When Seducing A Duke (19 page)

Chapter 16

A
fter more hours in a carriage with Archer than he ever wanted to experience again, Grey returned to Ryeton House. All he wanted to do was find Rose, climb into bed with her, and sleep for the rest of the day. Honestly, sleep. Entwine his legs with hers, sink into her arms, bury his face in the sweet warm hollow of her neck…

“You coming?”

Grey blinked and turned his head. He was standing in the drive with Archer and the others watching him expectantly.

Archer shook his head, clearly exasperated. “Are we going inside, Your Grace, or shall we conduct our business on the street for all Mayfair to witness?”

“Inside,” he mumbled. Could he be any more of an idiot? He walked toward the door, the others falling into step behind him. Archer took Bronte’s arm and led their pale, scared-looking sister into the house. Grey hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to her, to let her know that everything would be fine. She probably thought he was going to rant and rave and tell her she could never see Alexander again.

Truth be told, ranting and raving was tempting. And a little fear was a small price to pay for what she’d put him through—and for thinking so ill of him to begin with. When had he ever given her reason to think him a monster?

He rubbed a hand over his face as he entered the house.

Christ.

He wasn’t wearing his mask. He’d left the house in the company of strangers and traveled across half the country without the supple leather protecting him from curious gazes and whispers.

Westford was there to take outwear and ask what he could do to be of service. Grey asked him to send a light repast to his study, as his guests might be hungry. Then he led his little silent group across the great hall into the one room in the house where he felt in total control.

His sister stood by the chair where her lover sat.

“You may sit, Bronte,” Grey said softly.

Her stubborn chin jutted defiantly. “I’d rather stand.”

Grey shrugged. “As you wish.” But he wanted to ask just what she thought remaining on her feet would accomplish.

Drinks were poured—brandy for the men, sherry for Bronte. The housekeeper arrived a few moments after with a platter of meats, cheese, and bread. Lord Branton dove in without prompting.

Grey snatched up two slices of sharp cheese and hitched one hip on the corner of his desk. Half standing, half sitting, he regarded his company—particularly Alexander. He was perhaps in his mid to late twenties. A tall, handsome lad with obviously more balls than brains.

“Lord Kemp,” he began, addressing his future brother-in-law by his country title. He waited until the younger man looked at him to continue. “Your father assures me that you have genuine feelings for my sister. Is that true?”

The young man nodded his dark head. “I do, Your Grace. I love her.”

Direct eye contact. That was a good sign. “I wouldn’t let her go for less. Here’s how the rest of this romantic drama is going to play out—the banns will be read for the next three Sundays at St. George’s. After that, you and Bronte will be married in a small, intimate ceremony of close friends and family.”

The young lovers exchanged startled, and delighted glances. On the social scale, Alexander Graves was beneath Bronte, but Grey didn’t give a rat’s arse what the society matrons thought. Bronte might eventually feel the sting of her choices, but those would be her consequences to bear.

“Also, Bronte has a dowry of forty thousand pounds.” It was gauche to discuss money so openly, but the company would undoubtedly pardon him. “She also has a fortune of her own made through investments. The dowry will be yours, of course, but Bronte will retain full control of her fortune—and I will continue to oversee those investments for her.” Well, Trystan would.

His sister obviously took offense to this. “Grey, I am old enough to decide what I do with my own money.”

He slanted a narrow gaze at his beautiful sibling. He wasn’t angry at her. He was hurt, damn it. “And I want to ensure it stays that way.”

She flushed, but she said no more. Alexander reached up and took her hand. “I don’t need your money, my love. And your brother merely shows his own concern and love for you by wanting to ensure you have financial independence.”

Much of the flush bled from Bronte’s cheeks.
Well done, Kemp.
Perhaps this marriage might work after all.

“Lord Branton,” Grey spoke, turning his gaze away from the happy couple. “Would you like to say anything?”

