The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

by Janna MacGregor

  Claire genuinely laughed, and Emma wrinkled her nose and smiled.

  “There’s no cause for worry, Paul,” Claire announced with a smile. “I’ve always wanted to thank you for breaking the engagement. I wouldn’t be happily married with three beautiful children of my own if you hadn’t.”

  Emma chortled. “And I thank you. If it wasn’t for your offer, I always wondered if Somerton’s argument to marry him would have been half as convincing.”

  He chanced a glance at Daphne. Her face had softened with an emotion he could only perceive as love for these two women. She would be a stalwart friend and companion for their entire lifetime. They were lucky to have her as family.

  The longcase clock against one wall announced the hour with a succession of low chimes. Waiting for each strike, he’d remember this moment forever suspended in time.

  The truth seized all thought and colored every perception he’d ever possessed.

  He wanted that emotion from Daphne. He wanted her company every day of his life.

  He wanted her love.

  With every second that passed, his feelings grew stronger. He loved her.

  Dredged from a place beyond all logic and reason, the admission startled him. Never before in his life had he felt such an emotion for a woman. Last night, he’d made the decision to marry Daphne. It was a matter of honor—a way to protect her.

  What a fool.

  Deep down, he’d wanted her as a wife because he loved her. Overwhelmed, he shook his head slightly and smiled.

  The admission made him more determined to make tonight a success when he asked for her hand in marriage and revealed his true feelings.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to put Laura Lena to bed before dinner,” Emma said. She gently rocked the baby in her arms and settled her friendly gaze on Paul. “I’m truly delighted you’re joining us tonight.”

  “I should leave, too, and see to Liam, my youngest.” Claire rested one hand on Paul’s arm. “I want to thank you for all you did for Daphne while we were out of town. You’re a true friend.”

  Emma nodded her agreement, then the two women took their leave. Any concern that things might be awkward with the Hallworth family faded somewhat after Claire and Emma had welcomed him with such warmth and genuine affection. But he still had to face Pembrooke and Somerton.

  “Shall we sit?” Daphne waved a hand at one of the sofas before them. “Mother and Renton will be down shortly. I’m not certain where Alex and Somerton are.”

  Stunning in a seafoam-green silk gown, she exuded confidence. It made her even more attractive. He allowed her to sit first, then moved beside her—close, but not too close, in case someone interrupted them.

  “Daphne, I’m not certain where to begin, but I must tell you—”

  Before he could utter another word of his declaration, two children peeked into the room. Spying Daphne, they raced to her, then bumbled to a stop. The eagerness on their faces gave them the appearance of little imps.

  “Aunt Daph, we want to meet your friend,” the little girl announced. Her gray eyes and black hair matched Daphne’s coloring.

  The other child, a handsome little boy with green eyes and the same black hair, studied Paul as if he were some slimy creature from a Scottish loch, then announced, “Papa says you’re here for Aunt Daph.”

  Daphne’s face softened as she regarded the two. She stood and Paul followed. “Let me make the proper introductions. Your Grace, may I introduce Michael Hallworth, the Earl of Truesdale, and his sister, Lady Margaret Hallworth.” The affection in Daphne’s voice was unmistakable. “Meet Lord and Lady Pembrooke’s oldest children.”

  Paul extended his hand to the little girl, who looked to be about four years old. “A pleasure, Lady Margaret.”

  Daphne leaned down. “Margaret, you should take his hand in yours and curtsy.”

  “I don’t want to.” With a scrunched-up face, she backed away and giggled. “He’s not my grace. He’s your grace, Aunt Daphne.”

  “No, dearest. It’s how you address a duke,” Daphne explained. “He’s the Duke of Southart, and proper manners require you address him as ‘Your Grace.’ Now turn to His Grace and give a proper curtsy like you’ve practiced.”

  Lady Margaret shook her head emphatically, causing a riot of black curls to bounce around her face. “I don’t want him. You can have him or give him to Truesdale.”

  “I don’t want him,” Lord Truesdale declared. “She gave him to you. He’s your grace.”

