Chapter 24 #2
Is there really anything truly normal in your life anymore?
“Pups in their cups,” DuMond remarked.
“Mmm?” Argyll’s gaze slid back to the chestnut-haired chap in good need of a hair trim and shave.
An efficient Bendor steered the ape-drunk Oxford-age looking chap to a nearby roly-poly table. While the boy made himself comfortable with a drink, Argyll gave the slight nod. Remove if needed.
The dealer returned the signal.
A lad, really. Argyll hadn’t been one. When university lads were first sowing their oats, Argyll had, by that point, been fully corrupted.
DuMond tracked his stare to the young man. “A fellow future duke,” he said, tipping his chin the youth’s way. “The future Duke of Bainbridge.
When DuMond went to monitor one of the new acts about to get underway at the theatre portion of the club, Argyll took in the latest dissolute duke in the making.
“…Your father was a monster
He stared at the tops of heads.
A vise squeezed him with a pressure that wouldn’t quit.
“…Those. Are. Not. Things. Fathers. Do, Gregory…”
It’s what his had done.
The muscle of his throat moved.
“…Your father was a monster…”
All fathers were. Hell, Argyll’s, DuMond’s, Craven’s. There hadn’t been an honorable fellow in the bunch. Forbidden Pleasures bore testament to that.
All men. The more powerful they were, the uglier their souls.
No.
“…I did not leave my home for a more than a year… Mama and Clayton insisted I must and…at first, I didn’t want to go, but then, I… I didn’t know how to. But I also didn’t want to be with my family…”
Not all men.
With the debt the previous Duke of Argyll wasted on whores, drink, and whatever whim struck in a moment, and the state he’d left the Argyll landholdings—and tenants—in, the rotter couldn’t have died fast enough for Argyll’s liking.
Daria spent much of her girlhood years and all her adult life thus far, mourning her father.
“…We were all so sad, and we absorbed one another’s misery.”
Argyll angled his head left and right, cracking his neck, releasing tension from the muscles.
“…You are not like him…”
Wasn’t he?
Of course he was.
“…W-Would you do those things with our son…?”
Just the thought of exposing a child near in age to Millie sent vomit climbing up his throat.
Argyll looked to the front as the porter admitted the married Lord Cavenleigh, on the arm of his lover, Lady Sarah. Wedded couples took lovers with the same frequency they did tea.
Not DuMond and not Kilburn.
They’d proven themselves honorable and faithful; men whom would one day be mourned by the ones they left behind.
He grimaced.
It appeared his wife’s talks of death had finally gotten to him.
Argyll sensed it before the westward doors flung wide, and the bulky guard, Jonas, stepped through them.
The bottom dropped out from under his stomach.
Daria.
Jonas’s gaze found Argyll, who leapt from the dais and took off running, shoving his way through the crowd. All around him, revelry continued without interruption. The laughter and boisterous conversation were a muffled macabre choir in his head.
Jonas located Argyll with his gaze.
Why did I let her go? Why…why…?
Argyll grabbed the younger, stronger man by his jacket front and hauled him backwards through the doors and back into the west hall.
Jonas’s Adam’s apple moved. “There’s a problem.”
No bloody shite.
A punishing weight hit Argyll squarely in the solar plexus.
My wife. He couldn’t get the question out; it remained trapped in his mind like a cancer, rotting away at Argyll’s logic.
“Delivered the…problems to your office, Your Grace.”
Through the rubbish of panic, the words registered. His office. Not his wife.
Argyll needed to hear it. He needed the other man to say it.
“My wife?”
“I…wasn’t assigned the duchess, Your Grace.” Jonas’s deep voice betrayed his confusion.
No, that was right.
There were protocols, steps to follow.
Jonas cleared his throat and gave a pointed look at where Argyll still gripped him.
Swallowing a round of curses, he released the man quickly. Panic knocked around his chest.
What is happening to me?
No.
Argyll knew.
It wasn’t what was happening to him, but who.
Daria was his obsession. She consumed all of him.
When he headed for the private suites, a different kind of terror licked at his heels.
I am going mad.
And the state of his sanity was confirmed moments later when he entered his offices.
Oh, hell.
Argyll stared down a long line of Kearsley ladies.
So. Many. Kearsleys.
Female ones.
The negligent brother would be easier than this merciless lot before him.