“I would like to offer the newlyweds the family home in Essex until they find a domicile of their choosing.”

Grey’s lips curved. “You are very generous, sir.” And wanting to show his own wealth and property—that was all right. The man made it clear on the search for the missing lovers that he was heartily embarrassed by the entire situation. Grey tried to ease his mind, but he’d obviously not been as successful as he had hoped.

“And I would like to apologize, Your Grace.” It was Alexander who spoke. He rose to his feet and faced Grey without flinching. He was tall and lanky, with a good breadth to his shoulders and a straightness in his spine that spoke well of the man he was to become.

“Kemp?”

The younger man cast a loving glance at her before turning his attention back to Grey—and Archer as well. “I hope you will forgive me for my impulsive behavior. I thought only of having Bronte for my wife. Had I thought with my head instead of my heart, I would have seen that reason and spoke to you before acting so rashly.”

Grey had to grin.
Before
acting so rashly. The young pup had no trouble looking him in the eye and telling him that he would have whisked Bronte away if he’d forbade the union. That might have made for an interesting morning.

“Apology accepted. Now, I think perhaps we would all like very much to bathe and rest. Branton, perhaps you and your family would care to join us for dinner tonight? We will celebrate the coming nuptials.”

Despite the short notice, the earl nodded. “We would be honored, Your Grace.”

“Excellent. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to obtain a special license.”

Bronte frowned. “I thought you wanted the banns read.”

Grey grinned, unable to resist giving her a shock to make up for the one she’d given him. “Oh, it’s not for you, dearest. It’s for me.”

And then he left her with her mouth gaping.

Grey returned later that day from procuring the special license at Doctor’s Commons just in time to dress for dinner. Well, he hadn’t actually procured the license. His solicitor did while Grey waited in the carriage. He had no desire to feed the gossips anymore than he had to.

The day wasn’t about to get any easier. He did not relish the idea of having to face Camilla and tell her that his promise to her husband was well and fully broken. Not that she knew he’d ever agreed to keep his debauched hands off of Rose, but he knew and that was bad enough.

When he entered the drawing room just before eight, he found Rose already there. Her mother had yet to come downstairs. The Graveses and his own family had yet to arrive as well.

A few moments alone with his betrothed. How unexpectedly uplifting.

His fiancée rose to her feet when he walked in. “I understand from the bustling of the servants that we’re having company for dinner tonight?”

“Good evening to you too.” He smiled. “Yes. Bronte’s fiancé and his family will join us, along with my own bunch.”

“I suppose we will announce our engagement as well?” Rose clasped her hands before her, as though she wasn’t sure what to do with them. As Grey approached her, each step measured and slow, he thought of several tasks he’d like to give those nimble fingers.

“Yes, though I have no desire to steal Bronte’s thunder.” Was she embarrassed to face the men who found them together? She had to be. He would do everything he could to keep attention from her. And if one man so much as
looked
at her with censure in his gaze…

“Do you like her betrothed?”

“He seems a decent sort, yes.” He was almost to her.

She swallowed, delicate throat constricting. “That’s good. Did you tell her about us?”

“Sort of.”

It was nice to see the anxiety in her features give way to something else—curiosity. “Sort of?”

“She knows I went for a special license. I imagine Archer informed her of my choice of bride. No doubt she and Mama will want more details than I plan to give. I fully expect to be exhausted by the pair of them by the end of the evening.”

Rose’s lips curved. “What would the
ton
do without us to feed them scandal broth?”

Grey returned her grin. “The lot of them would starve.”

They chuckled, and as the humor faded, Grey tilted his head to look at her. “You look beautiful tonight.”

She flushed, pleasure lighting the dark depths of her eyes. “You don’t have to say such things.”

“I know I don’t, but you are my fiancée and it’s perfectly acceptable for me to voice my thoughts aloud. It’s rather refreshing after keeping them to myself for so long.”

That got her attention. One of her fine, high brows twitched. “How long?”

