Chapter 23
Dace saw Saint Sirin raise his head from his music with a mocking expression on his face. The duke’s voice purred in that annoying way he had, “Is your wife of a musical bent?” The violin he held gave a light trill. “Can she sing?”
That damned drooping eyelid irritated Dace. He knew when it was done for effect and when it was real from fatigue. Now was not the time to try it on him.
Dace gave him the Felmont stare. “Sing? What has that to do with anything? I should have let Angel have you. Damned French are a menace to society.”
The duke gave a disdainful sniff as he returned to his perusal of the sheet music. “I’d be honored if you’d join my party. Sarah has missed you. Perhaps I shall permit her to visit you.”
“She is my daughter. Hellfire! She is not yours!”
The drawing room resounded with a scale of high notes as Saint Sirin ignored him.
The duke stopped playing to tune his violin. “More mine than yours at the moment. If you think I’ll let her go to be brought up by—” His words stopped abruptly, wary of a challenge. “Do you know what it is to be an outsider? To have the wrong accent in this country? It is very hard, my friend.”
“The Priory is a good family home, Sirrie. My family shall live there. Don’t worry about Sarah talking like Ma or any of the Thwaites. With the proper governess there will be no question about Sarah’s accent.”
The duke sneered, “You’d live at Felmont’s Folly with your wife and deprive your children of the same.”
“The Folly is a cold place. Even full of guests, it echoes. I have never liked it.” Dace pulled a chair to sit opposite Saint Sirin. “Your children are not here. You spend months away from them.”
“There you are wrong, I visit them often.” The duke played a melody with a master’s touch.
“But they do not live with you.”
“They live at my most luxurious residence. They will not grow up to say I did not think them good enough to live with me. Dace, our daughter is a bastard. There can be no denying that fact. It will taint her life. Even if you love her and you want her to live in the house you grew up in, others will whisper in her ear that she was not good enough to live at Felmont’s Folly.”
“Then Lizzie must live at the Priory with us. Except I have promised she may live at the Folly, in the house she loves.” What a depressing thought, Lizzie wandering around her house, caught in her world of stone.
“She is your wife. I do not advise you to beat her, but rule her or your life will be a misery. A man must be master in his house. Women are unhappy and deceitful when left to their own devices.”
“So glad you are not married, Saint Sirin. Kindly refrain from insulting Lady Felmont.”
“Do you deny she is unhappy?”
“Not all the time.”
“It is only a matter of time before you wear horns, my friend. Some man will triumph and make her smile, where you fail. How your lady will enjoy your humiliation!”
“Had a happy marriage, did you?”
“You may bring your wife to Quorr House, let music soothe her. You’ll have to share. May be able to squeeze two beds into one room, I certainly can’t manage two rooms.”
“One bed. We only need one bed,” Dace said quickly.
“What little pleases you,” remarked the duke. “If you are sure Anston is on the road to recovery, you may come to Quorr House. I go there tomorrow to welcome my guests.”
“I do thank you sincerely for your help with Anston. Rax could not have handled him. I know how difficult he can be. He is the nearest thing to a brother I will ever have.”
“My pleasure,” murmured the duke. “What are neighbors for? By the way, I always thought that way about you. Must be the nose. I can’t think how it got onto my face.” He gave a smile. “I suppose we are all related, somehow?”
Lizzie Tempest Ruins A Viscount (Felmont Brides Series Book 1) Page 35
