Chapter 25
Argyll had never thought of anyone but himself.
Until tonight.
Tonight, he’d left behind his club and set out after his wife like the demons of hell were hot at his heels.
All the agonizingly slow way, he’d been tortured by the images Lady Landon painted of Daria.
Sad.
Once inside, he’d found one of his men dressed in black as were all the other gentlemen. Unable to meet Argyll’s eyes, he’d informed Argyll that Daria was on the terrace alone.
No. Jonas hadn’t said she’d been alone.
That was the conclusion Argyll reached on his own.
Foolishly.
A bloody fortune spent in guards and not a single one could have bothered to keep his wife safe. Safe from the charms of some other bloody, urbane bastard.
“It is your turn, Duke.”
Argyll’s throat struggled to move.
He’d finally found her, and sad was the last word he’d used to describe his enthralling wife.
Daria’s laughter filled the balmy night air. Not just his wife’s but the deep, resonant sound that belonged to some man who was not Argyll.
A burning pressure spread from Argyll’s chest, into his throat.
“I must apologize, Duchess.”
Argyll jerked.
Duchess.
This shameless interloper and known seducer turned Daria’s title—that same rank which joined her to Argyll—into an endearment.
Daria and Rothesby laughed as if there were some private jest only the two of them shared.
His temples throbbed, sharp and insistent.
A scoundrel like Rothesby would know precisely how to handle a sad wife, left behind by a doltish husband.
He drove his fingers into his temples and rubbed.
Argyll knew firsthand; he’d been Rothesby before.
Another laugh erupted from the pair.
Argyll’s squeezed his eyes, sharpening his hearing, forcing himself to listen to his wife’s joy mingled with another man’s.
That effervescent, laugh belonged to Argyll…
But you didn’t appreciate it enough to protect and keep close…
A low ache opened up Argyll’s chest, stripping him raw, breaking him up into his most primitive form. Within him sorrow and rage flipped places; both unrelenting; one always had Argyll in its hold.
She despised being called Duchess, didn’t she? And yet when another man spoke to her so—when this man did, a bloody, far-too-handsome-for-anyone’s-good Rothesby—she giggled like a schoolgirl.
“And why is that, Duke?” Daria asked, her voice carrying the same playful note.
Argyll wanted to clamp his hands over his ears.
“…Well, you see, Duchess…” Rothesby purred, like a bloody panther.
My God, man. Go there. Storm over like the savage you are and tear him in two.
But grief locked him in. Is this how so many gentlemen had been made to feel? He remained trapped in a hell where his worst sins were revisited upon him.
“As much as I pride myself on being a gentleman…”
He had uttered something similar in the game of seduction, but those were other men’s wives.
Argyll stared unseeingly.
They weren’t Daria.
No one on this earth was.
Argyll rubbed a fist against the burning ache in his chest—to no avail.
“…all is fair in the art of love and war….”
A woman versed in seduction would have giggled or bantered back.
Daria gave a non-committal little huff.
Of course she did. His eyes burned. Argyll’s wife was pure. And this bastard, this notorious rake and seducer, sought to sully that.
Argyll’s heart labored.
The Devil mocked Argyll for past transgressions. The men Argyll made cuckolds of now Satan’s minions, rejoicing in this long overdue comeuppance.
This was the Lord’s punishment then.
Daria gasped. “You are the worst, Duke!”
Blood rushed behind Argyll’s eyes, blinding his vision. I will kill him! Fire burning through him, Argyll stumbled from the shadows.
“By God, I will ki—”
The rest of the threat died on his tongue.
His wide-eyed bride and the man she kept company with looked up at him from—the scattered
…cards of whatever game they played.
Unable to look at her, Argyll stared emptily at the stone floor Daria and the Duke of Rothesby had made into their private parlor.
Heat surged upward, settling thick in his throat. So much for never feeling anything beyond lust for a woman…
His gaze locked on the scraps strewn about. He had not yet played cards with his wife—and now this man had.
Her meeting with the visiting duke had been far shorter—and yet here they sat, two children at play.
“Argy—”
Argyll sluiced the rest of Rothesby’s greeting with a murderous stare, and quickly looked away.
He turned a cool stare back to Daria.
If he looked at the man responsible for her laughter, he would end up making the next Duke of Rothesby a very happy fellow.
“Hello, Duchess,” Argyll said, sliding mockery into the title she despised.
“You are here!”
“Indeed,” he said, his voice hollow.
A sick weight settled within him.
That mesmerizing tilt of her crimson lips. Was it for Argyll? Or merely the remnants of another man’s charm?
