Page 4 of My Demanding Duke (Forbidden Love #2)

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN HUGH ARRIVED to Colridge House, on the fashionable Grosvenor Square, later that evening, he found himself in the midst of a crush.

The heaving ballroom could of course be attributed to Lord and Lady Colridge’s reputation as lavish hosts, but as each eye in the room turned his way, Hugh wondered if his presence might also have influenced the number of guests in attendance. Nothing drew a crowd more than gossip and Hugh’s recently announced engagement to Miss Mosley was the scandal of the season.

Although accustomed to being the object of people’s fascination - an occupational hazard, when one was a duke - Hugh found the level of interest directed his way mildly uncomfortable. His eyes scanned the room for a glimpse of Lady Limehouse and Miss Mosley and when he did not sight them, he realised that this discomfort he felt was, in fact, nervousness.

He frowned a little, for anxiety was not an emotion he often felt, and he was reluctant to attribute the fluttering in his stomach to Miss Mosley’s absence. To do so, he thought, would be akin to admitting he possessed a weakness - and if there was one thing that Hugh prided himself on, it was his strength.

After greeting his hosts, who effused hearty congratulations on his engagement, Hugh went in search of liquid refreshments to ease the torment of his current predicament. He did not frequently attend society balls, for he found them stifling and dull, and they were rendered even more so when one was the object of universal scrutiny.

“Beaufort,” Hugh called with relief, as he spotted Lord Bartie Beaufort hovering on the periphery of the dance floor.

“Your Grace,” Bartie replied, with a warm smile, “Congratulations are in order, let me get you a drink.”

Lord Beaufort waved down a footman, who near ran to fetch Hugh a tumbler of cognac. When he returned, Bartie lifted his own glass in toast, “To the happy couple; I’m glad to think I played a part in your union.”

“How so?” Hugh raised a brow.

“Why, two nights ago you did not even know your future wife’s name,” Bertie answered, with a wink, “I must say, I am impressed by the speed at which you move. I have never been in love myself, but I have heard that one knows instantly when one finds it.”

Hugh struggled to hold in a snort of derision at this statement; the word love was not part of his personal lexicon. His motives in securing Miss Mosley’s hand were primarily base, though he would not share that with Beaufort.

“Miss Mosley will make a fine duchess,” Hugh replied, stiffly.

Bartie’s face fell a little at such a dull platitude, though he quickly regained his composure.

“Indeed she will,” he agreed, lifting his glass in another toast, “May your marriage be long and fruitful, Falconbridge.”

Hugh bowed his head in acknowledgment of his good wishes, but inside his stomach twisted a little. There was still no sign of Miss Mosley and he was beginning to wonder if the marriage would take place at all…

She’s just late, Hugh assured himself, as he tried to bat away visions of Miss Mosley escaping London by stagecoach, desperate to be free of him.

“Hark,” Bertie cried nervously, drawing Hugh from his reverie, “Is that your mother making her way toward us?”

Hugh followed Bertie’s gaze and was greeted with the sight of his rather formidable mother elbowing her way through the throng of glittering guests. Her brow was drawn into a terrific frown and the plumage of her turban wobbled ominously.

“I’ve just recalled that I promised the next dance to a lovely filly,” Bertie stammered, as the Dowager Duchess drew close, “Do pass on my regards to your mother.”

Unashamed of his cowardice, Bertie turned on his slipper and fled, leaving Hugh to face his mother alone.

“Mama,” he inclined his head in greeting.

Edwina, Dowager Duchess of Falconbridge, offered her son a scowl as dark and imperious as his own.

“Ten years,” she began, not bothering with the niceties of greeting, “For ten years I have been hounding you to find a bride, then when you finally do, I had to suffer the indignity of hearing the news second-hand from Lady Castlereagh.”

“Which upsets you more?” Hugh queried, mischievously, “That I am engaged, or that you were not the first to hear the gossip?”

“The latter,” his mother conceded, with a smile, “I don’t like to be taken by surprise, dear. Though I should not have expected anything less of you; you are something of a mystery, even to me.”

