Marry? Each other? ”

The Duke swallowed his whiskey and headed back across the room to get himself another.

“I think you heard me,” he responded. “I am open to other suggestions, by the way.”

“Well, there must be other ideas,” she shot back. “Why don’t we just go about our lives and ignore all this nonsense?”

“Ignore gossip? Ha! As if we could,” he snarled. “You don’t seem to understand how ruined you are, Miss Belmont. Your reputation was already in tatters the instant you left that church. And now this? Oh, you’ll never recover. Let me be clear. If you return to London, every friend that you think you have will turn their backs on you. And this will extend to your unmarried sister and your mother. Your married sister might escape, but only if she cuts you off. Disgrace is like gangrene. It spreads quickly and infects everything it touches. Society will cut you out like a festering sore and never think twice about it. You won’t be given credit in shops. There’ll be no invitations, not from anybody because they will be infected if they allow you in their homes. If you are rich already, you won’t starve. Not literally, at least. No one will speak to you. It’ll be as if you’re dead already, a ghost wandering through their old home. Disgrace can’t be shrugged off or ignored, Miss Belmont. I can tell you that now.”

He fell silent after his speech.

Daphne took a step back, shaken. “You sound as though you speak from experience,” she answered, her voice wobbling a little.

It seemed like the perfect time to sip her drink, so she did so.

Ugh.

“I do,” the Duke answered, rubbing a hand over his face. “ The Beastly Duke . That is me. They say I’m cursed, you know. I only mention it because you must have read it in that wretched scandal sheet.”

“Why would they say that?”

He shook his head, turning away. “It doesn’t matter. My point is that I have already had my life ruined by gossip and malicious, anonymous writers. I won’t let them tear my son to pieces. I won’t.”

In one smooth motion, he drained his glass again, before setting it down with a clink.

Well, if he can, I can .

Taking a deep breath as though she were about to dive off a cliff, she swigged back the whiskey in one gulp, emptying her glass. It was awful, but the burning sensation was not entirely unpleasant. She already felt braver.

“I can’t marry a stranger because of some gossip,” she heard herself say. “No matter the consequences.”

He spun around, his eyes narrowing on her. “Aren’t you listening? We will marry, Miss Belmont. And this time, you won’t run away.”

She folded her arms. “You are really impossible. Everybody knows that women’s reputations are more fragile than men’s. Here is what I propose—I shall take all the blame and go off and live as a spinster. My true friends will not abandon me, and my family won’t. I can answer for it. Don’t be a martyr, Your Grace.”

“Don’t be so flippant,” he ground out. “Your friends and family will tell you the same thing I have told you. I should never have let you stay the night. It serves me right, I suppose. No good deed goes unpunished.”

“A good deed?” she echoed, disbelievingly. “You were going to send me off into the night! I practically had to beg you to let me stay! Don’t congratulate yourself yet, Your Grace .”

“Oh, do be quiet. You are insufferable.”

“ You are insufferable!”

He ignored her retort, taking a step closer.

Daphne felt the urge to step away, not because he was looming over her but because she felt that oddly familiar tug of something in her gut, and it was making her uncomfortable. The knotting in her stomach was disarranging her thoughts, distracting her with uncalled-for and entirely inappropriate thoughts.

Such as a brief vision of herself stepping forward and reaching up to brush an untidy lock of hair from the Duke’s forehead, and perhaps running the pad of her thumb over those ridiculous caterpillar eyebrows. Or perhaps dragging her palm down his chest, broad and powerful and straining against the beleaguered material of his shirt.

There seemed to be no softness to the man at all, and that thrilled her for reasons she could not quite fathom. He had thinnish lips, but they suited his face and were moistened by the whiskey. Daphne wondered, with a pleasurable shudder that terrified and thrilled her at the same time, whether his lips would taste of whiskey if she kissed them.

Stop it! Stop it at once!

She realized belatedly that the man was talking again. Ruining everything.

“You can live as a spinster if you become my wife,” he was saying, his thick arms folded across his chest.

His eyes were narrowed, and the light spilling in through the window illuminated his figure, playing across the strong planes of his face.

Daphne, as usual, spoke without thinking twice.

“You look like a Greek statue.”

He stared at her, baffled. “What?”

“Nothing. Go on, then. What were you saying? I can’t be a spinster and a married woman.”

He leveled her with a scornful look. “Of course you can. We’ll marry, but the marriage will be in name only. You’ll lead your life, and I shall lead mine. In fact, I would prefer it this way. If I wanted to be married, I’d have found someone by now. You can have a set of rooms here—well away from mine—and we’ll stay out of each other’s way. You can do what you want, but don’t interfere in my life, or Alexander’s. Is that clear?”

She took a moment before responding.

“And then what? We live separate, lonely lives, quietly hating and resenting each other? What a lovely idea.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not forever, foolish girl. Just for a few years, until Society forgets about us. Once we’re married, they’ll lose interest. You’ll stay here for a few years, perhaps two or three, then go off and do whatever you like. Go wherever you like. You’ll have money, and I’ve got other houses.”

“And what about children?” Daphne asked before she could stop herself.

The Duke went still, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“I have a son,” he said, his voice flat. “I don’t want another. I don’t want more children. Perhaps I wasn’t clear. We won’t be sharing rooms or beds, Miss Belmont. You will be a spinster, just as you wanted. I can promise you that I’ll never touch you. You’re quite safe from me.”

Daphne narrowed her eyes at him. Perhaps it was the whiskey, but she felt exceptionally mischievous. The horror of the scandal sheet and her feelings of awkwardness had evaporated, and the whole business felt ridiculous.

Yes, it was definitely the whiskey. Had she drunk it too quickly? Almost certainly. Too quickly to shrug off the definite and upsetting sensation of disappointment .

I am not disappointed. Why should I be? Of course, the wretched man doesn’t wish to share his bed with me. I don’t want to share mine with him, either.

She cleared her throat, rolling back her shoulders. “Oh? Don’t you like me then, Your Grace ? I thought you found me so very alluring earlier when I was all wet and bedraggled. I rather got the impression that you liked women who looked as though they’d been ducked in and out of ponds all day.”

She took a step forward and was immediately gratified that he took an instinctive step back.

Pushing her advantage, she stepped forward again . Once again, he backed away, bumping against the edge of his desk. They were too close now, closer than was proper, and she could smell something fresh and crisp emanating from him.

“Perhaps it’s because I’m dry and clean now,” she sighed. “You must find me entirely repulsive. Perhaps you prefer someone a little softer, who doesn’t say what she thinks all the time? What a pity.”

Daphne was not sure what she expected from this interaction. A little blustering, perhaps? A blush?

She certainly had not expected the Duke to surge forward and wrap his arm around her waist. Overbalanced, she would have fallen in an undignified heap on her backside if he hadn’t steadied her, pulling her tight against him. Tight enough to feel his hard body against hers, tight enough to make her suck in a surprised breath. She could almost feel his heart beating against her chest. She had to tilt her head back to look at him.

Should I… struggle? Do I even want to?

Oh, heavens, I’m in trouble.

“No, you wretched, foolish woman,” he hissed, his voice low. “I do not find you repulsive. I find you unladylike, vexing, and entirely too outspoken— and you meddle in business that is not yours—but I certainly do not find you repulsive. I can assure you that I wish with all my heart that I did.”

Before Daphne could gather her thoughts enough to respond to this deeply ungentlemanlike speech—she couldn’t even begin to imagine what she was going to say—he quite abruptly, without bothering to say a by-your-leave or even to give her a warning of what was about to happen, leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth.