Page 30 of Wedded to the Duke of Sin (Dukes of Passion #2)

CHAPTER 30

“ I cannot take another moment of wedding preparations,” Thomas burst out as he paced Dorian’s study. “If I hear one more word about the proper placement of sugar roses on the wedding cake, I may go mad.”

Dorian glanced up from his correspondence, amused to see his usually languid brother-in-law in such a state of disarray. Thomas’s cravat had come partially undone, and his fashionable coat bore telltale creases from running his hands through his hair.

“Surely it can’t be that dire,” Dorian offered, setting aside his letters. “Lady Westhaven merely wants?—”

“Lady Westhaven wants everything to be perfect,” Thomas groaned, collapsing into a chair. “The number of bridesmaids must be exactly seven—no more, no less. The groomsmen’s waistcoats must be precisely matched to the shade of blue in the chapel windows. Even the horsehair on the wedding carriages must be plaited in some intricate pattern that apparently holds deep significance for the family.”

“And what does Evelyn say about all of this?”

“That’s the worst part!” Thomas leaped up to resume his pacing. “She just smiles and says, ‘Yes, Mama,’ while giving me secret looks that make me want to throw her over my shoulder and run for Gretna Green.”

“Gretna Green?” Dorian leaned back, studying his brother-in-law with new interest. The impulsive rake he’d first met would have already been halfway to Scotland. This Thomas paced and fretted but stayed firm to his obligations. “Rather drastic, wouldn’t you say?”

“You don’t understand.” Thomas raked his hands through his hair again. “Yesterday, Lady Westhaven spent three hours— three hours! —discussing the symbolic meaning of different flowers for the centerpieces. Apparently, we cannot have lilies because they suggest death, but roses are too common, and peonies indicate a lack of restraint.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“Don’t mock me. You didn’t have to endure a lecture on how the wrong shade of ivory in the bride’s bouquet could doom the entire marriage.” Thomas dropped back into his chair. “And yet… and yet when Evelyn caught my eye during this dissertation on floral omens, all I could think was that I’d endure a thousand such lectures just to see her smile.”

Dorian’s amusement softened to understanding. “That, my friend, is what we call love.”

“Is it?” Thomas stared off into the distance. “I used to think love was all grand gestures and dramatic declarations. But lately… lately, I find myself wanting to learn about crop rotation just to see her eyes light up when she talks about estate management. I actually paid attention when her father discussed drainage systems, if you can believe it.”

“The scandal,” Dorian drawled, but there was warmth in his voice.

“I know!” Thomas laughed suddenly. “If anyone had told me that I’d find agricultural reports fascinating, I’d have called them mad. But when Evelyn explains something, she has this way of making everything seem possible. Important. Like I’m not just the rakish younger son everyone expected to fail.”

“You never were.”

“Wasn’t I?” Thomas’s smile held a touch of his old self-mockery. “Even I thought so for a long time. It was easier, you know? Living down to expectations rather than trying to rise above them.” He straightened up. “But Evelyn… she looks at me as though I’m capable of anything. And somehow, that makes me want to be worthy of her.”

The quiet conviction in his voice struck something in Dorian’s chest. He recognized that transformation—the way love could reshape a man’s entire world without him quite realizing that it was happening.

“So you’ll endure the wedding preparations?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Every excruciating moment.” Thomas’s expression softened. “Though I may need somewhere to hide when Lady Westhaven starts planning the christening before we’ve even said our vows.”

“My study is at your disposal,” Dorian offered magnanimously. “Though I assume you’ll be too occupied tomorrow evening to require sanctuary. The dinner party should provide at least a few hours’ respite from wedding preparations.”

“Ah yes, your dinner party tomorrow.” Thomas rose, his earlier agitation settling into something more like his usual elegant bearing. “Evelyn is quite looking forward to it. And Miss Amelia Blackburn has agreed to act as a chaperone—a blessed relief, I must say. The woman’s greatest passion appears to be cataloging different types of ferns, so I doubt she’ll have much to say about wedding preparations.”

“Miss Blackburn?” Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Lord Blackburn’s third daughter?”

“The very same. Quiet, little thing—perpetually carries a notebook for sketching plant specimens. Lady Westhaven finds her rather dull, which makes her perfect for our purposes.” Thomas straightened his cravat with practiced ease. “Though I suspect even botanical discussions would be preferable to another debate about the symbolism of dove-gray versus pearl-gray for the groomsmen’s gloves.”

“Your suffering is truly remarkable.”

