Page 11 of Tantalizing the Duke (Wayward Dukes Alliance #22)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T he door to Dainsfield’s office in Sutcliffe’s crashed open with such force that the candles in the wall sconces flickered in protest. Somehow, the act of kicking open the door didn’t have the satisfaction Dainsfield needed to purge his anger.
The Duke of Abingdon’s head appeared in the doorway of the neighboring office, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline at the sight before him. “Good Lord, man. You look as though you’ve been dragged backward through a hedgerow. Did you sleep at all, or have you come straight from some debauchery I wasn’t invited to?”
Dainsfield attempted to straighten his disheveled appearance, tugging ineffectually at his cravat and smoothing his wild hair with a trembling hand. “It’s nothing. Just some business that required early attention.”
Abingdon crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe with the casual grace of a man who knew when his friend was hiding something. “At eight in the morning? In yesterday’s clothes?”
Dainsfield stepped into his office, avoiding his friend’s perceptive gaze. The room was immaculate—leather-bound ledgers arranged by size on polished shelves, a sterling silver inkwell gleaming in the morning light, crystal decanters of amber liquid standing in orderly formation on a sideboard. Everything in precise order, unlike the man who owned it.
“It’s of no consequence,” he insisted, moving toward the decanters despite the early hour. His hands shook as he poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and he downed half of it in one swallow, feeling the burn spread through his chest to compete with the heat of his frustration.
Abingdon appeared in the doorway. “You’re a terrible liar. Always have been.”
Something in Dainsfield snapped then—a tether he hadn’t realized was holding him together until it broke. The mask of aristocratic indifference he wore as naturally as his skin cracked and fell away. “Milly is a fool if she thinks she can be happy married to a molly!” The words exploded from him, too loud for the quiet morning, echoing off the wooden panels of his office and spilling into the hallway beyond.
A passing servant gasped, nearly dropping the tray of empty glasses he carried. Dainsfield’s face burned with embarrassment atop his anger, the uncomfortable heat rising from his neck to his cheeks.
Abingdon stepped quickly into the office, closing the door firmly behind him. His face registered surprise, but not shock—the measured reaction of a man who had suspected something was amiss but hadn’t guessed the particular nature of the problem. “I think you’d better sit down before you fall down. And then perhaps you should start from the beginning and explain what’s happening.”
Dainsfield stared at his friend, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. The glass in his hand was empty, though he had no memory of finishing it. He placed it on his desk with a heavy thunk and sank into his chair, the polished leather creaking beneath his weight. His shoulders slumped as though the strings holding him upright had been abruptly cut.
“It’s all gone wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The fire of his anger guttered, leaving behind a cold, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. His hands were numb, but he felt a warmth in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognized not as guilt, but as jealousy—raw and unfamiliar. “It’s all gone terribly wrong.”
Abingdon poured two fresh brandies and placed one before his friend. He settled into the chair across from Dainsfield, his expression open and patient. “Start at the beginning. What’s this about Milly and marriage?”
“Milly is a fool if she thinks she can be happy married to a molly!”
The declaration echoed in the cavernous room, bouncing from the ceiling’s ornate plasterwork to the polished mahogany wainscoting.
Abingdon didn’t flinch at the outburst, but his eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “I see,” he said, though his tone suggested he didn’t see at all. “Perhaps you’d care to elaborate further… at a slightly reduced volume?”
Dainsfield’s cheeks, already flushed from agitation, darkened further. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered his voice to a ragged whisper.
“She’s going to marry Parham. It was in the papers this morning.”
“Lord Parham?” Abingdon clarified, his expression thoughtful. “Tall fellow, excellent horseman, collects Greek antiquities?”
“The very same,” Dainsfield confirmed bitterly. “And who has never kept company with a woman for longer than it takes to dance a quadrille, despite being of an age where most men have already produced half a dozen heirs.”
The implication hung in the air between them, as delicate and volatile as gunpowder. Parham preferred men.
“Ah,” Abingdon said simply. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he asked, “And you know this how?”
“Everyone knows. Everyone who pays attention.”
“Gossip,” Abingdon pointed out mildly. “I’ve seen him upstairs here with various women.”
“Fact,” Dainsfield countered. “I’ve had him investigated.”
“You’ve had him… investigated,” Abingdon repeated slowly. “Hold on a moment. Didn’t I just attend a party at your home with the sole purpose of introducing Parham to Milly?”
Dainsfield’s expression suggested he’d bitten into something unexpectedly sour. He stared at his empty glass as though it might contain an acceptable answer. “It’s complicated,” he finally muttered.
“I imagine it must be,” Abingdon agreed, closing his ledger with a definitive thump. He leaned back in his chair, fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin as he regarded his friend with the patient expression of a man accustomed to waiting out silences. “Perhaps you should start from the beginning and explain what’s happening.”
The suggestion hung between them, an invitation and a challenge combined. Outside, the sounds of London awakening filtered through the windows—the rattle of delivery carts, the calls of vendors, the steady clop of hooves on cobblestones. Inside, the suspended moment stretched, taut as a violin string.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he began, his voice rasping like silk dragged across rough stone. “But I made it with the best of intentions, which I’m discovering is the most dangerous sort of mistake to make.”
Abingdon nodded, his expression carefully neutral. “These things often begin that way. As it appears to me, you introduced Milly and Parham with the hopes of their marrying, and now they’ve set the date to do so. I don’t understand the problem.”
“Parham is a molly. He prefers men.”
Abingdon sat back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “There have been whispers about Parham for years, though nothing definitive. He’s always been very careful.”
Dainsfield’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “You knew?”
“I suspected,” Abingdon corrected. “Which is not the same thing as knowing. And in any case, it wasn’t my place to spread such rumors.”
“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?”