Chapter Sixteen
When Wilfred opened his eyes, his lips were curled into a grin.
How could they not have been? Somehow, he had managed what he had considered to be impossible: he had forced Irene to declare that she loved him.
Well. ‘Forced’ was a strong word.
“Don’t call me ‘Reeny.’ And I am in love with you, too.”
She loved him. She loves me.
Wilfred wriggled underneath the bedclothes with unbridled delight. Even just thinking those three words filled his heart with heat, a heat he had never known before.
And speaking of sensations he had never felt before…
Wilfred’s eyes widened as he sat up hurriedly and looked in the bed beside him. There was no one there.
Perhaps he should have expected the pained sense of emptiness that the sight gave him. Irene had evidently slipped out in the middle of the night, undoubtedly to retreat to her own bedchamber.
No, not retreat. Wilfred felt as light as a feather as he settled back down in the welcoming bed against the soft mattress. She never had to retreat from him again—but they would have to pretend, at least to her family, that their love had not entirely been consummated.
Not that he could think of a way that their love could be consummated to a greater extent…
It was perhaps ten minutes later, or maybe an hour, when a clanging from a large clock interrupted Wilfred’s attempts to think of a way that their love could have been even more consummated.
That damned clock. It would keep going on and on.
And on. Wilfred groaned as he turned onto his side to look at the longcase clock. Why did it keep going on like that?
Because it was ten o’clock.
No. It couldn’t be.
Perhaps it could be. Wilfred’s feet winced away from the cold floorboards as he swiftly rose, pulling aside the curtains to reveal windowpanes seared with frost, but a frost melting against the brilliant Christmas Day sunshine.
Christmas Day. And it was near ten o’clock. Goodness, what must his hosts have been thinking!
“Arghh!” muttered Wilfred unhelpfully as he rushed to his trunk and stared at his clothes.
This was ridiculous. He was the Duke of Aynor. He was a grown man. He had a degree, and a fortune, and the love of a good woman, and he would be blowed if he was going to struggle to dress himself.
After all, he had taken the blessed things off himself at times before, hadn’t he? How hard would it be to put the blasted things on?
As it turned out, very hard. Giving his valet the week off had felt generous at the time, but now he couldn’t understand what he had been thinking.
Wilfred could not understand it, but there was clearly some sort of secret skill to understanding precisely how a cravat was supposed to be tied, and his waistcoat buttons appeared to dislike him.
It was all he could do to pull his boots on, then tug them off and put his slippers on, then agonize over what would be most appropriate as a guest, then put his boots on and then his slippers on—
“Aren’t you up yet?” called a very recognizable voice through the door. “Goodness, come on, you dunderhead!”
“I’ll be there in a moment, Michael!” Wilfred called out.
Michael. Irene’s brother—his future brother-in-law.
The thought was an unbalancing one. As soon as Wilfred had thought it, he tipped over from attempting to put a slipper on one foot and tug a boot off the other. The resounding thump would surely be heard downstairs and the whole Chance family would think him a—
But no.
Wilfred hummed as he settled himself on the side of the bed, inhaled deeply, and put his slippers on. The Chance family had never thought him a fool, even when—especially when—he had been one. They had always trusted him, always known him to be a good man.
There was no reason to suppose that they would take against him, now that he wanted to be one of their number forever.
Fears settled, slippers on, waistcoat buttons rebuttoned the moment Wilfred had realized that he had missed one, he opened the door and froze at the landing.
No one was there. Evidently, the family must have been downstairs—perhaps had even breakfasted.
Wilfred tried not to puff out his chest as he slowly descended the wide, sweeping staircase, but it was a challenge.
He was engaged to be married to Miss Irene Chance.
At least, as good as engaged. Within moments, the whole thing would be announced to her family and there would be champagne and congratulations—
“Do you mean to tell me that Aynor never told you?” came Michael’s voice through the drawing room door.
It was ajar. As Wilfred crept up to it, thanking his good fortune that he had plumped for the slippers and not the boots, he could continue to hear the conversation.
The conversation, he swiftly realized, that was clearly about his affections for Irene. What else could it have been about?
“He never told me. Not a word.”
Wilfred blinked. Irene’s voice was a mite… Well, dare he think it, a mite upset. It was only natural, he supposed. It had been a rather large secret to keep for such a long time.
