Page 6 of Kiss the Duke Goodbye
Knox closed his ledger before his brothers got close enough to read the dismal figures and slipped it into a drawer. “Baroness Barclay, I suppose.”
Cort shook his head, striking through her name as well.
Knox came out of his chair, grabbing for the list. Cort backed up, holding it out of reach. “Why reject her? She comes from a respected family. Her husband has been gone long enough for a wedding to create absolutely no scandal. A bit sour in the face, but she’s lively and—”
“I had, um, a brief association with her before I found Alex again.” Cort glanced around the study, avoiding his brother’s gazes. “Let’s leave it at that. And please never mention this to my wife, will you? She doesn’t take kindly to my indiscretions, even if she was married then, and I was heartsick about it.”
“Can’t have that kind of tension at family gatherings and such, I agree,” Damien murmured, snatching the list free of Cort’s hand. “Alexandra DeWitt can be frightening when she’s vexed. We’ve all seen it. The last time I irritated her, she racedone of those demon horses of hers right at me. I had to dive into the hedges to escape.”
Knox swore and tumbled back into his chair. “Couldn’t keep your trousers buttoned, could you?”
Cort snorted and headed back to the sideboard. “You’re not one to talk, Your Grace.”
“Anyone you’ve sampled on the list, Dame?” Knox highly doubted there was, but he might as well ask. Several years ago, after an evening of carousing, his youngest brother had told him that although he’d done many things with many women, he’d neverbeddedone. Shocked wasn’t a strong enough word for his response at hearing this news. Evidently, the Troublesome Trio weren’t as troublesome as presumed.
Damien reviewed the list, grimaced, then wrestled the quill from Cort’s hand and crossed out two names.
“The academic blokes get all the chits.” Cort saluted Damien with his glass. “It’s the spectacles, I say. Add a bit of mystery, don’t they? Bookish on the outside, raging rivers on the inside.”
“How many are bloody left?” Knox said through gritted teeth.
Damien ticked his finger to the sheet. “Two. Lady Dowling, your fainting goddess, and Lady Kimber-Dell.”
Knox tunneled his hand through his hair, wishing he was anyone but a duke. He would love to be enthusiastic about the prospect of marrying, he truly would. If only he were allowed to ask the right girl. As it was, he was no better than a fortune hunter thanks to his father’s baseless financial sense. The man was still terrorizing him, years after his death. “Lady Kimber-Dell has shown interest. I danced with her at the earl’s ball, and she was quite light on her feet. Good conversationalist. Charming. It’s her first season, so her mother isn’t desperate yet. Her father is known for his sensible temperament and fifty thousand pounds a year.”
“What color are her eyes?” Damien asked from the bookcase he’d returned to, a tome of some sort always,always, in his hand.
Gray, Knox started to say. One moment the shimmering hue of a fiery sky, the next a pale, misty pewter. Of course, this was the wrong woman. Lady Kimber-Dell’s eyes were completely lost to him. He guessed he hadn’t even noticed.
Knox gave a letter opener on his desk a spin. “What doesthatmatter? I never remember such trivial things.”
“You will about the one you love,” Cort whispered. Serious words from a guarded man. More impactful than anything Damien could say—because Damien was the romantic in the family.
Knox palmed the desk, preparing to rise. And argue. Maybe they’d end up brawling, not the first time that had happened in this room. A solid brotherly scrap might be just what he needed.
A gentle knock had them turning to the door. Fitzwilliam, the DeWitt family’s majordomo for decades, leaned around the frame, his hair, as white as the snow beginning to fall outside, slicked neatly to his head. Knox had never once seen him out of breath or order. “Your Grace, there’s a note from your milliner. About a gift to be delivered.”
Knox exited the chair so abruptly that it skidded into the wall.
Fitzwilliam blinked at the show of excitement, but otherwise, held himself steady. Knox didn’t know how he managed to accomplish this feat with the escapades he’d witnessed over the years. “Thank you,” he said and took the missive from his butler’s stiff grasp. “That will be all.”
He tore into the envelope like a madman before the door closed behind Fitzwilliam.
The message was simple, as was the scent drifting from the sheet. Lilies. And an address in Clerkenwell. The initialsCMcapped off the summons.
Knox would have traveled to a rookery hell to see Clarissa Marlowe, he recognized from the velocity of his thumping heart. When titled gents weren’t welcome in those locales. Clerkenwell was three miles from Mayfair, maybe four. Notwithstanding the questionable weather, he had a speedy carriage, an able coachman, and a sure-footed team. He could be there within the hour.
He laughed, delighted to the toes of his Hoby boots. He’d defeated that nitwit Clarence with that exhilarating kiss.
“Another bonnet?” Damien asked, puzzled. “We’ve got too many already. Mercy said I can’t bring another, not one, into the house. You’ll have to go to the streets to find a recipient.”
“Christ,” Cort said, “you are the most green lad in this city, Damien DeWitt.”
Knox turned to his brothers, his grin beatific. Happiness was a bright light at the end of a dark, ducal tunnel. “Oh, no, this is the most magnificent bonnet yet. And it’s all forme.”
Clarissa was nervous, an uncommon occurrence.
Her strained childhood had been the best training in the world for overcoming unease about one’s circumstances. She’d learned to display a calm façade while her guts were churning. She’d cast up her accounts more times than she could remember after those dreaded trips to her father’s manse. In the carriage, outside the carriage, on the marble steps of his home. So much so, that her mother had taken to carrying a basket with them on each visit.