Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Duke Gregor
“I do not know what transpired. She seemed quite well…”
I have given the same explanation repeatedly, dozens of times until the words cease to hold meaning. My explanation is waved away as footmen help Lady Freya from the ball while her mother and father stand by watching as she is loaded into the carriage.
Lord Pembroke is beside them, looking mildly concerned. “I shall send for the physician if you believe—”
“She mentioned eating something that disagreed with her,” Lady Denham recalls. “Perhaps she should have stayed home, but we thought…”
Lord Pembroke nods somberly.
I gaze at the carriage as the Denham’s get inside, and there is nothing for me to do but watch as it pull away in a clatter of wheels and harness. There is nothing left for me to do but to inform the host’s steward that I too will take my leave. I return to Gilthorne Court, deep in thought.
It has been three days since the ball, and I have waited tensely for news of the engagement between Lady Freya and Lord Pembroke.
I have been pacing through the rooms in my new home, unable to turn my mind to anything else.
When I first came to dwell at Gilthorne Court, the grandeur quite took my breath away.
But the weight of my thoughts is such that I scarcely notice gleaming halls or sweeping staircases as I travel through the dozens of rooms now at my disposal.
“Can I be of some assistance, Your Grace?”
I shake my head at my valet, John. I have finally gotten used to his sudden, silent entrances. “There is nothing to be done for this sickness that plagues me, John.”
For all I can think of is what room would suit Freya best, or how she will look descending the staircase. Or dancing in the ballroom. Whether my eyes fall upon a rug or a rosebush, my mind cannot help but wonder what she will think of it.
“Perhaps a drink, Your Grace?”
I hardly hear him. News of an engagement will come—if not a betrothal to Pembroke, some other lord. I must act quickly. “Summon the carriage, John. I think it is time to see about securing a lady for Gilthorne Court.”
If my valet is shocked by my announcement, he does an admirable job of concealing it. “Very good, Your Grace. I shall see to your finest garments being prepared.”
“There is no time.” For now that I have made up my mind to act, I must do so at once, lest I lose my chance.
“I will see to it at once.”
I am still getting used to having both those things—a valet, and many fine clothes to choose from.
“Does it meet with Your Grace’s approval?” John asks in his dry tone once I am dressed.
“Yes,” I say as I examine myself in the tall mirror.
I am not certain if the garments are the ones best suited to my purpose, but it does not signify.
The only opinion that concerns me is that of the Lady Freya.
And I have a niggling suspicion she will not care how I am dressed when she learns the cause of my visit.
I clench my jaw against such misgivings.
I cannot afford to give in to doubt—I have already examined the issue from every angle and thought through every possible contingency.
It is true my mission sets me ill at ease, but if I want Lady Freya to be mine—and I cannot possibly live with her wed to another—there is nothing for it.
My waistcoat is perfectly fitted to my frame, my cravat spotless and tied, my boots well-polished.
I have even managed to tame my wild mane.
There is no other detail to attend to, and yet, I linger, pretending to fuss over my appearance.
In truth, I am digging deep for the courage I need to pull this off.
I will make no friends with this move, and surely a handful of enemies, at the least.
I must have her, I tell my reflection and see the clench of my jaw in the mirror. I stand taller and square my shoulders. She will be mine.
As though John can sense the change in my mood, he says, “Shall I have the carriage brought around?”
“Yes. I shall need it.” I pick up my black top hat and set it upon my head. If this does not go well, His Highness shall never let me hear the end of it.
It is all I can do to maintain my composure as I wait for Lord Denham.
I was shown promptly into his drawing room, though it feels like it was an hour ago.
I silently curse myself for having left my pocket watch behind.
I am unaccustomed to my new position, and I fear it will show as plain as the freckles on my face.
What respectable Duke forgets his pocket watch?
I am certain I have memorized every detail of the drawing room, from the high ceiling, to the gilded gold molding that offsets the light blue paint of the interior.
A glittering crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and golden sconces are set against the wall.
The only art in the room is a portrait of the Lady Denham above a small wooden writing desk.
The archway is gilded, too—and empty. I curse myself as I look again, then force my eyes back down to the cream oriental rug with swirls of red and goldenrod.