  Margaret looked at her brother with a seriousness that belied her age. “No, Aunt Daphne said he’s yours. Remember when she said ‘his grace’? That means he’s yours.”

  Truesdale looked up to Daphne for guidance. “I thought Grace was a girl’s name?”

  Before Daphne could answer, Margaret propped a hand on her hip. “Silly. Grace is what you say before you eat.” With a giggle, she turned her attention to Paul. “I have a cat named Minerva. She had kittens on my maman’s best ball gown. I brought one with me this evening. Would you like to meet her?”

  Daphne shook her head. “No, dearest. His Grace doesn’t want to see—”

  “Don’t take off your boots around Percival. He’ll chew through the toes,” Truesdale offered as he pointed to Paul’s immaculate black Hoby boots.

  Just like her father, Margaret furrowed her brow and nodded. “That’s my brother’s pug. He’s done it twice with our papa’s boots.”

  Holding his laughter, Paul looked at Daphne. “Do Pembrooke or Claire know they talk like this?”

  “Yes. They do this all the time, I’m afraid.” Grinning, she leaned close to Paul. “They just started deportment lessons with a new governess.”

  Daphne’s happiness made her features more animated. The sight made his smile broaden in answer. “What strange but charming little creatures you live with.”

  Daphne nodded. “Well, the children adore Percival and Minerva.”

  “You misunderstand me,” Paul whispered in return. “I’m referring to Lord Truesdale and Lady Margaret.”

  The shock in her eyes melted, and a laugh escaped that caused her gray eyes to sparkle. Another interruption kept her from answering.

  “There you are.” A nursemaid with a pleasant face entered the room, then dipped a curtsy Paul’s way. “Pardon me, my lady, the marquess asked that I inform you that he’ll be in shortly.” With a smile, she held out her two hands. “Come. I’ve a special treat for you both. I’ve some freshly baked biscuits in the nursery.”

  No sooner than the words were out, Margaret and Truesdale rushed to the nursemaid’s side. The trio walked out of the room with both the children talking over each other. The maid seemed to possess the unique talent of keeping track of each child’s conversation and responding when necessary.

  Still standing, Paul took Daphne’s hand. Before Pembrooke arrived, he had to tell her his true feelings. “I have something I must tell you.”

  “What is it?” Daphne placed her hand over his. “Is something amiss?”

  “Are we interrupting?” Before they could sit back down, Pembrooke’s unmistakable growl reverberated through the room—more like a warning than a polite question.

  “Your brother always did have the worst timing,” Paul whispered. He squeezed Daphne’s hand before gently letting it go. He turned his attention to Pembrooke and Somerton.

  Both men resembled large wolves ready to attack in tandem, and the menacing looks on their faces didn’t bode well for a warm welcome. Pembrooke reached them first. With a reluctant sigh, Daphne’s brother extended his hand in welcome. The shake was brief and perfunctory. Somerton followed suit with the same courtesy.

  Before anyone could utter a word, the Duke and Duchess of Renton entered, followed by Claire and Emma. Pembrooke and Somerton immediately stood guard over their wives but kept a wary eye on Paul.

  Depicting an ease he didn’t actually possess, Paul greeted everyone. Soon, the entire group entered the dining room en masse. Thankfully, P
aul sat next to the duchess at one end of the table. Daphne sat directly across from him. The duke sat at the other end with Alex on his left and Claire on his right. Emma sat to Paul’s left next to Alex, and Somerton sat directly across from his wife in between Daphne and Claire.

  On the surface, the dinner proceeded with joie de vivre like any other gathering of friends. The duchess, Emma, and Daphne were charming in their attentions to him. When Paul tried to draw Somerton into conversation, it was stilted and awkward. Several times, Alex tried to garner Daphne’s attentions, but she ignored him for the most part.

  Paul asked Alex about this year’s production of barley at Pemhill. Renowned for its excellent yields per acre, Pemhill was a model that other estates tried to mimic with little success. Paul explained he wanted to increase crop production at his ducal estate and would welcome any advice Alex might give.

