Page 6 of Never Beguile a Duke

“That came from the drawing room!” Silas, two steps ahead of Mr. Aylett, flew down the staircase, whipped around the banister post, shoes sliding on the slick marble, and raced toward the rear of the house.

Lacking the dexterity of Silas, Mr. Aylett lost his footing and slipped, skating across the floor and crashing into a small table. A vase of pale-white flower buds tilted, threatening to topple, then rocked forward, dousing him with water and orange blossom stems.

“I’ll see to this,”—he waved off Silas, who skidded to a halt halfway down the corridor—“and join you at the murder scene.”

“If a killing occurs in my home this week, it best be committed by me,” Silas snapped and stomped toward the drawing room, chased by Mr. Aylett’s soft snort.

Before Silas reached the entryway, the Duke of Lennox sailed past him, crashed into the opposite wall with a grunt, and landed on the floor in a heap.

“Amusing yourself, Your Grace?” Silas extended his arm and helped the Duke of Lennox climb to his feet.

Exhaling a low moan, Lennox straightened and pressed his palm to his right eye.

“Your Grace.” He bowed, then grinned. “Please accept my apologies for the disturbance. I may have angered Mr. Braddock.”

Silas raised his eyebrows. “Cheating at cards?”

“Seducing my sister!” Chest heaving, Mr. Braddock appeared in the doorway, his usually tidy blond hair flying in all directions.

“I’m certain Mr. Braddock misunderstood the situation,” Silas said, edging between the two men.

Lennox leaned forward and murmured, “He didn’t.”

Miss Braddock, wedging past her brother, burst from the drawing room with a strangled cry and flung herself into the Duke of Lennox’s arms.

Twisting around, she hissed, “Ernest! You can’t strike a duke.”

“I can,”—Mr. Braddock raised his fists—“when the scoundrel is kissing my sister.”

“He is my fiancé.” Miss Braddock pulled free of Lennox’s embrace, stepped to her brother, and stabbed his chest with her finger. “Who do you propose I wed after you kill him?”

“You can still marry him…” Mr. Braddock gestured toward Silas. “When his ghost returns to haunt the Duke of Beaufort’s residence.”

“Absolutely not!” Eyes narrowing, Silas glowered at Mr. Braddock. “I forbid the addition of any spirits to this house, including Lennox. If you must settle this grievance in a violent manner, I suggest the grove of beech trees to the south.”

Mr. Braddock returned Silas’ hard glare. “Would you provide the pistols?”

The dull thwack of flesh on flesh answered his question.

Trembling, Miss Braddock lowered her hand and, tears dripping down her face, turned and raced down the corridor. Her shoes echoed on the staircase.

Flattening his wayward hair with both hands, Mr. Braddock scowled at Lennox. “This is your doing.”

“How so?” he replied, his right hand dropping from his eye and curling into a loose fist. “Your sister wasn’t crying until you interrupted us.”

“You shouldn’t have been alone with her.” Mr. Braddock mirrored Lennox’s stance. “Have you no concern for her reputation? Or do you intend to withdraw your claim before the wedding and leave her ruined?”

“Watch your tone, Mr. Braddock. I am a duke?—”

“Your ranking holds no protection from my ire,”—Mr. Braddock bowed—“Your Grace.”

The front door opened and slammed.

“Damn.” Both men rotated toward the foyer.

“I’ll retrieve her,” Mr. Braddock said with a grimace. “I’m certain she won’t return without an apology for my interference.”

Lennox nodded his agreement. “Do you intend to offer one to me as well?”