“Mock me as much as you want, but you’ll understand soon enough.” Thomas’s grin held a hint of his old mischief. “I intend to have several children, and Lady Westhaven will undoubtedly have opinions about their christening gowns that will make wedding preparations seem positively tame.”

“Out,” Dorian commanded, though he couldn’t quite suppress his smile. “Before you give my butler ideas about appropriate decorations for future nurseries.”

“Until tomorrow then.” Thomas bowed with exaggerated formality. “Give my love to Alice. And perhaps warn her that my future mother-in-law has begun sketching designs for what she calls ‘anticipatory grandchildren’s layettes.’ I fear no one in the family is safe from her schemes.”

Dorian surveyed his dinner table with careful attention, noting the way Lord Treyfield had positioned himself to observe both his fellow guests and the interactions around him, his eyes constantly assessing, probing for information.

It was precisely why Dorian had invited him. Keeping one’s enemies close was a necessary strategy, and Treyfield was a man worth watching.

Treyfield sat between the voluble Lady Ashurst, wife to the newly elevated Viscount Ashurst, and the more reserved Mrs. Carstairs, whose husband’s shipping venture had recently earned them entry into polite society.

Across the table, Gregory appeared to be driving Joanna to new heights of exasperation with what sounded like a detailed critique of her piano technique. Her aunt, the formidable Mrs. Winters, sat beside her and observed their constant bickering with long-suffering patience.

Thomas and Evelyn sat in obvious contentment next to Miss Blackburn, who was earnestly describing some rare species of maidenhair fern to an uncomfortable-looking Lord Rothbury. Lady Rothbury kept casting hopeful glances at her husband, clearly wishing to rescue him from the botanical discourse.

Sir James and Lady Dunross rounded out the party, their recent return from the Continent providing welcome conversation about the latest Parisian fashions. Though Dorian noticed that Sir James’s eyes strayed more often to the port than to his dinner companions.

At the head of the table, Alice played her role as hostess to perfection, but Dorian caught the subtle tension in her shoulders each time Treyfield spoke. When the Earl began yet another pointed inquiry about Dorian’s business interests in various parts of London, Dorian saw his wife’s fingers tighten briefly around her knife.

“Your Grace,” Treyfield called down the table, his voice carrying rather too loudly for proper dinner conversation, “you must tell us about your latest business ventures. I hear you’ve taken quite an interest in… improving certain areas of our fair city.”

“My husband’s charitable works speak for themselves,” Alice interjected smoothly before Dorian could respond. “Though perhaps Sir James might tell us more about the new Parisian fountains? I understand that the engineering is quite remarkable.”

“Bah, fountains!” Treyfield waved his hand dismissively, sloshing wine dangerously close to Lady Ashurst’s sleeve. “What I find remarkable is how His Grace manages to balance his many interests. Why, just the other day, I saw your carriage in a most unexpected neighborhood.”

“Did you, indeed?” Dorian’s tone was perfectly civil, though his fingers tightened around his glass. “How fascinating that you’ve taken such an interest in my movements.”

“One must keep abreast of one’s social circle.” Treyfield’s laugh held a sharp edge. “Though I must say, the things that some of your associates did might surprise the ton. Your late friend Lawrence, for instance?—”

“I found the fountains quite extraordinary,” Gregory cut in firmly. “Though not nearly as extraordinary as Lady Joanna’s assertion that Mozart’s later works show superior compositional complexity to Haydn.”

“That is not what I said at all, Lord Drakeley,” Joanna huffed, though Dorian didn’t miss how quickly she pounced on the change of subject. “I merely suggested that Mozart’s innovation in harmonic structure?—”

“Innovation?” Gregory’s eyes sparkled with challenge. “Surely you mean his tendency to excessive ornamentation?”

“I believe,” Thomas added with unusual perception, “that Miss Blackburn was about to share her fascinating insights about the medicinal properties of common ferns. Weren’t you, Miss Blackburn?”

The botanical enthusiast seized the opportunity with alarming enthusiasm. “Oh! Yes! The properties of the maidenhair fern alone could fill volumes.”

“Speaking of volumes.” Treyfield’s voice grew louder as he attempted to speak over Miss Blackburn. “I have some rather interesting documents regarding a certain business in Whitechapel?—”

“Perhaps,” Dorian interjected, “we might save such a discussion for after dinner, over port and cigars, Treyfield. I believe the ladies would find discussing business matters rather tedious after such an excellent meal.”