“And to think, we thought we knew him!” That was the viscountess’s voice.
Strange. She sounded offended.
Wilfred swallowed. Ah. Yes, perhaps he should have spoken to Irene’s parents before giving way to his feelings. It was only right and natural that her mother and father be offended that he had not sought their permission first.
He leaned closer to the door, pulse thumping.
There was a corresponding thump inside the room, as though someone had…dropped a book?
“I would have thought the man would have had the decency to talk to me about it!”
Wilfred’s stomach dropped. That was the viscount—and there was a terseness to his tone he had never heard before. The man never angered…though Wilfred had never witnessed anyone disrespecting his daughters, as the man clearly thought had occurred.
Bother. Suddenly, staying for Christmas did not seem to be the cleverest thing he had ever done.
“I just don’t understand it,” came Theodora’s voice. “Wilfred?”
It was difficult not to be mortified by the sound of her voice. Wilfred was not a proud man—at least, he did not consider himself to be so—but surely, he was not that bad.
But what did not make sense, and what crinkled his brow, was Irene’s response. He had expected… Well, not perhaps a passionate defense, but some defense.
“What can I tell you?” she said, her voice listless as it crept through the ajar door. “I could never have believed it of him.”
Wilfred swallowed. She did not have to sound so…so despondent, did she? Was it possible—surely, it could not have been possible that she regretted what had happened last night?
Worse: she hadn’t told them, had she?
His worst fears appeared confirmed as Irene’s mother’s voice spoke again. “I know it is very disappointing, Irene, but you have to face it. It’s happened now, and it can’t be taken back.”
Can’t be taken back?
Wild thoughts whirled through Wilfred’s mind. What could he have possibly done to merit such a statement?
Had he not pleasured her sufficiently? It had always been his worry that he would not know how to—but then he had read that book, and it had been most informative, and she had sounded like…like…
Wilfred’s cheeks reddened as he stood alone in the hall. Irene had certainly sounded as though she had enjoyed herself. So why the despondency? Why tell her whole family?
“I suppose the whole of Society will know now,” came Michael’s voice, quiet and clearly upset.
Wilfred almost fell over. The whole—why on earth would anyone know? Dear God, this had gotten out of hand. Though he had plainly offended Irene in some way, he had hoped—presumed, perhaps—that if that were ever the case, she would come to him about it.
Not tell her whole family. Dear God.
Well, there was nothing for it. He could not hide out here any longer.
Inhaling deeply and wishing to goodness he wasn’t wearing his slippers, Wilfred opened the door and stepped in.
The entire Chance family froze.
The Viscountess Pernrith was standing by the blazing fire, a hand on the mantelpiece and distress in her eyes.
Her husband was seated in the armchair, presumably that morning’s newspaper dropped to the floor beside him and anger on his brows.
Michael appeared to have been pacing—that would explain the modulation of his voice—but had frozen with his hand protectively on the shoulder of Irene, who was not looking at him, while Theodora and Gwen were seated side by side on the sofa, both of them glaring.
Most surprisingly, they were not glaring at each other… but at him.
For some strange reason, Wilfred’s mouth was dry, and when he came to speak, it was in an odd sort of croak. “Good… Good morning.”
“Is it?” snapped Michael, charging toward him like a bull. “Is it, indeed?”
Wilfred did not flinch—the man did not scare him—but it was most unpleasant. “Yes,” he said firmly, his gaze shifting to Irene. “It is. The best sort of morning. A morning full of good news.”
He had hoped she would meet his eyes, smile nervously, perhaps even with a hint of embarrassment. After all, the whole family appeared to know what they had shared the previous evening.
That did not occur.
“Good news,” breathed Irene’s mother faintly.
“I cannot believe it,” Gwen muttered.
Michael, most inexplicably, curled his fist. “How dare you?”
“Look, the wedding will be as soon as I can possibly arrange it,” Wilfred said hastily, lifting up his hands in an attempt to calm the situation.
Honestly, did they really believe he would bed Irene and then not marry her?
Did they not know how he felt about her?
“I will be doing everything in my power to make the wedding as beautiful as—”
He wasn’t sure what he was going to say—he was hardly a wedding connoisseur—but that did not matter. The Viscountess Pernrith burst into tears, as did Theodora, and the two of them along with Gwen were swiftly and inexplicably marched out of the room by a stone-faced Michael.