Mother and son exchanged a glance, heavy with a decade’s worth of pain. Hugh shifted uncomfortably, afraid that she might say something which would prod at the wound he guarded deep within.

“Well, where is she?”

His mother broke the silence, casting her dark eyes around the room in search of Miss Mosley. “I can’t say I approve of the girl’s father, but I was acquainted with her mother, when she had her season. A lovely young lady, from good stock, who had the misfortune to marry a man unworthy of her hand.”

That same man was also not worthy of his daughter, Hugh thought, dourly. “Lady Limehouse is escorting Miss Mosley this evening, she will arrive with the viscountess.”

“I would have insisted on an introduction,” came his mother’s dry reply, “But Lady Limehouse arrived a few minutes ago, quite alone.”

Hugh clenched his jaw, unwilling to show just how irked he was by the news that he had been hoodwinked. Against his own desire, he had agreed a deal with Miss Mosley for a long engagement. Now she had reneged on their terms at the first test.

“Excuse me, mother,” Hugh said, with a stiff bow, “I’m afraid there’s somewhere I need to be.”

Hugh offered his mother - who looked more than a little amused at the turn of circumstances - a brief nod, before delving into the crowd in search of Lady Limehouse. He found the viscountess surrounded by a circle of similarly dressed and titled ladies, who all looked at him with naked curiosity as he approached.

A flicker of nervousness crossed Lady Limehouse’s face, as she caught sight of Hugh, but she quickly regained her composure.

“My lady.” Hugh offered the viscountess a curt bow, and the other ladies’ present a courteous nod, “Might I borrow you for a moment?”

“Most certainly, your Grace,” Lady Limehouse said, as she offered him her arm.

“If this concerns our mutual friend,” Lady Limehouse began, once they were out of earshot of her companions, “I can assure you that the poor girl is suffering from a migraine. She meant you no slight and asked me to pass on her sincere regret for her absence.”

“Miss Mosley is not my friend,” Hugh replied, tightly, “She is my fiancée. Her absence is conspicuous, given the gossip circulating about the nature of our union.”

“And who’s fault is that?” the viscountess whispered sharply in return.

Hugh bit his lip, to hold back the sharp retort which danced on the tip of his tongue. His actions in securing Miss Mosley’s hand might have been unconventional, but in his opinion, they were just. And, his opinion was all that mattered; he would not waste his breath trying to convince Lady Limehouse to see matters from his point of view.

“Miss Mosley and I had an agreement; a long engagement in order to quash any untoward gossip,” Hugh said, his voice slow and calm, but his mind racing, “Given that she has now reneged on her word, I see no reason to delay our marriage. We will wed tomorrow, at noon. I’ll send someone to collect you in the morning, so that you might be there to act as witness to our joyous union.”

Without waiting for a reply, Hugh offered the startled viscountess a brief bow, then made his exit.

His dark mood must have been clear for all to see, for the crowd parted like the Red Sea to allow him quick passage to the door. There, a footman called for his carriage, and within minutes, Hugh was hurtling through the dark streets of London toward an unsuspecting Miss Mosley.

With a clearer head, Hugh might have questioned the wisdom of his actions, but for the first time in years, he found rational thought far beyond his reach. His blood thundered through his veins, urged on by a heady mixture of passion and anger.

After what felt like an eternity, the carriage began to slow, then drew to a juddering halt. Hugh pulled back the curtain to see that they had arrived outside the small townhouse on Bedford Square, which Lord Mosley had leased for the season. A light shone from one of the upstairs windows, indicating that the household had not yet retired to bed.

Impatient now, Hugh threw open the carriage door and hopped lithely down to the footpath. He ascended the steps to the front door with equal speed, and gave the brass door knocker a hearty rap.

He waited a moment, but hearing only silence inside, he rapped the knocker again, it’s sharp rat-a-tat-tat ringing out through the night. This time, he was gratified to hear noises coming from behind the closed door; footsteps running down the stairs, urgent whispers, and the sound of a key turning in the lock.

