Page 5 of Kiss the Duke Goodbye

Then he was gone, leaving her to wilt against a workspace she’d never look at again without imagining him tupping her atop it.

CHAPTER 2

WHERE A VEXED MAN ACTS OUT

“The duke’s in a stew,” Cort murmured from his sprawl across his brother’s brocade settee. He and his wife, Alex, had a newborn, and sleep was hard to find at home. “Careful what topic you bring up. I’ve had nothing but unkindness from his direction all morning. If it weren’t as cold as a witch’s teat out there and about to storm, I’d return to my loving home this very minute.”

From the doorway, Damien, the youngest and most circumspect of the Troublesome Trio, narrowed his eyes as he gazed about the room, reading the situation in one astute glance. The genius in their family missed little. “Not a surprise, as I read the latest in the society column this morning. The sight of Herschel in formal blacks at the earl’s ball sent Lady Dowling into a dizzy spin.” Damien dusted snowflakes from his lapels and strolled into the space. “You had no choice but to grab her before she hit the marble floor.”

“Nice figure, that one,” Cort said from beneath the arm he’d draped across his face. “Could be worse problems than finding that sweet miss in your arms.”

“Her beauty only surpassed by her immense dowry,” Knox murmured, a bit queasy to realize that Lady Dowling and herbogus fainting spells might be just what his duchy’s empty coffers needed. Yet, he couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life catching her as she tumbled.

“No.” Damien yanked off his greatcoat and hung it on the peg, the word coming out in a hardened tone he rarely used with his family. An Oxford professor, he’d returned to London yesterday for winter break. “That isn’t going to happen, Knox. You marry for love or you don’t marry. Spend the rest of your life with mistresses you actually like instead. Our parents’ unbearable union isn’t an example we’re carrying into the next generation. Cort and I wed forlove, true and lasting, as you will.” He nudged his spectacles high, ever the earnest idealist. “Our steam engine investments are paying off. It’s only a matter of time before we’re flush with funds. A year, maybe two at the most, and we’ll be golden. I’ve run the numbers a thousand times.”

Knox tossed his quill to the massive desk that had once been his father’s, sending ink across the scrambled rows of calculations gracing his ledger. “Dreamers, the lot of you. I don’t have those freedoms. The staff in Hampstead, for instance, wish to be paid this year. The manor in Yorkshire requires a new roof or it will become nothing more than a handsome, medieval barn. Let’s not discuss the roads in the village in Kent. The Duke of Herschel has maintained them for going on three hundred years, and I’m loathe to break the tradition.”

Cort sat up, his concerned gaze meeting Knox’s. Twins separated by a scant three minutes, Cort’s life had been liberated by his coming in second. A veteran of Waterloo, he had scars from war but not from inherited obligation or the verbal—and occasionally physical—lashings of a man intent on preparing his son to be a duke. Knox wasn’t quite sure which was worse, war or an abusive father. “We’ll find a way, Knox. I’ve spoken to my solicitor about the investments. Money will be coming in soon.”

Knox sighed and opened the top drawer of the desk. The scent of his father’s tobacco drifted free, another jolt to his belly. He needed to get rid of this damned piece of jetsam. Perhaps a raging fire on the back lawn in the middle of winter wouldn’t attract too much notice from the neighbors. “I’ve complied up a list of possibilities. Maybe it’s time we discussed them.”

Damien squinted, giving his spectacles a wiggle. “Possibilities?”

Cort swore and climbed to his feet. “Potential countesses, you coxcomb,” he whispered and snatched the sheet of foolscap from his twin’s knotted grasp.

While Cort paced the length of the chamber muttering to himself, Knox palmed the pulse thumping in his belly, willing himself to breathe through his momentary jolt of panic. He had to wed at some point. Men attached themselves to women they didn’t love for economic purposes every day. Birthrights were routinely salvaged by juicy settlements. Marrying for love was uncommon, even considered odd. That two of the three DeWitts had found wives they cherished was a miracle.

With his responsibilities, Knox couldn’t hold out hope for miracles.

However…that kiss in a dimly lit millinery had taken hold and wasn’t letting go. He’d lain in bed the past three nights bandying it about in his head like a cricket ball. Certainly, he’d desired Clarissa Marlowe since the first day he’d seen her. No one would argue this. One look across her scarred counter, and he’d been knocked from his feet. But those had been a smitten man’s dreams, far from reach. Now, after he’d gone and touched her…

If only she hadn’t mentioned he hadcompetition.

Exhaling softly, Knox tilted his head to glance at the dripping sconce on the wall that needed repair. Like much of this ducal manor, it craved attention. Attention requiring funds.What he felt for his gorgeous milliner was lust, not a practical circumstance for a man with five ailing estates to manage. Not to mention the villages, tenants, and staff attached. Knox had hundreds of souls dependent upon him. He couldn’t let his aching cock make a decision about such a weighty matter.

Even if he did feel the utmost serenity of his life every time he stepped into her shop. The way he imagined he’d feel upon returning from the House of Lords to his waiting duchess.

He knew, without doubt, that Clarissa Marlowe would slam the door in his face should he ask her to be his mistress. A brief affair, she might agree to. Being owned, she would not.

Anyway, a man who loved his mistress but not his wife was asking for the worst kind of strife.

“This list is bollocks,” Cort said as he stopped by the sideboard. Pouring himself a drink, he slammed the whisky back, then wiped his lips with his wrist. He waved the sheet in the air like a flag. “There isn’t one chit here I’d agree to. Not one.”

Knox picked up his quill and drew lazy circles on his ledger to keep his temper in check. He should have known better than to ask a man so besotted with his wife that he wouldn’t leave her for even one night to confer on this mess. “Thankfully, you don’t have to agree, brother of mine. What about Helena Parker-Mantling? She’s quite nice and has spent three seasons dodging suitors from the looks of it. She whipped me in an archery match last year, strongest arm on the girl of any I’ve seen in England. Her father has given me clear signals about her availability.”

Damien chimed in from his spot by the bookcase. “Rumor is she’s besotted with the lead in the latest Drury Lane production,” he said, flipping pages. “I saw her backstage when I was visiting with Mercy last week. I’d go in another direction if I were you.”

This was credible information as Damien’s wife was the theatre’s artist in residence.

“Female or male lead?” Cort asked, the beginnings of a grin curving his lips.

Damien coughed politely into his pages. “I’d rather not say.”

Slamming his glass to the sideboard, Cort marched to Knox’s desk, slipped the quill from his hand, and struck a line through Lady Parker-Mantling’s name.

Knox scowled. His brother often acted like he was still on a battlefield, ordering everyone about like a colonel.

Damien strolled over, his shadow falling across them. Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten taller than both his brothers. “Who else do you have there? The leading candidate, that is.”