  The marquess grunted some nonresponse about crop rotation.

  Daphne’s eyes grew wide, but she wisely said nothing. Paul didn’t want the affair to grow any more uncomfortable than it already was. Apparent to all, Claire’s pointed look pierced her husband’s gaze.

  Heaven help him, it was going to be a long evening.

  Thankfully, the rest of the meal passed without further rancor. Giving Paul confidence—and dare he say hope—that tomorrow he’d be announcing his betrothal to his beautiful Moonbeam to Devan and the staff at Southart Hall.

  Before the liveried footmen served dessert, the duke raised a glass of wine in hand. “Here’s to renewing friendships. I’d like to offer my sincere thanks to Southart for everything he’s done recently for our family and Daphne. When Charlotte first heard that Daphne was alone, she was heartsick. We rushed back to town, not knowing what to expect. Southart, upon our arrival in town, we learned of your generous care and concern for Daphne. Both Charlotte and I can never repay you for your kindness and regard.”

  Paul chanced a peek at the duchess. Gratitude lined her face. When Paul turned his attention to Daphne, everything within stilled. The flash of her eyes and the smile that tugged at her lips not only enhanced her beauty but also held him spellbound.

  The duke cleared his throat. “Please. Will everyone join me in honoring our guest? May the past ties that bind us continue to strengthen in friendship and love.”

  Soft feminine cries of “Hear, hear” and “huzzahs” sounded around the table.

  Everyone lifted their glasses—except Pembrooke and Somerton.

  An awkward silence fell across the room like an uninvited guest. Stunned at the obvious rebuke from his two former friends, Paul stared at the table, drawing strength to harden his gut for the blow that was inevitable. As the seconds passed, red-hot heat marched up his neck like a marauding band of Vikings. He’d made a fatal error in his campaign to win her hand. He shouldn’t have come tonight. Damage was clearly done, and he needed to exit quickly if he had a chance to salvage his offer for her, especially before tonight turned into a disaster that could never be rectified. If he stayed, words might be spoken that could never be taken back. He could easily see Pembrooke forbidding him from seeing Daphne again. It was too great of a risk.

  He took a deep breath, then forced his gaze to Daphne and mouthed the words, I apologize.

  He stood and faced the Duke of Renton. “I thank you for the kind words and your generous spirit.”

  No one breathed or moved. The women at the table had paled at the direct cut designed to unnerve him. If there had been any doubt about Somerton’s and Alex’s regard for him, their quiet disgust was clear to all—especially him.

  With as much dignity as he could summon, Paul sat back down at the table. “Perhaps it’s best if I leave.” He turned to the duchess. “Madam, your generosity on my behalf will be fondly remembered. Always.”

  The duchess placed her hand over his. “When I invited you to dinner, I expected my family to be civil.” She turned her gaze to Pembrooke. “I apologize for the obvious lack of manners possessed by some at my table.”

  Daphne turned in her chair and stared at her brother. “How could you?”

  “Daphne, now is not the time,” Pembrooke growled.

  “I agree. Now is not the time to act like an arrogant arse,” Daphne’s retort flew down the table.

  Pembrooke’s expression remained frozen. Claire leaned toward him and whispered something.

  “If Mother has invited an estranged friend, one who has been everything loyal and kind to a member of your family, manners dictate that a reconciliation should be forthcoming.” The ire in Daphne’s voice was obvious.

  “If Mother has invited a rogue to dinner, then we all should expect an uproar,” Alex murmured.

  “Enough, Pembrooke,” his mother said.

  “If Mother has invited a prig to dinner, then we should expect a sanctimonious spectacle,” Daphne answered. “All of us have just witnessed such a performance.”

  “Don’t, sweetheart,” her mother soothed.

  Daphne’s gaze flew to Paul’s. “I’ll not let him humiliate you anymore.”

  All Paul could manage was a nod. “I agree with your mother. My presence isn’t worth causing a breach with your brother. He’s concerned for your welfare.”

