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Page 22 of Tantalizing the Duke

“It might have been your place to mention it when I told you I was arranging a match between him and Milly,” Dainsfield growled.

“And now that the situation has progressed to the desirable outcome, you’re concerned?”

“Now I don’t know what to do,” Dainsfield admitted, slumping back in his chair. “If the rumors are true, Milly will be entering a marriage with a man who can never desire her. She’ll be a wife in name only, possibly expected to tolerate her husband’s… proclivities… in exchange for protection and position.”

“Many women would consider that a fair bargain,” Abingdon observed neutrally.

“Not Milly. She’s not like other women. She’s warm, passionate. She deserves someone who will appreciate those qualities, not merely tolerate her presence.”

As he spoke, his fingers tightened around his brandy glass until his knuckles shone bone-white in the morning light. The liquid inside trembled with the force of his grip, small waves lapping against the crystal like a miniature tempest. A muscle in his jaw twitched, betraying the control he was exerting to maintain his composure.

“I don’t see the problem if Milly is happy with the arrangement,” Abingdon said carefully, his tone measured as though testing the temperature of dangerously hot water. “Many couples survive marriages like that, and at least she’s going into it with her eyes open.”

The crystal glass in Dainsfield’s hand met the polished mahogany with a sharp crack. Amber liquid sloshed over the rim.

“Survive?” Dainsfield’s voice rose dangerously. “Is that what marriage should be—something to be survived? A polite arrangement where passion is an inconvenience to be tolerated or ignored?” He was grateful he’d avoided the trap, himself.

“For many in our circle, yes. Marriage is primarily a business transaction, with considerations of bloodlines, property, and social position outweighing sentiment. You know this as well as I do.”

“Damn what I know,” Dainsfield growled, pushing himself to his feet and resuming his pacing. “Milly deserves better. She deserves a husband who truly desires her, who appreciates her passionate nature and her kind heart.”

After a moment, Dainsfield continued, his voice dropping to a lower register that somehow conveyed more emotion than his previous outburst. “You haven’t seen her when she’s truly herself—when she’s not constrained by the rules and expectations of polite society. When she laughs, it’s not the practiced titter you hear in drawing rooms. It’s rich and full-throated, completely unconcerned with how she might appear to others.”

“There’s a quality to her that’s hard to define—a genuine warmth that has somehow survived despite everything. She notices people that others overlook.” Dainsfield returned to the table but remained standing, his hands gripping the back of his chair as though it might prevent him from floating away on the tide of his own emotions.

“She’s kind, Abingdon. Truly kind, not in the calculating way of society ladies who perform charitable acts to enhance their reputations. And despite that kindness, society has treated her abominably because of circumstances entirely beyond her control.”

His knuckles whitened against the dark wood of the chair. “Do you know what they call her? Behind her back, in whispers just loud enough for her to hear? ‘The Duke’s By-blow.’ ‘Kingsland’s Mistake.’ As though her illegitimacy is the sum total of her character.”

Abingdon winced slightly at the crude epithets. “People can be cruel.”

“Cruel doesn’t begin to describe it,” Dainsfield countered.

“Which brings us back to Parham,” Abingdon said.

“Yes, Parham,” Dainsfield spat the name as though it tasted foul. “Who will give her a respectable name and a comfortable home, but nothing of the joy or passion she deserves. Who will expect her to bear his heir and then turn a blind eye to his dalliances with men. Who might even—” he broke off, seemingly unable to continue the thought.

“Who might even what?” Abingdon prompted gently.

Dainsfield sank back into his chair, the anger suddenly draining from him, leaving something rawer and more vulnerable in its place. “Who might even permit her to seek discreet companionship of her own, once an heir is secured. That’s not uncommon in such marriages.”

“And the thought of Milly seeking ‘discreet companionship’ disturbs you,” Abingdon stated rather than asked.

“It enrages me,” Dainsfield admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “The very idea of her in another man’s arms, giving herself to someone who could never truly appreciate the gift of her passion…”

He trailed off, staring at his hands as though they belonged to someone else. Silence filled the small space.

From the street below came the distant calls of vendors and the rhythmic clop of horses’ hooves, reminders of a world continuing its ordinary business, oblivious to the drama unfolding in the quiet club room.

When Abingdon finally broke the silence, his voice was gentle but firm, like a physician who knows the diagnosis will cause pain but must be delivered, nonetheless. “How long have you loved Milly? And what do you intend to do about it?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Dainsfield left Sutcliffe’s with the doggedness of a man being chased. Through the murky streets, where rain left the cobblestones slick and promises washed away as quickly, he marched. He had too much energy coursing through him to ride to his destination, if he even had one. His mind swirled with Abingdon’s pointed question, every step serving to illuminate an answer that no longer left room for denial. Could Milly ever want him after how he’d been treating her? That, he knew, mattered more than business, more than any damn club. It mattered more than he’d even realized until this moment.

He pressed forward, his thoughts teetering between logic and emotion. The investment at Sutcliffe’s had never been his priority; it was a diversion, a place to funnel both energy and frustrations away from more personal pursuits. But now the distraction seemed to loom like a barrier between him and Milly. Could he really step aside, allow his partners to take control? Was it conceivable to abandon such an endeavor for the sake of the woman who occupied his every waking thought?

With Abingdon’s words echoing like an insistent drumbeat, he acknowledged a simple truth: Milly’s happiness was more important than any ledger or gaming table. She was about to marry Parham, a match he himself had suggested, foolishly thinking it would protect her from scandal. But now, the very thought of her becoming another man’s wife tore at him in ways he hadn’t foreseen. His breath came quicker, fogging the cool afternoon air. If selling his share of Sutcliffe’s would win her, he realized with startling clarity, he would do it without a moment’s regret.

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