Page 27 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT
D amn! How did Juliette know Miss Fernsby-Webb was in the chamber? Did she hear their amorous activity?
“What do you need, Juliette?” he ground out, pinning a struggling Miss Fernsby-Webb to his lap.
“I was hoping Miss Fernsby-Webb would finish assisting me dress,” came the muffled reply.
Silas frowned. “Are you currently standing in the corridor in your underclothes?”
Silence answered his question.
“Go back to your chamber,” he said, adding more stern inflection than he intended. “When I see Miss Fernsby-Webb, I’ll pass along your request.”
“She’s not in your chamber?”
He exchanged a glance with Miss Fernsby-Webb, who vehemently shook her head. “She is not.”
“Oh.” Disappointment seeped through the door. “Thank you, Father.”
“At some point,” Miss Fernsby-Webb said, her head twisted toward the door, “you’re going to need to explain who was in your chamber. Miss Juliette is an intelligent child. If the lady wasn’t me, your daughter will want to know who she heard, as that woman might become her future mother.”
Horror seeped through Silas’ body. “You expect me to discuss something this personal with a nine-year-old?”
“Yes.” Miss Fernsby-Webb stopped struggling to free herself from his hold and glowered at him when he refused to release her. “Allow your daughter some say in her future, and she’ll trust you a bit more.”
“And this experience raising children comes from where?” he asked, his harsh tone causing Miss Fernsby-Webb to recoil.
“My stepfather,” she replied, her voice wobbling.
She scrubbed her cheek with her palm, catching the tear that fell.
“I was fairly young when he and my mother married. The night before the wedding, Mother informed me that I shouldn’t expect him to treat me as kindly as he did Nora.” Miss Fernsby-Webb’s mouth crooked into a watery smile. “She was incorrect in her estimation of him.”
Silas drew Miss Fernsby-Webb’s head against his chest, affording her privacy should she wish to cry while ruminating on her deceased stepfather.
“What do you remember of Mr. Webb?” he asked, tucking a loose dark brown tendril behind her ear.
“When we first arrived at the residence with our trunks, he took me into his office for a private discussion.” Miss Fernsby-Webb glanced up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“He asked me what foods I liked, my favorite color, and other trivial questions. Then he paused, came round the desk, lowered himself to my height, and asked one final query.”
“Which was?” Silas trailed the side of his finger beneath her eye, catching a wayward tear.
“If I would swear to inform him the moment that I believed him acting unfairly toward me.” She released a shuddering sigh. “I trusted him from then on.”
“Did you ever need to point out his behavior?” Silas asked, leaning to the side and retrieving her corset from the floor.
“Not once.” Miss Fernsby-Webb took the corset and, climbing off his lap, pulled the material over her head. “I believe that irritated Mother more than she would admit.”
“Perhaps she felt it was a dishonor to your true father,” he said, leaning forward and helping tug the garment into place.
Miss Fernsby-Webb glanced over with a snort, her fingers positioned over the hook and eye closure of the corset. “If she’d believed that, she would have waited longer than a month to remarry.”
He dragged her dress from the back of the chair and held out the article of clothing, hoping their fingers would brush when she accepted the outfit—they did, resulting in a most delightful jolt which flew up his arm and pierced his heart.
“You don’t think it possible for affection to grow over such a short period of time?” he asked, his fingers twitching with the urge to rip the dress from Miss Fernsby-Webb’s body.
“I believe all things are possible, Your Grace,” she said, spinning around and indicating the ties on the back of her clothing.
He rose, tugged up his pants, hooking his suspenders over his shoulders, and approached from behind. Her breath caught as his fingertips skated across her skin.
“I would like a second chance at seduction,” she murmured, leaning back against his torso and looking up at him.
“I swear to behave better next time.” As his lips touched her ear, the realization that he could lose any opportunity for a repeat of this type of intimacy smacked into his thick skull, and he swore.
“Your Grace!” Miss Fernsby-Webb whipped around, her mouth hanging open.
He should have explained himself, should have bared his feelings at that moment, but instead he said, “I was nine once, and not only would I wager that Juliette is waiting for you atop the main staircase, but I would also wager that she’s verified you are not in your bedchamber, either.”
“Tenacious. Not unlike her father, I assume.”
Inclining his head, he escorted Miss Fernsby-Webb to his bedchamber’s entrance, cracked open the door, peeked into the corridor, and caught a glimpse of Juliette’s mismatched hair ribbons as she prowled the second-floor landing.
