Chapter 12
The door opened, not with a thunderous boom but a faint click.
Her heart pounding viciously against her chest, Daria whipped her attention to the front of the room.
On the cusp of breaking—overwhelmed, aggravated, hurting, and besieged by her brother’s attack—the volatile energy left her on a soft rush.
Gregory.
He filled the entrance with all the command of a man who owned the space.
But then whatever space he stepped into, be it ballrooms, terraces, or her brother’s own office, he did so with the ease of a king and the authority of a field master.
To be that confident in one’s skin. She equal parts marveled by such a wonder and envied him mightily that strength.
The sight of him, this man, a stranger, compelled a calm within Daria, one not even her own twin managed.
Her heart picked up a quickened rhythm in a beat driven not by fear or panic, but some other emotion Daria could not name.
Gregory flashed a smile. It was an affected one, as she’d identified and marked so many of his smiles.
Her brother remained stuck kneeling at her feet.
She’d venture thirty or forty years from now, when she was not even a memory he carried, and the Duke of Argyll was all white and finally allowing himself the use of a good pair of spectacles, he’d still strike a room silent with nothing more than that manufactured grin.
Gregory gave her brother a quick, cool once-over, then put the full force of his focus—and charm—on the rightful recipients.
“Lady St. John. Viscountess St. John, it is a pleasure and honor.” Gregory sketched a sweeping bow. “Please forgive my late appearance.”
Both women sank into the curtsy his rank merited.
Awkwardness hung over the exchange. Daria shifted on her feet. In fairness, most exchanges for Daria were uncomfortable, but this one was more than most.
Ever the regal hostess, the founder of London’s infamous Mismatch Society, Sylvia found her voice. “Your Grace, welcome to our…home and…” Alas, even regal hostesses faltered. “Family?” the question that crept into her voice cast serious doubt upon the family’s reception.
With a look of death in Clayton’s always calm gaze, he stood. “Do tell me, what prevented such a devoted husband from accompanying his young bride for such a meeting with her family? Hiding behind your wife?”
Daria scowled. “That is unf—” Her eyes landed on her husband, and she forgot her redress.
With his arms clasped loosely behind him and a tight smile on his lips, Gregory had his steel-hard, icy ducal focus on her brother.
The two men sized one another up. In sheer physicality, Clayton out-measured Daria’s husband by several stones and inches, but what Gregory lacked in size, he made up for—and then some—with a dangerous, disciplined grace.
“Your sister, my wife…” The noticeable emphasis he put on those two words brought Clayton’s eyes narrowing.
“Asked to speak alone with you. And as a gentleman, I honored her request.” Gregory scraped a punishing stare over the viscount.
“But let me be clear, St. John, if you disparage her so, if you call her different, as some equivocal praise or indiscriminate adulation, they will be the last words you speak to her or in front of her ever again.”
Like a trout out of water, Clayton’s mouth moved before he finally found his voice. “Daria is my sister! I love her as if she were of my own loins—”
“And as such, you will honor the lady with words befitting that devotion.” Gregory quirked an eyebrow. “Is that what you intend to say? No need, St. John. A mere affirmation that you’ve heard my warning and understand will suffice.”
All manner of people spoke ill of her. She’d grown accustomed to the stares and unkindness. Her brother had never been included amongst the ranks of the cruel. All the same, a traitorous warmth like liquid sunshine spread through Daria, and it appeared to be contagious.
Just beyond Gregory’s shoulder, her mother and Sylvia stared with softer, much less sad eyes at Daria’s new husband.
Ignoring Clayton’s mutterings, the dowager viscountess held her gloved hands out in an invitation. “Your Grace,” she greeted, half-way across the room, “it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” As soon as she’d realized what she said, distress flickered across her face.
Gregory collected her mother’s hand and bent as low as he would for the queen. “The pleasure is entirely mine, my lady.”
As pleasantries were exchanged, Clayton hung on the perimeter, seething and silent.
“Please, may I ring for refreshments.” Sylvia gestured to the sofa framed between the armchairs at the viscount’s desk.
“That won’t be necessary, as we must be leaving.” Gregory softened that rejection with a smile.
It didn’t help.
“N-Now?” Daria stammered.
It is moving too fast.
Her mother’s composure finally broke. “S-so soon?”
What did you expect?
Tears filled Sylvia’s eyes.
What, did you believe the Duke of Argyll would want to sit and become friendly with your big, noisy family?