The upholstered settee upon which I sit is comfortable enough, but the business I am about is a heavy stone in my stomach. The cause is not what I must do to have her—merely the uncertainty of how it will all unfold.
“My lord.”
I snap my head up, startled at the sudden sound, to find the Lord Denham here at last, with his head inclined.
His chestnut hair is exactly the color of Lady Freya’s, the only difference being a few shiny threads that weave through—silver against the dark.
But he is a most impressive man, his regal bearing making me feel quite the pretender as I stare back at him, my heart hammering a bit harder than before.
“Ah, forgive me—Your Grace.”
I rise to my feet and wave a hand to dismiss the apology. “No need to be so formal, my lord.”
“Please, do have a seat.”
“Thank you,” I say as I resume sitting on the edge of the settee.
I have spent an age wishing I might call him to the room by sheer force of will, but now that he is here, something has shifted in the air.
All tension and impatience have given way to doubt.
Until now I have felt so sure of myself, but as he sits in the armchair across from me, his face grave and commanding, I cannot deny the slightest flicker of uncertainty.
My arms feel stiff and awkward, and though I balance them on my knees, that feels all wrong. Ungentlemanly.
Get ahold of yourself, Greyonyx! Do what must be done!
“It is I who wishes to thank you, Your Grace.”
I blink in surprise, and stammer, “W-whatever for?”
“For your quick attention to my daughter. I am very indebted for your swift action on her behalf, Your Grace. Why, if you had not found her… I shudder to think of her falling ill on the balcony all alone.”
His obvious deep concern tells me that he is in earnest. What has she told him? Clearly not our conversation… he seems to be under the impression I merely happened upon her! Then again, I already know her to be a great keeper of secrets.
“I was already on the balcony when your daughter came outside,” I say. The sudden arching of his eyebrows—though he quickly composes his expression—confirms my suspicion. “Lady Freya and I had but exchanged a few pleasantries when she…”
“Ah, yes. As I said, I owe you my gratitude. If there is ever anything I can do to be of assistance…” He pauses meaningfully, and we have arrived at this moment far faster than I anticipated.
“As a matter of fact, my lord, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
Lord Denham sits back, his posture ramrod-straight. This is nothing but what he expected, it is plain.
I idly wonder what he thinks I, a newly appointed duke, will ask of him. Surely, whatever he imagines, it cannot come close to the truth.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
Forcing myself to exhale slowly, I set my plan in motion. It is a dangerous, reckless plan, I know that. Just as well as I know it is my only way to win what I covet most. “Your daughter is a lovely woman. If I can be so bold, I declare her the loveliest of the Beau Monde.”
“It has been said so,” he acknowledges, his eyes growing sharper on me.
Do not lose heart now, Greyonyx. Say what you came to say, and let Fortune work her will. “I would be most honored to have her as my wife.”
If my declaration comes as a surprise, it does not show on Lord Denham’s face.
I admire that—albeit, begrudgingly.
“Your Grace flatters me! While you do me a great honor, and indeed, bestow esteem upon our humble house, I fear I must decline your generous proposal. There is a prior understanding for my daughter’s hand. I do hope you understand we are bound to honor our obligation.”
My chest tightens. This has all unfolded exactly as I anticipated, but it is what I say next that quickens my heart. I clasp my hands and lean forward, forcing myself to maintain eye contact with the man whose house I hope to soon join.
“I understand. I know the Lord Pembroke is a man of excellent character and honor.”
I see the slightest wrinkle in the Earl’s brow, but he nods.
“I have no desire to cause discord between any of our houses, but I would be remiss, my lord, if I did not share… troubling news with you. With all respect, duty demands I inform you of news I myself just recently became aware of.”
There is a shrewdness in the older man’s eyes as he regards me, but he waves a hand. “If you must, then by all means, speak freely.”
My heart is pounding like a drum in the tight prison of my chest. I force myself to speak.
Ever since I decided on this course of action, I felt certain this moment would come.
I have rehearsed it a thousand times in my mind, and yet, there is no accounting for the way the air feels still—almost stifling.
I clench my fingers to stop from tugging at my cravat.
“It is a matter of… great consequence, I fear.”