Page 36 of The Duke of Sin (Rakes and Roses #1)

CHAPTER 3

A headache was brewing at Dorian’s temple as he tried to read that morning’s edition of The Times. His aunt, Lady Agatha Bakeforth, Viscountess of Surrey, clad in the morning robe was chattering with Evelyn about the ball last night…and all he could think of was the infuriating Lady Miranda.

His fingers flexed on the thin sheet; he wanted to shake her for being so stubborn, so… so maddening.

“If you grip that paper any harder, you will surely rip it in two,” Agatha said calmly. “Is anything troubling you, dear nephew?”

“No,” he declared surlily.

“Hm.” His aunt tucked a stray curl of her silvering hair behind an ear before plucking up her Gazette . “Would it happen to be because of this, Reclusive Duke Redbourne humbled by Lady Miranda. Every jaw in the Prince Regent’s home met the floor when the lady walked away from him with nary a glance back. Many are wondering—this concerned citizen who witnessed the incident included—if the two have a past that the general public is unaware of.

I am convinced that he broke her heart, Lady A—says.

No, no, no. Lady P—scoffs. The good lady sees the duke for who he is, a degenerate profligate who has no business approaching a pure, sweet soul.

No one knows who Duke Rochdale is as the man had made it a point to be private to the point of mysterious. Should I read more?”

“I would rather you did not,” Dorian scowled while reaching for his coffee. “Everything about last night was… not good.”

“Curious minds do want to know,” Evelyn dipped her knife in the tub of peach preserves. “What did happen?”

“A misunderstanding,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, that says it all,” Aunt Agatha murmured. “I would wager half my prize horse at Tattersalls that you made an untoward comment to the poor girl, and she took it to heart.”

The mouthful of drink Dorian had almost surged to his nose. Fortunately, he managed to swallow it down, even though it rested on top of an unsettled stomach. He did not like how easily—and accurately—his aunt had read the situation.

“Can we please drop this train of conversation?” he asked.

“I suppose,” his aunt inclined her head. “But be aware, this will come up another time. Anyhow, dear, can you tell me about your time with this Marquess Bigham?”

“Ah, Samuel ,” Evelyn sighed dreamily. “He is a bright, handsome man, and I absolutely adore him.”

“You met him for an hour last night,” Dorian turned a page with more force than needed. “I would advise you to meet other just as bright and handsome gentlemen before you set your mind on the former.”

“And I might agree to that if you would try to stop looking like a hulking troglodyte and scaring half of the possible lords from approaching me,” Evelyn commented. “Poor Sam told me he had to pray to God to get the courage to speak to you. Do you know how thunderous your face is at times?”

His head snapped up, brows lowering. “I do not.”

“Look in the mirror,” his aunt put in. “You are doing it now.”

Glancing at the mirrored backdrop on the sideboard, Dorian ground his teeth—once again, she was right. His face was thunderous, brows lowered and jaw tight.

“I have a responsibility to make sure no unworthy candidate asks for your hand, and if they are scared off by my face, they are clearly not worthy enough.”

“And what about you?” Agatha asked. “This Season should be about you too. You do know that you are expected to marry soon. I do not know where this distaste of marriage and commitment comes from, because I know your father and mother showed you a faithful, loving marriage for as long as they were alive. It is sad that they were taken from you before their time, but the sentiment remains.”

“The foundation they laid is not the matter here,” Dorian folded the paper and waved it. “I simply do not need to pander to the narrative that I must marry as soon as possible.”

“Are you…” his aunt paused; her delicate brows lowered. “Are you somehow perturbed that these ladies might learn how you went about to rebuild your estate and home? Are you worried they might shun you?”

“Why would I be?” Dorian asked, “If they are ashamed that I rebuilt my fortune breaking bricks and hammering nails, it speaks that I made the wrong choice in entertaining them.”

“What your uncle did—”

“Made it fair enough for me to banish him to Ireland,” he cut in. “He deserved more, but I left him with some dignity. Which, sad to say, is still more than the ladies of the ton who are all taught to sit around all day doing nothing but looking beautiful, and do not understand or appreciate hard work.”