The door opened a crack, and the face of young man appeared.

“Who is it?” he called to Hugh, in a tone which sounded forcedly steady.

“The Duke of Falconbridge,” Hugh answered, evenly, “I have an urgent message for the mistress of the house.”

“My mistress is abed,” the lad answered, glaring at Hugh suspiciously.

“Then wake her.”

This command, issued in his most ducal tone, had the exact reaction Hugh had hoped for. The young man’s expression grew uncertain and he closed the door to consult with whoever else stood behind it.

Hugh heaved a sigh of displeasure at the delay, though he could not fault the lad for his caution - at least one member of Miss Mosley’s household cared for her safety. He waited a moment before lifting his hand to the knocker, to remind the footman he was there, but before he could reach for it, the door swung open and he was ushered inside.

“My mistress is in the front parlour room, your Grace,” the footman said, gesturing toward the door on the other side of the hallway, “I am only a bell-ring away, if she needs me.”

His last statement, Hugh surmised, was a thinly veiled threat.

“My thanks,” Hugh replied, inwardly thinking that he would find a position for the lad in Falconbridge House after the wedding. Loyal staff were difficult to come by.

Hugh pushed open the parlour room door and stepped inside its dim recesses. The fire was low in the grate and only two of the sconces upon the wall were lighted.

“Do you always conduct yourself with such ill-grace, or do you save your bad manners for my pleasure alone?”

Miss Mosely, who had been standing at the fireplace, turned to offer him a fiery glare to accompany her sharp words, as the door clicked shut behind him.

“On the contrary, I am consumed by thoughts of how I might please you. It keep me awake all night, in fact,” Hugh answered glibly, with a truthful ease.

His words took a moment to sink in and he was gratified to note, even in the dimness of the room, Miss Mosely’s blush.

“Might I ask what you are doing here, your grace?” she asked, with deliberate care. As she spoke, she drew the wool shawl she wore around her shoulders closer to her body, perhaps unconsciously thinking it might protect her from him. A fool’s errand, Hugh thought, for nothing would protect her from his raging desire for her if he decided to give into it, not even that woolen monstrosity.

“I might ask you the same question, Anna,” Hugh replied, arching a brow in response to her mutinous glare. “We had an agreement, did we not? You were to be seen with me, out in public, to help quell any scandalous gossip about our engagement. Why did you not attend the Colridge’s ball?”

“I had a migraine,” she answered, tilting her chin defiantly.

“You also have two servants,” Hugh reasoned, his voice tight, “You should have had one of them deliver me a message to say that you would not be attending.”

“Is your pride wounded, your grace?”

There was a slight bitterness to her tone, that made Hugh carefully consider his response. Was he in a position to complain about his bruised pride, when hers was still grievously wounded from learning just how little she meant to her father?

“My pride has taken many a battering,” Hugh waved away her concern with a gloved hand, “Do not concern yourself with that.”

The none-too-discreet roll of Miss Mosley’s eyes let Hugh know that she was not at all concerned by his suffering.

“We had an agreement,” Hugh continued, determined to finish his piece before Miss Mosley tried what remained of his patience, “Which you reneged upon.”

“I did, your Grace,” she agreed, with surprising alacrity, “I suppose this means that you no longer wish to marry me?”

Hugh gave a slow, amused smile in reply.

“No, Miss Mosley,” he answered, suppressing a note of triumph, “It means that I no longer see the need for a lengthy courtship to quell gossip around our betrothal. Your failure to appear at tonight’s ball only added fat to the fire, I don’t see how a long engagement would extinguish the scandal now.”

“So, you..?” Miss Mosley trailed off, her expression uncertain. She looked at him in the way that Hugh imagined a mouse might look at a cat before it pounced.

“So I,” Hugh finished for her, “Will be here before noon with a vicar and a ring. Have your belongings packed, Miss Mosley, tomorrow night you will be sleeping under my roof.”