He grinned. “Since you were old enough for me to think such thoughts without being lecherous.”

They stood no more than six inches apart. Close enough that he could see how amazingly flawless her skin was—not a freckle in sight. Close enough that she could see every twist and knot of his scar—and yet she barely glanced at it. Her gaze was riveted on his. She didn’t care that he was disfigured—at least not on the outside. Not on the inside either, so it seemed.

“I’ve never been a good man,” he confessed—a little more hoarse than he liked—“but I promise to be a faithful husband.” It was the best he could offer, because as much as he would like to be the man she wanted, it wasn’t going to happen.

Her smooth brow puckered. “I haven’t actually consented, you know.”

“Rose, we have to marry.”

“No.” She raised sparkling eyes to his. “I want you to ask me to marry you—not demand it. I don’t care if it has to be done. I want to feel like I have a choice.”

“If you did have a choice, what would it be?” He was on dangerous ground with her, inching into territory better left unexplored for both their sakes.

Rose smiled, and everything was right with the world. “Ask me and find out.”

His hands came up, seemingly of their own volition, to cup her face. She was so delicate, yet so strong. Her entire world had been turned upside down, and yet she faced him with a teasing glint in her eyes and a soft flush of color in her cheeks.

“Rose Danvers, will you do me the extreme honor of becoming my wife?”

Were those tears dampening her eyes? And was it joy or sorrow that put them there?

“I will.”

He knew that they had to marry regardless, but hearing her say those two little words was like someone kicking his heart through his ribs. It hurt, but there was such unfathomable joy that came with it—such terrible happiness that Grey had no idea what to do with it. He’d never felt anything like it before.

Holding her face, he lowered his head and hungrily claimed her mouth with his own. Her lips parted for his tongue as her fingers bit into his arms. A trickle of warm wetness brushed against his thumb. She was crying.

A sharp gasp came from the open door. “What the devil is going on here?”

The kiss and its magic were broken. Rose stepped back, and Grey dropped his hands, but he wasn’t willing to let her go just yet. He placed one arm behind her back, holding her close so that they faced her mother together.

Camilla did not look happy. In fact, she looked like any mother would to walk into a room and find her daughter being molested.

“Mama,” Rose began. “It’s not what you think—”

“It is exactly what you think,” Grey countered, drawing his friend’s stormy and narrow gaze. “I have asked Rose for her hand in marriage and she has accepted. I regret that you had to find out this way, but I was too overcome with joy to contain my feelings.”

He could feel Rose gaping at him. He didn’t look at her, not because the words were a lie, but because they were all too damnably true.

“I do hope you will give us your blessing, Camilla.” She might not approve based on his past or his age—though it was only a ten-year difference. Grey mentally crossed his fingers that she would consent, because it would make any rumors she heard about them much easier to ignore.

The older woman’s green eyes filled with tears as she covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh my, this is wonderful!”

Grey hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until it rushed out of his lungs. Camilla apparently didn’t have the same apprehensions her late husband had.

Rose clutched at his arm, as though she couldn’t believe it and needed help to remain upright. Her attention, however, remain fixed on her mother, who was now coming toward them with her hands outstretched. Grey took one, Rose the other.

“I am so happy for both of you,” she announced with a sniff. “I admit, I thought this might happen. I have seen how the two of you look at each other.”

It occurred to Grey to point out that there was a difference between love and lust, but he wisely kept that opinion to himself. Then, he remembered that Charles Danvers had never even looked at another woman let alone broken his wedding vows by sharing another’s bed. Perhaps Camilla understood something he did not.

Rose and her mother embraced. Grey didn’t listen to what they said, but it was something that made tears run freely for both of them. As the two women held each other, Camilla looked up and locked her gaze with his. She looked genuinely happy.

Grey inclined his head, returning her smile with a faint one of his own. Perhaps for some, love and lust went hand in hand.

What a thoroughly charming, if naïve, idea.