The closest secret he kept to himself was when he had inherited his father’s estate and found it run into a rut—he’d taken a broken title and forged it back into gold, lifting himself back up out of the ashes. Born into privilege but sunk into poverty, he had a pointed view on those who flitted away their time as if every ticking moment meant nothing.

“Some men, too,” Evelyn remarked.

“Dandies do not matter to me,” he shrugged. “I will be hard-pressed to find a possible wife who is not turned away by my calluses and scars. The smell of an occupation makes them break out in hives while they leisurely play croquet or whatever ridiculous pursuits they filled their time with.”

“Is it possible you misread Lady Miranda?” Evelyn asked.

“I am sure I have not,” he replied. “I know the caliber of women when I meet them.”

“Meaning?”

“I made an unfortunate comment about her being spoiled, and when I tried to apologize for it, she didn’t take kindly to it.”

“Pardon me,” a footman said from the doorway, making them all turn to the man, his face fully eclipsed by a massive bouquet of white roses. “Lady Evelyn, this gift has been received for you from a Marquess Bigham.”

“Oh my,” Agatha blinked, taken aback. “Where do we place such a massive arrangement?”

“In my room, of course!” Evelyn beamed brightly while taking the card. “ She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies . Oh, my heart, he knows Lord Byron.”

“The rats scurrying down the dark alleys of Town know Byron,” Dorian muttered. For want of something to keep his hands occupied, he reached for the newspaper and turned to a part on business even though he had read it all earlier.

He didn’t much mind how his sister and aunt shared another look. Agatha tutted, “Good gracious, he is a wet blanket this morning.”

“I wonder why,” Evelyn asked airily. “Methinks it could be a very brave lady who decided to snub him on the most visible stage in London. The house of handsome Prince Regent.”

“And it is clear he is not interested in apologizing for whatever harebrained comment he’d said,” Agatha nodded.

“Will you two stop talking over me as if I am not two feet away from you?” Dorian asked, eyes narrowed.

“Methinks he should apologize, to save face if anything,” Agatha nodded sagely. “I do know of Lady Miranda and with her brilliance and idealism, I am sure she said something to rub his practicality and pessimism the wrong way.”

While unhappy that the conversation had circled around to Lady Miranda, Dorian also felt that he was losing ground in an uphill battle he had not even initiated. “Is there anything I can do to get you two conspirators to stop needling me?”

“Find the lady and apologize to her, truly this time,” Agatha replied.

“And what guarantee do you have that she will accept this time?” he asked.

“That is for you to find out, isn’t it?” Evelyn smiled brightly.

The knock on the drawing-room door had Miranda looking up from the embroidery on her lap. Sam was peeking in, his blond hair flopping into an eye. “I am sorry to interrupt you, but would you care to share tea with me?”

“Sure, Sam. I’d love to, just give me a moment,” she finished the knot and then stuck her needle into a pincushion. As she made to stand, her toe nudged her prim long-haired Persian Cat named Duchess who meowed, unhappy at being moved.

“I’m sorry, Duchess,” she petted the cat before heading off to join Sam.

The tearoom was elegantly appointed, with buttermilk damask covering the walls and an Aegean blue Aubusson upon the floor. The furnishings were upholstered in soft white suede.

“Where is Aunt?” she asked while taking a seat at the oval tea table.

“You know Mother does not wake up until after noon,” Sam replied while uncovering the tiered cart beside the table that held several covered dishes, as he seated himself beside her. “I requested a simple repast, one that we could serve ourselves. I hope you do not mind.”

“I like this very much. It is ever so cozy.” She smiled at him. “And that smells delicious. Is that Cook’s meat pies?”

“Yes, it is,” Sam called a maid forward who made their tea and coffee. “How are you doing?”

Suddenly suspicious, Miranda narrowed her eyes, “We came home at two in the morning from the ball and I would assume I am doing just as well as you. What have you heard?”

