A Duchess Worth Claiming (Saved by Scandal #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Adare?” Lady Hazel Thorne repeated, already feeling that nauseating sensation in the pit of her stomach.

Her longtime friend Cordelia Abernathy, the Duchess of Galleon, clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels with an expression far too delighted for the gravity of the moment.

“Indeed. I heard it myself. A group of girls, quite excitable creatures, were boasting that one of them would sneak into the Duke of Callbury’s chambers this very afternoon and steal a trinket. For bragging rights, you know.”

Hazel did not blink. “And you waited until now to tell me this?”

“Well,” Cordelia pointed out brightly, “I wanted to verify the rumor before alarming you. But now I am confident it is an absolutely scandalous idea, and you adore preventing scandal, so here we are.”

Hazel tore her gaze from her friend and surveyed the crowded drawing room of Lady Winfield’s house party with the calculation of an army general.

If asked, gentlemen would say that she was a beautiful young lady, with an appearance that was one of quiet distinction rather than striking beauty.

Her hair was a warm, reddish-brown, and it caught the light with coppery glints when she moved.

But she rarely had any time to glance at the looking glass and consider her own appearance. Her sisters always made sure of that. It was her job to look after them, because she had always done so. It was as simple as that.

And now, she watched the sunlight gleam over satin gowns, powdered shoulders, and half-concealed giggles. She looked once, then twice. The third surveywas much slower, and it made her stomach drop.

“Where,” Hazel whispered, “are my sisters?”

Cordelia winced. “Surely they are in the garden. Or the music room. Or… well, somewhere perfectly respectable.”

“They are not here,” Hazel said, while her amber eyes narrowed in a way that made debutantes scatter. Her freckles stood out sharply as her complexion paled. “Cordelia, listen to me. When I say my sisters are nowhere to be seen, I promise you they are somewhere they ought not be.”

Cordelia tried for optimism. “Chastity and Patience cannot possibly be involved in such mischief.”

Hazel inhaled through her small, turned-up nose. “Cordelia, allow me to refresh your memory.”

She lifted a finger.

“Last month, Chastity thought it thrilling to climb onto the roof of Belvington Manor in order to rescue a stray cat. I found her dangling from a gutter that nearly came off in her hand.”

Cordelia bit her lip to hide her smile. Hazel raised a second finger.

“The week before that, Patience attempted to teach herself fencing using kitchen knives. When I walked in, the cook was having a fit, and Patience had sliced clean through the hem of her own gown.”

Cordelia choked on a laugh. Hazel raised a third finger.

“And do not forget,” she said tightly, “the incident with the carriage wheel. Chastity swore she could repair it herself. Instead, she rolled down the drive with it, shrieking like a banshee, until she crashed into the garden wall.”

Cordelia was now openly giggling, with her entire slender frame shaking. “Oh Hazel, forgive me, but truly, sometimes I forget how marvelous your sisters are.”

“They are hazardous, is what they are,” Hazel snapped. Her hands curled at her sides, small and capable. “And if they believe sneaking into a duke’s bedchamber is part of some harmless girls’ game, they will do it without hesitation. And likely take the most foolish route possible to get there.”

Cordelia wiped her eyes. “Well… the Duke of Callbury is out riding. That gives them a narrow window, does it not?”

Hazel stared at her. “Cordelia.”

“Yes?”

“Does the Duke of Callbury strike you as a man who would respond kindly to strangers rifling through his personal belongings?”

Cordelia paused. “Now that you mention it… no.”

“No,” Hazel said grimly. “He would not. He is cold, severe, and far too dignified to appreciate adolescent nonsense. If my sisters set foot in his chambers, they would not only disgrace themselves but possibly terrify themselves into fainting. And then, naturally, I shall be the one to carry them out.”

Cordelia placed a sympathetic hand on Hazel’s arm. “What is your plan of attack then?”

Hazel squared her shoulders with the air of a general marching into battle. “I shall find them. And I shall do so before they ruin their reputations, the Duke’s temper, or this entire house party.”

Cordelia beamed. “Excellent! I love a good adventure.”

Hazel gave her a flat look. “This is not an adventure.”

“Of course it is,” Cordelia insisted, already turning toward the hall. “All scandals are, that is, until they become disasters. Then they are memorable adventures.”

Hazel groaned softly at that. She had had more than her fair share of those, and she was not looking for more. But she lifted her skirts and followed, because Cordelia was right about one thing. This was absolutely the beginning of a disaster.

After about fifteen minutes, Hazel’s mind sharpened with dreadful clarity. Of course, her sisters were not among the guests. They would have heard a whisper of this absurd dare and run toward it with the enthusiasm other girls reserved for lemonade.

She turned to Cordelia. “I must check the Duke’s bedchamber.”

Cordelia’s eyes widened. “Oh, that sounds wonderfully dangerous.”

“It is not supposed to be wonderful,” Hazel hissed. “It is supposed to be mortifying. And I will not have Chastity and Patience ruining themselves over some childish challenge.”

Cordelia nodded, though mischief still sparkled in her eyes. “Very well. What shall I do?”

“You,” Hazel said, pointing firmly, “will stay here. If you see either of my sisters, do not let them go anywhere. Keep them contained.”

Cordelia pressed a hand to her heart, as if touched. “Hazel, dearest, no one in England can contain your sisters but you.”

Hazel paused. “I hate how correct that is.”

Cordelia grinned. “Go. I will perform reconnaissance from this location. Quite heroically, I might add.”

Hazel gave her a narrowed stare that implied Cordelia was being ridiculous, but that ridiculousness was, unfortunately, appreciated. Then she lifted her skirts just enough to walk briskly and slipped out of the drawing room.