Clayton slid his fingers into his wife’s. The love and support tendered struck a place in Daria’s heart. Somewhere near that, a spot that existed which keenly felt other people’s suffering and sorrow as if it were her own.
You are nothing to him…
Her fingers reflexively curled into fists and she scratched at the smooth surface of her palms.
And perhaps in some small, or maybe even large, part it was because this proved to be the moment when it hit Daria with all the weight of a runaway carriage—this was goodbye.
From his moment, she’d cease to share the walls, halls, and regular laughter and stories with these people.
The ones who loved her and knew her most… and best.
Gregory assessed her hurting family. “Unless my wife would prefer refreshments?” Inscrutable, he looked to Daria for confirmation.
Yes! I want us to stay. I want you to meet the rest of my sisters and…
She opened her mouth to tell him.
That isn’t the marriage you promised him, nor even expected for yourself.
Daria faltered.
No. But I wanted it… Not his love, but some camaraderie between him and her siblings.
Unfortunately, she’d only recognized that buried truth now.
Tears burned her throat.
A low growl reverberated around the room.
“What my sister would have liked is a proper wedding breakfast to go with a proper wedding, Argyll,” Clayton flayed.
The dowager viscountess dashed away a tear and sent her son a pleading look.
“No, she wouldn’t have,” Daria said quietly. “I asked for this day to go exactly as it did. His Grace has done only as I’ve requested.”
“Daria.” Her brother took her by the shoulders and leaned down to shrink the enormous height difference between them. “Surely you see this is killing me.”
Her heart wrenched. “Please don’t,” she whispered. Not Clayton. Not the brother who’d also stepped into the role of father and shouldered the weight of their family—with support and love. His sorrow would break her.
“Where will you live?”
“I…I…” Confounded by that question she should have considered; she turned to the duke.
“My wife will live with me.”
The hard, possessive quality to that statement unfurled a different kind of heat; this one began low in Daria’s belly.
His heated eyes locked with Daria’s, holding her frozen in a charged moment only they two lived in.
Her brother shattered the moment. “Your manor in Mayfair? One of your bloody country seats?”
“Clayton,” Sylvia chided.
It was a sign of Clayton’s erratic emotions that the sound of his wife’s voice failed to reach him.
“I’m not much for the country, St. John.” Gregory gave a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “More of a London fellow. As my business demands, I have full-time residence at my club. We’ll reside there.”
Clayton stared vacantly at the duke. “Forbidden Pleasures.”
Her mother’s and Sylvia’s gasps caught collectively.
And yet all Daria could hear were two words: Forbidden. Pleasures.
A space not frequented by the polite members of society.
Hidden away at Forbidden Pleasures, rather than in a ducal manor where lords or ladies currying her husband’s favor paid call—those same members who’d cut her with glances and words.
Warmth bloomed at her sternum; Daria briefly covered her face with her hands and squeezed her shoulders tight to keep joy-filled laughter in.
Heaven.
Clayton’s heavy features crumpled. “Oh, Daria,” he groaned, mistaking her reaction as one of sorrow.
No. No. No. No. No. It’d been easier when he’d been overbearing and rude. For the first time since she’d sprung the news upon him, her own heart buckled.
A sob burst from Daria’s throat. She ran into her brother’s arms, and as he’d always done, as he’d never do again, he folded her in a warm, secure embrace.
Her big-hearted, loving brother, who knew her so well, didn’t swarm her with words. He simply held her, conferring comfort.
For the last time.
That role now belonged to another. A hard-hearted, diffident man like Gregory didn’t know her. He hadn’t even wanted her. He’d certainly never fill the gaping void.
Daria’s teeth chattered.
“He doesn’t know you, Daria,” her brother said quietly against her ear. “Not like we do. He is a stranger. You have nothing in common with this man.”
This man.
Feeling the tug of betrayal at that othering of her husband, she glanced over to where Gregory stood, arms folded, his exquisitely crafted features a study in boredom.
Somehow Daria found the will to step away from Clayton.
To mourn what she wouldn’t have, when he’d given her precisely what she asked for, was the height of wrong. He deserved far more from Daria.
She brushed at her cheeks.
Clayton’s hands shook as he fought to collect his handkerchief from inside his jacket when a crisp, neatly-folded, and increasingly familiar square materialized before Daria.
Blinking wildly, she looked to the slip of fabric Gregory tendered.
With a quiet word of thanks, she accepted his offering.