She watched his hands, which were long and well-suited for playing the pianoforte—which he excelled at in times he needed away from his legislative duties—as he reached for a paper.

“Last night was a touch…” he unfolded the paper, “… unprecedented , I suppose is the best word. All of Town is aflutter with the snub you leveled at Duke Rochdale last night.”

Rolling her eyes, she took her cup after thanking the maid, “That man is unbearable.”

“Do you want to hear what is now being said about you?” Sam asked.

“I would rather not, but I am afraid that I will not be able to escape it, so go ahead,” she sighed while tipping another splash of cream in her tea. “I have a slimming diet, but it depends on what they say. If they hint at us being in love, I might have to console myself with one of Cook’s blackberry tarts.”

“ Rumors abound of Duke Redbourne and his unforgettable dance with Lady Miranda and some are aflutter with reasons why he was so unsubtly snubbed .”

Lady P—asserts the two are in love and states clearly, it is obvious to see. Lady S— suggests that His Grace failed to earn Lady Miranda’s good graces, stating that the good lady is smart, a very brilliant, well-read woman who sees the Duke as he is, a profligate womanizer and a disgrace. Lord F—recounts outright, the lady is simply bitter at being passed over for someone who is not the hoyden tomboy we know her to be. ”

Sighing, Miranda sat her cup to the side and reached for two tarts. “I do hate how accurately I have anticipated the ton’s response.”

Setting the paper aside, Sam asked, “Had you met Duke Redbourne before last night?”

“No, but he has justified to me why I have never met him before,” she replied. “A boorish man,” she shivered in displeasure. “Troglodyte. You seem to know more about him than I do.”

“Actually.” Sam’s mouth twisted in regret. “Not much, I’m afraid. The lads and I knew about him but we do not know him. He is a very private man. I have never seen him out and about, not at Whites, or Brooks, or Boodles. I have not spotted him at Almacks, Vauxhall, or even Tattersalls.”

Her brows dipped. “Did he appear out of nowhere then?”

“I do know he took over his father’s station at seven and ten, but was at Oxford at the time. That was fourteen years ago,” Sam said. “But his uncle held regency over his fortune and estate until he got to the age of majority. From then on, he… seemed to vanish from the public eye.”

“Oh,” she blinked. “That is strange. Fourteen years ago, when he was ten-and-seven. That means he is one-and-thirty now.”

“Yes,” Sam replied. “And I can see the question brewing in your mind. No one knows why he is not married.”

Shaking her head, Miranda asked, “What about you and His Grace’s sister?”

Sam’s face changed. “I sent her a bouquet this morning, and I hope that when we do meet again, we’ll be able to hold a deeper conversation than what we had at the ball. She is a sweet, lovely soul.”

“Are you sure she is his sister?” Miranda asked dryly. “There is nothing sweet about her brother and I cannot see that as a family trait. Maybe she was switched at birth?”

“I think you two would like each other,” Sam mused, then offered, “I plan on asking the gentlelady for a visit, and if I do get the honor, would you like to come and meet her?”

Meaning I might come across her troglodyte brother.

“I’ll consider it,” she replied, noting when he plucked the timepiece from his lapel pocket. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“With Lord Harcourt,” Sam replied. “He needs help organizing his hunting party later this month.”

“I see,” Miranda nodded. “Better be off then.”

As he stood, a footman hurried inside, “My lady, Misses Horatia Greene and Lady Letitia Croyner are here for you—"

“Oh, just let us in. This is important, nigh on crucial, vital, critical, all the alternative expressions!” one of the aforementioned ladies barged into the tearoom, her male-inspired riding habit, epaulets and all, complimenting her blond hair and bright brown eyes.

Miranda, used to her friend’s flair for the dramatic, shook her head. “Is your puppy finding lost treasures in your backyard again?”

“Yes, but that is for another time,” Horatia plunked herself into a seat. “This is about Duke Redbourne and the seventeen reasons you should stay away from him!”