A combination of both from his bewitching wife. He hated that he hadn’t a bloody clue. About anything. Some man was with Gregory’s wife and he was inert. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think, couldn’t speak.
And here he’d ridden his horse to a slather to get to her.
Argyll composed his face into the mocking, indifferent mask this blasted woman had stripped him of. “I take it this is a happy meeting, Your Grace?”
By the smile she still wore—at the credit of another man—it was certainly the latter.
“Certainly.” She wrinkled her nose. “Why would it not be?”
Oh, I don’t bloody well know. Perhaps because there is another blasted rake alone with you out here…
Refusing to betray himself any further, Argyll inhaled slowly through his nose.
She stared at him—while she sat beside another confounded man.
Which reminded him.
“Get on your damned feet,” Argyll snapped.
“Gregory.”
He whipped his focus toward the interruption. “Are you chastising me, madam?”
“You misunderstand what is—”
“Argyll.” Rothesby rose to his feet—too damned easily at that. “A pleasure.”
The only way the word pleasure would ever be coupled with the bloody good-looking rogue was if it came from seeing him dead.
“Yes, you keeping my wife company out here alone on the terrace, I’m certain it has been quite the pleasure.”
The good-looking bastard lifted a hand. “Whoa, chap.”
“Don’t you bloody well ‘whoa, chap’ me, Rothesby,” he hissed, coming apart at the seams. Argyll had bloody invented whoa, chap—that meaningless fluff reserved for when an errant husband chose precisely the wrong moment to appear.
The bachelor duke knew enough to bow his head.
“Furthermore, why the hell are you still here?” Argyll snarled. “I would like a meeting alone with my wife.”
He caught the glance that passed between Daria and Rothesby.
I am going to burn this blasted townhouse to the ground and use Rothesby as kindling.
Her fingers betrayed her distress—so did the telling way her index fingers worried at her thumbs.
Instinctively, he wanted to reach out and still her, to keep her from breaking the skin and then soothing it with her mouth.
Daria pushed herself onto one knee to rise.
Rothesby reached out to assist her.
“Get your hands off my damned wife, Rothesby,” Argyll hissed.
Stalking forward, he caught Daria at the waist, fury burning through him as he set her on her feet.
Dead. Forget dawn, pistols, or rapiers—Argyll would tear the bachelor duke apart with his bare hands.
“Gregory,” Daria’s voice reached him gently. “Lord Rothesby and I are friends.”
Friends? “You go back some time, do you?” Argyll jeered.
Daria blinked slowly. “Why, yes.”
That brought him up short.
Argyll opened his mouth. Then closed it. Opened it again.
Daria sighed, like some beleaguered governess who had dispensed the same lesson too many times. “I’ve told you—”
He closed his eyes. A low, ironical laugh built in his chest. How could he forget?
“You are friends with rakes.”
“Beg pardon,” the dark-haired duke took it in stride. “I prefer to think of myself as a rogue.”
“Oh, hush, Rothesby. They are one and the same.”
His wife turned and made a point of including Argyll.
“We had quite a laugh over our now holding the same rank. Isn’t that right, Rothesby?”
“It’s the only thing to do with the title.” Grinning, Rothesby jerked his chin Argyll’s way.
Knowing he had to do something—because they were including him—he nodded, slightly unevenly.
To think that day he had jeered Daria’s lack of familiarity with rakes, only to learn she knew most of them by name.
The ease with which she scolded the duke spoke to their familiarity, and…
and—Argyll appeared to be the last rake in London who had never known the pleasure of sitting in Daria’s presence.
A sad thought, that.
It crept into his chest—an impossibility that demanded he consider the what ifs.
How easily it might have been Rothesby she’d approached. Any feckless rake would do…
“…I saw us, Gregory. From the start. I saw your office and the people present the day we were married…”
It might have been Rothesby. Argyll’s gaze went through the other man. It might have been Rothesby—if she had not secreted out to find Argyll on a terrace, much like this one.
But for a twist of—
Fate. His lips shaped the word in silence.
While Daria and the duke spoke easily of her family, Argyll remained caught in a storm, seeing past the irrational jealousy of the other man.
They went back…
Their history was shared through Landon, who had wed into the Kearsleys. She had spoken of blackguards she’d known before Argyll.
“…It’s because I did not know you. If I did not believe you to be cruel and shallow, I would never have married you…”
His breath hitched. His eyes opened. He stared at Daria, seeing it all with sudden clarity—seeing her with sudden clarity.
“I will leave you both to your night air,” Rothesby was saying. “You may keep the cards, Duchess. I owed you a deck.” He winked—at Argyll’s wife.
And it did not sting quite so badly. That is, he did not feel compelled to end the chap’s future line with one well-placed knee.