Chapter 11 #3
It most certainly was. Last night, he’d been so horrified at being likened to her brother, Argyll dismissed the most pertinent part—who’d been those other fellows his wife saw in the buff.
“They are…they are…”
“Your friends?”
“Reformed. They are reformed, Daria.”
“Eventually. They didn’t begin that way.”
Argyll stiffened.
Oh, hell. His bold bride hit her first misstep.
The big brother not only parried, he thrust. “Do you intend to reform Argyll?”
There it was. St. John knew the answer to the question he’d asked. A debauched chap like Argyll couldn’t be…
He cringed. Hell, he couldn’t even say the word reformed.
Argyll’s nape tingled with the sea of stares all the Kearsleys put his way.
He knew better than to look.
“Did he seduce you?” St. John asked bluntly.
Big brother finally asked the correct question.
Argyll hadn’t, but he damned well should have. It was an unforgiveable oversight he’d correct tonight. And one he greatly looked forward to.
His skin prickled and he looked to the source. Four lethal pairs of eyes were locked on him.
“No!” he mouthed, emphatically.
“No,” Daria’s answering echo leant Argyll much-needed support.
“See,” he said soundlessly.
One of the two sisters-in-law, whose names he didn’t know, speared him clean through with a look to kill. “Why?”
Only these bizarre Kearsleys would be enraged rather than relieved by that assurance.
One of the young women, still a stranger to him, spoke with warning and suspicion. “If you are besotted enough to marry Daria without any of her family knowing her intentions, then why were you not overcome with passion?”
His neck went hot. “I…” Have no words. Not a single one.
Argyll leaned towards the girl who’d quit the keyhole. “Uh…whom do I have the pleasure in meeting?” he asked, searching for time. A diversion. Anything.
“Your sister-in-law, Cora Kearsley.” Her slightly bent nose, from what appeared to be a fracture, wrinkled. “Who, by your query, you know nothing of. And that is Brenna.” She pointed at another Kearsley, who lifted a little wave. “And—”
Little Eris and Little Great Bard spoke at the same time.
“We’ve met,” Eris said.
“I do desire we may be better strangers.”
Yes, me too, Miss Kearsley. Me too.
Cora the Ceaseless didn’t let up. “According to Erasmus Darwin, sexual desire is a natural part of human nature.”
A cough tore from him. “Who?”
Shades of disgust, disappointment, and disdain crossed all their familiar features.
“Darwin?” Miss Cora Kearsley let out a long, disapproving sigh. “The scientist. He tells us reproductive nature is driven by primal instincts. Not shame. Nor moral constraints. As such, if you desire Daria so deeply, you would not be able to contain yourself.”
“Ladies!” he snapped erect. “Might I remind you there is a child present.”
Their queer quartet looked about.
Oh, hell.
“Eris,” he said tersely. “I’m talking about Eris.”
He’d made a grave mistake. A very, very, very grave one.
“You’re calling me a child, Argyll?” Eris’s skewered him alive with fiery eyes. “Only one of us doesn’t know Erasmus Darwin and it isn’t me.”
Argyll blinked slowly. The Kearsley girls collectively knocked down a solid pride and confidence he’d been born and blessed with.
Brenna chimed in, “I know!”
Fortunately, the chit kept focus off Argyll. He owed her a bloody fortune.
“Perhaps, Cora, it is because he loves her too much to have taken her virtue,” the young lady concluded.
Argyll slumped all the way down in his chair. By God, in what universe had he landed where young, virtuous ladies: one, spoke freely about their fellow virginal sister being despoiled, and two, took offense at Argyll’s failure to do so?
Christ. Make it stop. Make them stop and I’ll reform. I will.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Cora protested.
None of them did.
“How selfish soever man may be supposed,” Brenna said, “there are evidently some principles in his nature which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing from it except the pleasure of seeing it.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Eris looked between her sisters.
“I means that despite men being selfish, they possess some sympathy and care about others,” Cora explained. “Brenna suggests the duke can desire Daria, but his regard for her allowed him to wait for their wedding night.”
His ears burned.
“An Adam Smith-quoting sister to go with Shakespeare.” Argyll drove the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Do we have any others? Any Greek or Roman philosopher quoting ones? Hmm?”
Eris shot a palm up.
Argyll stared blankly at the girl.
Frantic, she shook her fingers at him.
He glanced around at her other sisters, who’d all gone back to attending Lord St. John’s door.
With the arm draped along the bench rail, Argyll pointed a finger Eris’s way. “You.”
The girl drew herself up to her full height, puffed her chest out, and took a deep breath.
“You nobles, you sons of my leading men, soft and dandified, trusting in your birth and your wealth, paying no attention to my command and your advancement, you neglected the pursuit of learning and indulged yourselves in the sport of pleasure and idleness.”
The girl looked quite gratified with her performance.
He sighed. “Charlemagne. Of course.” They’d been missing a good ole military general amongst their repertoire.
Cora Kearsley glanced their way. “He knows Smith and Charlemagne.”
That brought all the Kearsleys’ attention back Argyll’s way. A murmur rolled around the quartet.
“He cannot be all bad,” Bluestocking Brenna concluded.
Oh, no. Argyll really was that bad. Worse.
“No, Daria. I have heard you. Now it is your turn to hear me.” Floorboards shifted, indicating the viscount likely moved nearer his sister. “You have always been different than all of us. Darker. More somber.”
Argyll’s frown deepened. They were all the same thoughts he’d himself had about his bride, but hell, St. John speaking in that condescending way about the lady sent his teeth grating.
“You are different…”
Enough with the “different” nonsense, St. John. Or I’ll stuff your teeth down your bloody throat.
He breathed in slow through his nose.
His new bride must have sensed Argyll’s fast-eroding patience.
“Would you please say whatever it is you intend to say, Clayton?”
“A polished rake like Argyll won’t understand your oddness. He’ll tire of…whatever game he’s playing with you. He’ll send you away.”
A red haze blanketed his vision.
He dimly registered the sharp bite of his nails against his palm.
“I love you too much to allow your marriage to that blackguard to stand.”
St. John spoke over his sister’s sputtering.
“Given the union has not been consummated, I will see it annulled. It will be handled with discretion, but marriage to him? It is out of the question.”
Something snapped tight in his chest. Have the marriage annulled? Like hell he would. Argyll was on his feet before he knew he’d moved.
“Are you going to fight for her?”
Ignoring Little Eris’s question, Argyll moved past the gaggle of sisters and grabbed the door handle.
His molars set, and a sharp pain radiated along his clenched jaw.
He’d show them a bloody fight.