Chapter 6
Everett was going to pitch the Duke of Kingham out a window head over arse before this damnable house party was done.
He had reached the conclusion earlier that morning, at the exact moment he’d watched his sometime friend escorting his wife out of the salon as if Kingham were a knight rescuing a damsel from a malicious woman-eating dragon.
And he had never been more persuaded of the veracity than now, as Kingham trounced him at billiards and made an unexpected pronouncement that was equally—if not more—maddening.
“You know, I like your wife, Riverdale.”
His eyes narrowed. They were alone, the two of them the only souls playing at billiards at this odd hour of the afternoon when most of the houseguests were busy dressing for dinner.
Everett was surprised his friend wasn’t yet attending to his own preparations, given Kingham’s customarily extravagant evening attire.
“How nice for you,” he said. “I don’t.”
Kingham settled the end of his cue on the carpets and eyed Everett curiously. “Whyever not? Clearly, you held her in high enough esteem to marry her.”
Everett gripped his own cue so hard he feared it might snap in two. “Because I was an addlepated fool. She cozened me into thinking she would make me just the sort of duchess I wanted.”
“I wasn’t aware you wanted a duchess. How intriguing this all is.” Kingham stroked his jaw. “Tell me, what manner of paragon were you hoping to find in your duchess?”
“One who was quiet and biddable and lovely, who would stay in the country where she belongs and keep her nose out of my affairs.”
Kingham chuckled. “I do believe you’ve just described an inanimate object instead of a wife, old chum.”
Everett bristled. “No, I haven’t, you horse’s arse.”
“Now I’m the horse’s arse, when you are the one among us who has an estranged wife he expected to molder at his country estate with his progeny?”
“It’s the way of things in our world,” he defended himself needlessly, for Kingham already knew that.
The bastard was likely nettling him for sport.
“You might have settled upon an antiquity instead,” Kingham continued as he meticulously began restoring the balls on the baize for another round of billiards. “A beautiful Roman vase to place upon your mantel.”
Everett scoffed. “A bloody vase couldn’t bear my heirs. And Christ knows how many sermons my mother has delivered to me on the subject of seeing that the line doesn’t die with me.”
So many he’d long since lost count. Which was why a chance encounter on the Marquess of Eastlake’s estate had seemed fortuitous.
He’d been on a ride when he’d happened upon a gorgeous horsewoman whose mare had gone lame.
The woman had been Sybil, and he’d been stupidly charmed.
He had taken her and her mount to his own stables.
The horse had suffered a sprain; Everett had squired Sybil home to Eastlake Hall.
He’d opened another sternly worded letter from Maman shortly thereafter, and his solution had seemed obvious.
“You might have taken a mistress instead, then,” Kingham suggested, cutting through Everett’s memories.
That decided it. The bastard was absolutely vexing him intentionally.
“That wouldn’t have worked,” he said, annoyed. “You know as well as I that the title and estates can only be passed to a legitimate heir.”
King shrugged. “You could have married the mistress. The offspring would have thus been legitimate. Your wife would have already been familiar with your expectations. Everyone would have been happy.”
Everett gripped his cue even harder. “I fail to see the wisdom in your suggestion. I married a woman to provide an heir and a spare. She knew my expectations and defied them. If she is unhappy with the result of her treachery, she need only look at her reflection to find the source of her discontent.”
Kingham raised an imperious brow, looking bored as he completed his task. “What was her treachery, by the way? You never mentioned.”
Everett heaved out a tired sigh. “She has a lover. Or rather, she had a lover.”
“That little lamb? Forgive me, but she looks as virtuous as the fairer sex comes. And besides, you’ve had her buried in the country. How would you know what she’s been about in your absence?”
“I witnessed her perfidy with my own eyes. I saw them together just after the wedding breakfast. She was in his arms.”
“You had a wedding breakfast without me?” King pressed a hand over his heart. “I’m wounded.”
“The whole affair was done rather quickly. I didn’t see reason to wait. Her family attended, and that was all.”
“Not your mother?”
He winced. “Maman would have turned it into something incredibly tedious and unmanageable. You know how she is. It’s why you almost never accept any of her dinner invitations.”
His mother was as demanding as an army general on a field of battle.
“You’ve been ignoring her this long,” Kingham pointed out shrewdly, not arguing Everett’s point about his ignoring Maman’s invitations. “What changed?”