He closed the door with a soft click. “To complete the ruse, you’ll need to descend the servants’ staircase without Juliette catching you, hurry through the downstairs corridor, and ascend the main staircase without appearing as though you’ve run the length of the house.”
“I can do that,” Miss Fernsby-Webb replied, reaching for the door handle.
He blocked her. “Have you an excuse to give when my daughter accosts you?”
“That you mentioned you may have a book on sledding in the library,” Miss Fernsby-Webb replied, then she smiled. “However, I was unable to find the tome.”
“Very good.” Silas grasped the handle and opened the door a sliver.
When he was certain Juliette faced the opposite direction, he gestured for Miss Fernsby-Webb to slip past him. Her body briefly brushed against his, and the unique citrus scent that clung to her skin caressed his face. Then she was gone, disappearing down the servants’ staircase without a sound.
He waited, hoping to catch a glimpse of her dark brown hair when she reappeared at the other end of the corridor, but a door opened halfway down the hallway, and he ducked back into his chamber, swathed in disappointment and the distressing realization that if Miss Fernsby-Webb left Wiltshire, she’d take his heart with her.
And he set his mind to preventing that very result.
His first obstacle appeared in the form of his daughter, who spent the whole of dinner murmuring to Miss Fernsby-Webb about various subjects, including her desire to play Snapdragon, a sentiment that was echoed by Miss Venning.
“Would any other ladies,” Miss Venning asked, raising her voice, “care to join our host’s daughter in the parlor for a game of Snapdragon?”
Every woman seated at the table agreed to participate, and they rose in unison, exited the dining hall—the corridor filling with swishing gowns and clacking heels—and paraded down the hallway.
“You appear peevish,” Roxburghe said from Silas’ right. “Are you not pleased your guests are treating Miss Juliette with such kindness?”
“Toad-eating chits!” Silas growled, swiping a wine goblet from the table and sloshing burgundy liquid onto the white tablecloth. “Do you truly believe the Sutton sisters want their delicate fingers anywhere near fire?”
Frowning, Roxburghe sipped his drink. “Your complaint is that some of the ladies are feigning interest in entertaining your daughter to gain your favor. Would you prefer they shunned Miss Juliette?”
“No.” Silas ground the word between his teeth.
He preferred Juliette asleep and Miss Fernsby-Webb upstairs in his chamber, undressed and shivering… His guests were preventing that.
“Gentlemen!” Silas stood and saluted the room. “It’s an honor to celebrate this happy occasion with all of you. Now that you’ve filled yourself with food and drink, I invite you to lighten your pockets with a game of cards.”
Situating himself nearest the doorway, Silas found himself distracted each time a feminine voice floated down the corridor. He lost three hands in a row before excusing himself under the guise of needing to find his luck.
He hastened down the hallway, filtering through several excuses as a means to explain his presence in the parlor, but paused in the doorway upon discovering the room empty and issued a low curse.
A chuckle caused him to whip around; Lennox stepped out of the shadows.
“When Roxburghe suggested you might be in earnest, I assumed he’d misread the situation.” Lennox placed a hand on Silas’ shoulder and grinned. “Who were you hoping to speak with?”
“No one.” Silas jerked away.
“Don’t lie to your friends, Beaufort.” Lennox followed him across the foyer. “We know you better than you know yourself.”
“If you’re so intelligent, why do you need confirmation of my affliction?” Silas scowled as Lennox cut him off.
“I want to hear you admit defeat.”
“No.” Silas stalked around Lennox.
“Would you confirm your sentiments if I guess the lady’s name?” Lennox’s question chased Silas up the steps.
Silas stopped, turned, and marched back down. “As Roxburghe has already shared his suspicions, I suspect he also provided that detail.”
“He did not.” Lennox’s mouth pinched. “He merely said I would approve of the lady.”
“Swear to drop this subject,” Silas said, crossing his arms over his chest, “and I’ll provide one clue to the lady’s identity.”
“Agreed,” Lennox said, nodding his head once, “if you swear to confirm when I guess the correct name.”
“One guess,” replied Silas, holding up his pointer finger. “The lady is currently in this house.”
“That discounts Miss Webb and Miss Braddock.” Lennox stroked his chin. “You haven’t fallen for one of those dim Sutton women, have you?”
“Are you jug-bitten?” Silas glowered at Lennox.
Holding up his hands, Lennox grinned, taking a step backward. “Half-sprung at best. However, you’ve removed Mr. Sutton’s daughters from the list of potential matches.”