Page 3 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT
A woman’s scream shattered the late afternoon serenity.
Silas, overseeing the chamber preparation for that evening’s influx of guests, leaned his head into the hallway, seeking the screech’s origin. The shriek came a second time, louder than the first, and the door across from Silas ripped open, revealing the butler’s wide eyes.
“Was that noise caused by a servant?” Mr. Aylett asked, stepping into the corridor.
“Perhaps tonight’s fare is attempting to flee the kitchen,” Silas replied, the corner of his mouth lifting.
Mr. Aylett chuckled. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve chased a pheasant through the house.”
Groaning, Silas dragged his hand down his face. “As amusing as that situation was, I doubt my arriving guests will desire to share in the experience.”
“As you wish,” Mr. Aylett replied with a curt nod. “I shall remove catching pheasants from tonight’s activities...”
His stern expression dissolved into riotous laughter, which swelled around Silas until he, too, joined in the mirth.
An explosion of glass from the first floor silenced them.
“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?”
“No.” Mr. Braddock bowed to Silas. “If you would excuse me, Your Grace.”
“Of course.” Silas waved his hand, dismissing Mr. Braddock, who hastened down the corridor without another word.
Pressing his face to his palm again, Lennox trudged into the drawing room. “That man is going to be the death of me.”
“I assume he feels the same toward you.” Silas chuckled, earning a dark glare from Lennox as he flung himself onto an armchair.
“Roxburghe doesn’t have this issue.” Wincing, he lowered his hand and revealed the discolored skin forming around his right eye.
The aforementioned man appeared in the doorway, holding a half-filled snifter of amber liquid. “Actually, he does.”
“Miss Fernsby-Webb has assaulted you?” Lennox asked, his eyebrows floating near his hairline.
“She would have… had Beaufort not delayed her from discovering Miss Webb and me.” The corner of his mouth pulling, the Duke of Roxburghe handed Lennox the drink. “She threatened to turn her sister into a widow before our wedding.”
“Did you thank Beaufort for his assistance?” Lennox asked, sighing as he placed the cool glass against his eye.
“No, he didn’t.” Silas folded his arms across his chest, stared at Roxburghe, and tapped his foot, as though waiting impatiently to hear the words.
Roxburghe rolled his eyes. “Would you accept a proposal instead?”
“I have no desire to marry you,” Silas replied as he lifted a crystal decanter from a silver tray and filled two glasses with whiskey.
“I’m not asking for your hand,” Roxburghe snapped, swiping the offered drink from Silas. “I have a business proposition for you… act as a barrier between Miss Webb and her sister.”
Sipping his whiskey, Silas stared at Roxburghe over the rim of the glass. “I don’t need more money. You and Lennox lost the wager to remain unattached. Even if Mansfield and Warwick don’t fall to Cupid’s arrow by the end of the season, I’ll still have an additional six thousand pounds.”
Lennox snorted.
“You disagree with my assessment?” Silas asked, his eyes sliding to Lennox.
“Grisham, Roxburghe, and I are all engaged. It’s still January.” He lowered the snifter from his eye. “At this pace, no one will survive long enough to win the bet.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Roxburghe clinked his glass against Lennox’s, then took a deep swig.
Miss Fernsby-Webb’s beautiful face, glowing pink from their sleighing excursion, floated into Silas’ mind. Even after they’d flipped the sleigh and needed rescuing from beneath the vehicle, her enthusiasm for adventure didn’t waver.
A very physical reaction rippled through his body at the memory of her soft form pressed against him as they hunkered in the snow, and the scent of lemons washed over him. He raised his eyes, expecting to find Miss Fernsby-Webb standing in the drawing-room doorway.
However, no one appeared.
Grimacing, Silas shook his head to clear the fantasy.
“What a horrible future to wish upon your friends,” he growled, adding more inflection than he intended.
Lennox flinched, and then, tracing his finger around the cup’s rim, asked, “If we can’t tempt you with currency, what can we use?”
Silas returned his glass to the silver tray. “You wish to employ my services as well?”
“I can’t keep allowing Mr. Braddock to punch me in the face.”
“You could… it seems to amuse him.” Laughing, Silas danced out of Lennox’s reach.
Lennox slammed his snifter down, his face darkening. “I have no desire to duel my future brother-in-law, but I refuse to give up the pursuit of Miss Braddock to ease his mind.”
Irritation flickered in Lennox’s brown eyes, mixing with an emotion Silas had not previously witnessed in his friend—desperation.
Silas sighed. “One favor—from each of you—to be performed in the future… without question, and I’ll assist both of you with your quest to seduce your fiancées.”
“Agreed.” Lennox swung out his arm, but Roxburghe blocked him.
“I want some assurances,” Roxburghe said, his eyes narrowing. “Access to my fiancé, or Lennox’s, will not be granted.”
Silas didn’t register that he’d swung until after his fist struck Roxburghe.
“Insult my moralities again, and the threat of Miss Fernsby-Webb’s ire will seem miniscule compared to the beating you’ll suffer at my hand.” Silas forced his arms to his sides. “I have no interest in either lady.”
“But,”—Lennox retrieved his glass—“you are interested in someone.”
Frowning, Silas turned to Lennox. “Why would you claim that?”
“Because you didn’t say ‘any lady’… You said, ‘either lady’.” Lennox winked at Roxburghe. “What’s her name, Beaufort?”
Winifred .
Dull pounding echoed in the foyer, and Silas, grateful for the escape the opportunity offered, bowed to his friends, excused himself, and hurried down the corridor toward the outer door.
His gaze flicked to the floor beneath the small table, confirming Mr. Aylett had cleared the water puddle and orange blossom buds, then returned to the shadowy feminine figures framed by the frosted windows surrounding the entrance.
Was it her?
Fingers closing around the door handle, he froze. Perhaps a week in close proximity with the beguiling Miss Fernsby-Webb was not the best plan. He’d need to keep close to Mr. Braddock at all times.