Everett didn’t like his friend’s pointed questions. They made him think about things he’d prefer not to consider at all. Heat was crawling up his neck. He slid a finger under his necktie, attempting to loosen it.
“Nothing changed, aside from my mounting irritation with my mother at being harassed about taking a wife,” he growled.
Which wasn’t entirely the truth. Yes, Maman’s letter had spurred the rogue thought in his mind.
He’d already been attending to estate matters at Riverdale Abbey.
Courting and hastily wedding Sybil had seemed a providential solution.
But it had also been the woman herself who had prompted him to make such a reckless decision, one so wholly unlike himself.
He had been vehemently opposed to the parson’s mousetrap for years before that. Ever since Lydia.
“If you say so, old chap,” Kingham offered lightly, his tone making it more than apparent he wasn’t any more persuaded by Everett’s prevarications than he was himself. “What say you to another game?”
“Don’t you have to spend the next three hours dressing for dinner?” he asked his friend, an edge to his voice that wouldn’t be softened.
“Dressing can wait. For the moment, I’d dearly love to trounce you again.”
He glared at Kingham. “It’s entirely possible I am the one who shall trounce you, you know.”
Kingham’s lips twitched in amusement. “Ah, but we both know you won’t.”
“Challenge accepted,” he said grimly. “But don’t weep and gnash your teeth when you’re pummeled by my superior skill.”
Kingham grinned. “Carry on, old chap. I cannot wait to prove you wrong. Take the first turn.”
Everett took his time lining up his cue for the initial play.
“Who do you reckon he was?” his friend asked just as Everett hit the ball.
His shot went wide, and he cursed, pinning King with a glare. “Who do I reckon who was?”
“Her lover. Do you know him?”
“No. He was a footman at Eastlake Hall. Still is, likely. I prefer not to speak of that particular ignominy, if you don’t mind.”
Nor did Everett like to think about the bastard or relive that day in any way. Seeing her with him, watching Sybil embrace him, had been a blow for which he hadn’t been prepared. The footman’s hold had been familiar. It hadn’t been the first.
“Then why do you presume he was her lover?” King asked, taking his turn and aiming with the same easy elegance he performed every task, no matter how small.
“She was embracing him, and she bloody well told him she loved him.”
“Did you confront her?”
“No,” he admitted, frowning. “Why should I have done? She only would have lied.”
“Perhaps.”
“Whose bloody friend are you?” he grumbled.
Kingham gave him a pointed look. “Yours, old chap. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Don’t trouble yourself with my problems,” he said coolly. “I can manage my wife.”
But as he lined up his cue for his next shot, Everett couldn’t deny that his assertion felt like an abysmal lie all its own. Because his Sybil was headstrong and stubborn, bold and demanding. She had a mind all her own, and she wasn’t afraid to seize what she wanted and make it hers.
Including him.
Curse it, he never should have married the woman.
She never should have been foolish and na?ve enough to accept the Duke of Riverdale’s proposal of marriage, Sybil thought grimly as she awaited her husband’s visitation that evening.
She was wearing another night rail and dressing gown.
Her hair was still plaited into a Grecian braid that had been part of her coiffure earlier.
And she was every bit as nervous this evening preparing to receive him as she’d been the night before.
This bargain of theirs was a mistake. How could she possibly carry on, sharing her body and bed with him, night after night, when it was more than apparent he held her in such low regard? When he considered her nothing more than a duty?
Escape, she reminded herself firmly.
It had been one of the tantalizing reasons she had wed Riverdale in the first place.
She’d wanted to flee her father’s rule. To have a household of her own.
And yes, to have children as well. A family to love.
Babes to hold in her arms, to cherish and raise whilst Mother was still well enough to fawn over her grandchildren.
Simple desires, none of which should have landed her in such unhappiness.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again and studying her reflection, reminding herself of why she was standing here.
All the reasons that didn’t involve her foolish feelings for him, that was.
He had made a mockery of those when he had coldly left her on their wedding day.
She would guard her heart accordingly. There would be no chance for the Duke of Riverdale to hurt her again.
Finally, a knock came.
Although she expected it, Sybil jolted nonetheless, her heart galloping into a rapid pace. He had come.
“Enter,” she called.