Page 9 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke

“What about the back door? The windows?” Charles insisted. “Has everything been barricaded?”

“Of course, milord.”

“Adequately, I should hope?”

“Certainly, milord.”

Charles sighed inwardly and began to cut into his ham. Everything was in order. Yet he could not bring himself to feel at ease.

Why did it feel like something terrible was about to happen?

Or hadalreadyhappened.

Something unusual. Something out of the ordinary. Something he could not quite put a finger to…

Huxley, his butler, suddenly burst into the breakfast hall with the daily column in his hand and Charles felt a sense of gloating triumph in his heart.

Heknewsomething was afoot!

Immediately, he made to his feet, his every sense on high alert as he regarded the panicked man before him with a newfound sense of assurance.

“What is it?” he asked the butler, who had turned nearly ashen now. “Was something stolen from the lands? I was made to understand everything had been properly inspected and barricaded—”

The butler shook his head fiercely. “It is not that, milord.”

“Ah, the harvests have been—”

“Not that either.”

“Then… an intruder?”

The butler shook his head again.

Charles frowned. “Not an intruder? Are you sure?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Well, Huxley, what could possibly warrant you bursting in through the door like this if it is not something so imminently life-threatening?” he snapped.

He watched as O’Malley furtively poured the man some tea, but apparently, Huxley did not possess the same audacity his footman did when it came to partaking in the breakfast of their master.

Taking huge gulps of air, Huxley was finally able to steady himself before he managed to croak out, “The papers, milord.”

“What about the papers?” Charles muttered, grabbing the daily column from his butler’s trembling hands.

His eyes swiftly scanned the printed words, and slowly, his expression began morphing into one of shock and rage. He caught his name mentioned several times and along with that, a more familiar one—Miss Phoebe Townsend.

“What in tarnation is this drivel?” he bit out.

“My thoughts precisely, milord,” Huxley nodded breathlessly. “How dare they tarnish your fine reputation? Why, you have served the—”

The quelling look that Charles sent his way effectively halted the butler in his tracks, but it did nothing for O’Malley, who peered over his shoulder in a manner that was hardly subtle.

“What do you mean tarnish His Lordship’s reputation?” the footman asked in confusion. “What do—oh.”

Oh, indeed!

There, printed upon the broadsheet was the titillating story of a secret love affair between a mysterious, reclusive nobleman—him—and a young lady deemed by all to have been verifiably on the shelf—Miss Phoebe Townsend.