In fact, a firing squad would be preferable—and by the rage-filled gazes centered on Argyll, a safer course.
Why, even the youngest had made it into the mix. He cast a line for her, the closest thing he had as an ally.
“Well, hello, Eris,” Argyll said as he closed the door behind him. “It turns out you’ve not had to wait very long to make it into my clubs after—”
“Stuff it, Duke,” Eris snapped. “I’m not happy with you.”
Argyll knew when to shut his mouth. Granted, he’d never been made to do so before now.
“None of us are happy with you, Your Grace.”
Argyll turned to the dark-haired lady with a streak of white hair.
“My lady,” he murmured, bending low at the waist.
“It will take more than a courtly bow to earn our pleasure, Argyll.” This from Brenna the Bluestocking.
“I would expect nothing less,” he muttered. He returned his focus to the bespectacled marchioness. “My wife speaks with great regard for your husband.”
The young woman’s eyes grew even more serious behind her metal frames. “Does she?”
He nodded.
“Enough,” Cora snapped. “We are not focused on the matter at hand.”
That almost truce he’d been on a path for broke fast.
Various shades of fury ranged among their similarly colored eyes.
“The matter being Dar—”
“The matter being you left our sister!” Eris cried. “She despises crowds, Argyll. Hates balls. Detests them.”
A sharp, knife-like sensation carved a hollow in his chest.
He knew that.
“He gets the point, Eris,” Anwen murmured, touching the little girl’s shoulder.
Eris shrugged it off angrily. “And you made her go alone, Argyll!”
“I am planning to join her…” His chest throbbed.
Argyll’s eyes slid shut.
I am the worst bastard…
His legs suddenly too heavy to hold him, he collapsed against the wall. He wanted to be with her. He fought this need for her because it wasn’t solely a physical need; the hunger to be with her extended to morning wakings and conversations about paintings and…
He was going to stop running from her.
He didn’t know what this was.
Was this… love?
Argyll waited for the rush of panic.
Strange it didn’t come.
His skin prickled.
Recalling his audience, he looked up and found every last Kearsley sister staring at him.
He had to say something here. Something around the knot in his throat. “Dare I ask how that news traveled your way so quickly?”
“I suggest you find something else to say,” Cora advised with a terrifying smile. “Daring us is a dangerous proposition at this time, Argyll.”
“Shh,” Brenna whispered, sliding an elbow into the taller girl’s side. “He feels badly enough.”
“He should,” Cora muttered.
“He should get his arse to Lord and Lady Abington’s,” the marchioness reminded with a gentleness Argyll didn’t deserve.
Argyll came all the way to his feet.
Bowing his head, he pressed a hand to his chest. “Give me your pardon. I’ve done Daria wrong. What I have done…I here proclaim was madness.”
A resounding quiet met his apology. The Kearsleys looked amongst themselves and settled on Daria’s twin.
Argyll remained with palm to heart.
Delia angled her head, contemplating him.
And it was all he could do not to rush her along so he could get to Lord and Lady Abington’s. Argyll managed restraint.
His efforts were rewarded in the form of Delia’s first real smile for him. “Yes, it was, madness, Argyll.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t make the mistake again. It won’t go well for you.”
Five sisters made matching slashing motions at their throats.
“Duly noted,” he said.
Argyll took a step to go, but he remembered that he had a gathering of young ladies, all of whom needed to be properly delivered.
Lady Landon came forward and patted the top of his hand. “Worry, not, Your Grace, my husband is waiting in the parlor next door for our meeting to conclude. He will see us home.”
Argyll took in a previously neglected detail. The marchioness’s luxuriant evening tire.
She’d been in attendance at Lady Abington’s.
Emotion clogged his throat. “How…was she?” he asked hoarsely.
“Sad,” Anwen responded without hesitation.
An invisible fist slammed into him.
“I originally had alternate evening plans, but my husband has a way of finding out information. When he discovered she’d be in attendance, he suggested we alter our plans.”
This was family. Ladies who’d learned their sister was in trouble and sought out the bounder responsible for her pain, and demanded he do better.
His throat moved painfully.
He was beginning to understand it, even though he’d never experienced it—mostly on account of the walls he’d crafted.
This was the love his wife spoke of.
This is why she gave the Kearsleys her devotion and heart.
Because they were deserving of it.
After he’d made arrangements for his necessary departure, Argyll went to save his wife.