The implied rebuke—discussing business at dinner being a serious breach of etiquette—caused awkward silence to fall over them. Even Treyfield, flushed with wine, seemed to realize that he’d overstepped.

“Indeed,” Alice agreed as she turned to Lady Rothbury. “I understand that you’ve recently refurbished your conservatory? I would love to hear about your choice of exotic specimens. The latest shipments from India have produced some remarkable varieties, I’m told.”

“Oh yes!” Lady Rothbury seized the topic with visible relief. “Though I must confess, I’ve had the most terrible time with the orchids. The gardener insists that they require special conditions…”

But even as the conversation resumed its proper course, Dorian noticed how Treyfield’s eyes had narrowed at his dismissal. The man was drumming his fingers on his wine glass with barely suppressed agitation.

The growing tension beneath the social pleasantries made the remaining courses seem interminable.

The library’s leather and tobacco-scented air did little to ease the tension as the gentlemen settled with their brandy and cigars. Dorian had just accepted a glass from the footman when Treyfield materialized at his elbow.

“A moment of your time, Your Grace?” The Earl’s earlier flustered look had faded to something more calculating. “I’ve recently acquired some… interesting information about my late nephew.”

Dorian maintained his position near the fireplace, deliberately not offering Treyfield a seat. “Have you?”

“Indeed.” Treyfield swirled his brandy, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. “It seems that Lawrence may have left behind certain… obligations. A woman of ill repute, if my sources are correct.”

Dorian took a long sip of his brandy, using the moment to school his features into perfect aristocratic disdain. “How fascinating that you spend your time investigating such baseless gossip about your dead nephew.”

“Hardly baseless.” Treyfield leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Certain individuals in certain establishments have been most informative.”

“Let me be perfectly clear.” Dorian’s voice could have frozen the brandy in their glasses. “As Lawrence’s closest friend, I was privy to every aspect of his life. Your attempts to sully his memory with these vulgar investigations go beyond the bounds of decent behavior. I suggest you consider very carefully whether you wish to continue down this path.”

“Is that a threat, Your Grace?”

“Merely a reminder that even an earl’s privilege has its limits.” Dorian’s smile held nothing of warmth. “Particularly when it comes to maligning the dead.”

The tension between the two men was palpable, a sharp contrast to the otherwise genteel atmosphere of the library. Treyfield’s eyes narrowed, his polished facade cracking just enough to reveal the serpent lurking beneath.

“You misunderstand me, Your Grace,” he said smoothly, though there was an unmistakable edge to his voice. “I mean no disrespect to Lawrence’s memory. My only concern is for the integrity of the title he left behind. Rumors, as distasteful as they may be, have a way of tarnishing even the most pristine reputations.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, his grip on his glass tightening subtly. “A curious sentiment from someone so eager to dig up dirt on a man who can no longer defend himself. Tell me, Treyfield, does the weight of the title you schemed so hard to obtain not satisfy you? Or is it guilt that keeps you searching for skeletons?”

Treyfield’s back stiffened, but his smile remained firmly in place. “I seek only the truth, Your Grace. Surely, as a man of honor, you can appreciate that.”

Dorian’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Truth? Is that what you call it? Because from where I stand, your ‘investigations’ look more like desperation. Perhaps the burden of legitimacy weighs heavier than you have anticipated.”

The footman’s discreet approach to refill their glasses served as a convenient pause in their verbal spar.

Treyfield straightened, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate calm, but his eyes gleamed with thinly veiled malice.

“Do not mistake my interest for desperation,” he said, his voice low and measured. “I simply wish to ensure that there are no… surprises lurking in Lawrence’s shadow. Surprises that could bring undue scrutiny upon the family name.”

Dorian set his glass down with a deliberate clink, his gaze locked onto Treyfield’s. “I’ll give you a piece of advice, Treyfield. Stop digging. You may not like what you find.”

The Earl’s composure faltered just for an instant before he forced a chuckle. “A most colorful warning, Your Grace. But I’ve always believed that to succeed, one must face the shadows head-on.”

“And some shadows,” Dorian said softly, his voice carrying a threat that seemed to chill the room, “swallow men whole.”

Treyfield held his gaze for a beat longer, then stepped back with a shallow bow. “Your Grace. Enjoy the rest of the night.”

As the Earl strode out of the library, Dorian turned back to the fire, his mind racing.

Treyfield was digging dangerously close to secrets that could unravel everything—not just Lawrence’s legacy, but the safety of those he left behind. The game was shifting, the stakes becoming higher with every move.

And Dorian would not let Treyfield win.