  How could he have foreseen the evening ending any other way? Pembrooke would never accept him as his friend. Stunned, without the ability to move, he let his mortification bleed into every inch of his body. Understanding gnawed at his insides like an incessant worm. He’d never be accepted as a suitable husband for Daphne no matter how noble his intentions or how much he loved her.

  His damaged past was too much to overcome.

  Further proof of how unworthy he was in the face of people who he’d once considered as dear as family—as dear as Robbie.

  Numb, Paul nodded his thanks to Renton and his duchess. He turned to Daphne and simply gazed at her. For as long as he lived, he’d never get his fill of her beauty and, more important, her courageous spirit and kindness.

  He didn’t care a whit if Pembrooke beat him to a bloody pulp, he’d tell her good-bye. “Thank you for everything, Moonbeam.” His whisper was low enough that only she and perhaps the duchess heard the words.

  Her eyes suddenly widened, and her pain transformed into glistening tears that caught the candlelight. The sight cut him deeper than a stab wound to the chest. With his heart torn from his chest and his pride left in tattered pieces, Paul left the room with as much grace as he possessed.

  Without a second glance, he entered the vestibule and asked a footman to retrieve his greatcoat and beaver hat. The servant nodded and hurried to a room adjacent to the entry.

  A small voice called, “Her Grace?”

  On the bottom steps of the grand marble staircase, Lady Margaret stood in her nightclothes with a small orange-striped kitten in her hands.

  “Good evening, Lady Margaret.” He closed the distance between them and crouched on his haunches. “What do you have there?”

  “This is Rufina.” Margaret studied him. “My brother and I are spending the night at Grand-maman’s house tonight. I snuck Rufina over in my coat.”

  He reached out and scratched the kitten’s head. A sound like the rumble of soft thunder burst from the creature.

  “Here,” Margaret declared. She held the kitten with both hands, letting her small legs dangle. “She’s purring. She likes you.”

  “You suppose?” Paul took the kitten and ran his fingers through the soft fur. The warmth of her body offered comfort, but he didn’t deserve it. His actions over the years had come home to roost like a murder of crows. How appropriate that the blackness of their feathers matched his thoughts.

  He tried to give the kitten back, but Margaret shook her head. “Her Grace—”

  “Sweetheart, it’s ‘His Grace.’” He smiled at the precious girl’s antics and continued to stroke the kitten. He’d steal all the comfort he could find.

  Margaret shook her head vehemently, causing another cascade of black curls to swirl about her s
houlders. “You’re wrong. You’re Aunt Daphne’s grace. Not Truesdale’s.” She wrinkled her perfect little nose. “You look like you need a friend, Her Grace.”

  “I do. Will you be my friend?”

  “Of course, silly.” With a winsome grin, she declared, “You need a friend to go home with you, Her Grace. Rufina needs you, too. Maman says we can’t have any more pets. I was going to give her to Grand-maman, but I changed my mind. Will you be her friend?”

  The earnest question flooded him with a yearning that perhaps could only be answered with the kitten’s company. Paul nodded. “That’s very generous, Margaret.”

  “I’ll come and see her,” she declared.

  “I’d like that,” he whispered. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his tight control. “Come and call on Rufina whenever you want.”

  “I must go back upstairs before I’m caught out of bed.” Margaret leaned close and kissed Rufina’s head, then without any hesitation kissed Paul’s cheek. Without a look back, she scampered upstairs and disappeared.

  With her sharp claws digging into his coat, the kitten crawled up his shoulder and settled next to his neck, her loud purr strangely comforting. Paul stood with the kitten nestled close when the footman returned with his belongings.

  At least the night hadn’t been a total waste. He’d made two new friends—Lady Margaret and Rufina.

  The truth did little to calm the bloody ache in his chest that grew in strength with his every breath. Marriage to him would be nothing but one long humiliation that Daphne would suffer with her family. Such a sacrifice would be too great for both of them. He couldn’t let her feel such pain. Thankfully, he hadn’t asked her to marry him.

  Though he’d lost the one woman he’d ever truly loved, he’d not fail her in securing her stolen journal. It was the only thing he could promise her.