The corridors of Lady Winfield’s home were quiet as Hazel moved with determined purpose. It was humiliating. No, it was infuriating to sneak through another woman’s house like some lurking thief simply because her sisters might be behaving like fools.

I ought to be in the drawing room, she thought bitterly. Drinking tea. Having a pleasant, respectable afternoon. Instead, I am hunting my sisters through a stranger’s home like a governess chasing escaped children.

She turned the corner toward the west wing, toward the Duke of Callbury’s assigned chambers, and her jaw clenched.

Greyson Thornhill, the Duke of Callbury.

He was a man whose stare alone could freeze a ballroom into silence. If he returned to find a pair of meddling debutantes rummaging through his possessions… Hazel felt a full-body shudder. Her sisters would not recover from such a humiliation. Nor would she.

She reached the hallway outside his chambers and heard footsteps. Hazel froze. A pair of servants approached, speaking in hushed tones. They were far too close, and she had nowhere to go except… the curtain.

She darted behind it with a speed that surprised even herself, while holding her breath painfully tight. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender and dust, and she pressed as flat as possible against the wall. The servants stopped right in front of her.

“If His Grace returns early,” one said, “the fire is lit. He likes the room warm.”

“Aye,” replied the other. “Cold as he is, one wouldn’t expect it.”

Hazel nearly snorted. Yes, what a revelation, but she swallowed it.

The servants finally moved on, their voices fading down the corridor. Hazel waited another moment before exhaling, then she lifted the curtain edge. The hallway was empty. She stepped out, feeling her cheeks burning.

This absurdity was precisely what she had spent her entire life doing: covering for others, protecting them, cleaning up their chaos. And here she was, twenty-eight years old, hiding behind curtains, skulking about like a criminal, simply to keep her sisters from ruining themselves.

She straightened her spine. Her fists tightened at her sides.

“When I find them,” she muttered under her breath, “I will wring their pretty little necks.”

Hazel turned the handle as quietly as possible and eased open the Duke’s bedchamber door. The room was elegant and dark, heavy with masculine lines and rich wood. A fire crackled low in the grate. And in the middle of this entirely inappropriate setting stood her two sisters.

“Chastity! Patience!” she hissed.

Her sisters jerked so violently that the object between them, which was a small silver letter opener, slipped from Patience’s fingers. It clattered against the edge of the writing desk, wobbled, and nearly slid to the floor. Both girls lunged for it at once, colliding with each other instead.

Hazel’s gasp was sharp enough to slice through the room. “Do not let that fall!”

Chastity managed to catch it by the tip, grinning triumphantly as she straightened. “Look, Patience, see? Not even a scratch!”

Patience giggled in relief. “Oh Hazel, you frightened us!”

Hazel’s voice dropped to the tone that had stopped many a Thorne misadventure. “I frightened you?”

The girls exchanged wary glances.

Chastity attempted a smile. “Well… you did appear rather suddenly.”

Hazel closed the door behind her. “You two are in the Duke of Callbury’s private bedchamber, without permission. Trespassing. And you are laughing.”

Patience’s smile faltered. “We were only—”

“No.” Hazel lifted a hand. “Enough. I have had quite enough.”

Both sisters fell silent.

Hazel stepped forward with her amber eyes blazing with all the quiet fury she had pushed down for years.

“I do not understand,” she said tightly, “why the two of you seem determined to destroy your reputations. You are clever. You are lovely. You are young ladies of good family. And yet every time I blink, you are dangling from roofs, wielding knives, rolling down driveways, or sneaking into a duke’s private rooms like common miscreants. ”

Chastity bit her lip. Patience stared at her shoes.

Hazel’s voice softened, but only slightly. “Do you have any idea of the anxiety you cause me? Of how exhausting it is to live in constant fear that one of your escapades will finally go too far?”

“We only wanted to have fun.” Patience murmured.

Chastity nodded, shifting from foot to foot. “All the girls were doing it. It was meant to be harmless.”

“Harmless?” Hazel echoed incredulously. “There is nothing harmless about being found rummaging through the possessions of a duke! Especially this duke! You could have been discovered by a servant. Or worse, by him! And once a whisper begins, you cannot take it back.”

The girls winced.

Hazel pressed a hand to her forehead. Now, her voice was cracking under the strain she so rarely showed. “I cannot keep chasing you like this. I cannot spend every moment wondering what new disaster you are plotting. I love you, but I cannot do this alone anymore.”

Chastity’s eyes softened with guilt. “Hazel…”

Patience stepped closer. “We’re sorry.”

“We truly are,” Chastity added quickly. “We did not mean to frighten you. We just… wanted to feel exciting, like the other girls.”

Patience nodded. “We promise we will do better.”

Hazel let out a long breath, weary down to her bones. For once, their apology sounded sincere. She searched their faces, saw remorse there, and a great deal of childish fear.

She turned to her sisters. “Listen to me very carefully. You will return to the party at once. You will do so quietly, as though you have done nothing at all. Do you understand?”

Both of them nodded at the same time. They slipped out silently, and only after the door closed behind them did Hazel finally allow herself to close her eyes. Her pulse was still racing. Her temples ached. She pressed her palms against her cheeks and inhaled slowly.

They are safe. No one saw. No disaster today.

But the relief brought no comfort. She felt wrung out and drained, her spirit stretched thin from years of the same fight, shepherding and protecting. She longed, suddenly and fiercely, for silence, for a life that did not require her to hide behind curtains or scold girls who should know better.

She inhaled deeply, then headed for the door. There, she placed a hand on the handle, intending to slip out unnoticed, straighten her gown and join the party as though she had simply been freshening up.

She opened the door and then froze… for standing there in the doorway, blocking every possible escape, was Greyson Thornhill, the Duke of Callbury.