Chapter 10
“You didn’t really think we’d let you marry her so easily, did you?”
Crispin didn’t know what he’d thought, but he was certain that the duke was mad.
The Duke of Westleigh leaned against his mahogany desk, cleaning a dueling pistol. Not only was he cleaning it, he looked as if he was getting ready to load it, for he had powder and ball beside him. The man worked with studious precision, his eyes riveted to the beautifully made weapon.
“I don’t follow, Your Grace. What exactly are you saying?”
The duke did not look up as he continued his work. “You’ve asked her to marry you. All right. Our family seems to agree. Fine. But you didn’t think this would be simple, did you? Surely, our family reputation precedes us.”
It was tempting to shift on his boots, but he was worried the duke would see it as a sign of weakness. “Indeed, Your Grace. Your family reputation is one of the things that intrigues me. However, I was not under the impression that the Briarwoods engaged in violence against unarmed men.”
The duke lifted his gaze, gave a tigerish smile, and then said, “You’re mistaken. Clearly, you know nothing about us at all.” And then the duke began to load his pistol, pouring powder correctly and putting the lead ball in its chamber.
Crispin fought the urge to make for the door, wondering if he was about to be killed. Surely, a duke would not murder a fellow peer in his study? But he was beginning to think that Westleigh was unhinged. Well-built, well-mannered, well-spoken, but unhinged.
Crispin cleared his throat. “What is it exactly that you are hoping for, Your Grace, in this interchange?”
The duke gave him a sly look, arching a raven eyebrow. “I want you to understand the position that you are in. You are entering this family, but I don’t like your conditions for Hermia’s hand. So this is what’s going to happen.” He tensed. “You are going to marry my sister tomorrow.”
“I beg your pardon,” Crispin said, gulping. “That makes no sense. The banns will be posted. I shall marry her in a few weeks’ time. We can marry when it pleases you after that. We just need to…”
“You are not listening to me,” the duke cut in, his voice low. “I don’t like what’s happening. I heard your mama and her plans. She wants to trot Hermia out, almost like a test. And I don’t think that my sister needs to be tested if you wish to marry her. Do you understand?”
Crispin’s jaw tensed. Of course, it had to do with his own mother. “I understand, Your Grace, but my mother is hoping…”
“Do I look like I care what your mother wants?” the duke challenged quietly.
“No, Your Grace. You do not.”
“Good.” The duke inclined his head ever so lightly, the light turning his hair a blue-black. “And if you wish to marry my sister, you must, in many ways, not care what your mother wants. Of course, you must not be disrespectful to her. After all, I’m very fond of mine and do not ever wish to give her displeasure. What my mother wants, my mother gets.” The duke drew in a long-suffering breath. “And for whatever reason, she thinks that you are the one. And so I will allow this marriage to take place, but I’m not simply going to allow things to happen without my control.”
“Your control, Your Grace?” Crispin repeated, trying to make sense of the man.
“Exactly, old boy. Now, listen to me.” The duke held his dueling pistol casually but stood away from his desk. “I’ve already sent for a special license. I sent for a special license once Mama told me that you had essentially asked Hermia to marry you. You asked her to consider being your wife. You can’t back out. You know you can’t. We’ll sue you for breach of promise. So, we are going to do this on our terms, not yours.”
“Don’t you think this is setting up for a rather tumultuous and prickly beginning for your sister and I?” Crispin pointed out.
“No,” the duke said easily. “This is you understanding how things are going to go.”
“Your way,” Crispin surmised.
“You’re catching on,” the duke said with a laugh. “My way, my family’s way. Because frankly, your family is… Well—”
“The devil?” Crispin supplied.
“Exactly,” the duke replied simply. “I’m glad that you understand this. Your mother and your sister, I pity them. Your cousins? I’ve heard things about them too. And your father… Well, his reputation was legend for his irascibility and unpleasantness. No wonder your mother looks as if she has been swallowing cod-liver oil.”
Crispin tensed his hands, curling them into fists. “Your Grace, I’ll allow a great many things, but I would prefer you do not besmirch my mother, even if you speak the truth. I should not like to have to call you out.”
The duke gave him a strange look. “Ah, so you are a man of honor then.”
He blinked. Was that what this had been about? The duke was testing him to see how he would behave if someone spoke ill of his mother?
“Yes, I’m a man of honor, Your Grace,” he said lowly. “Have you ever been given reason to doubt it?”
The duke shrugged, but there was nothing casual about his steely gaze. “I know that you speak in the House of Lords, but you don’t do much else, do you?”
“I have been stepping into the shoes of my brother for years,” he growled, disliking the sudden and intense emotion that gripped his guts.
The duke cocked his head to the side. “I don’t think you can use that as an excuse, Drexel.”
“It’s not an excuse,” he countered. “It’s the truth.”
“Hmm,” the duke mused. “Surely, a man of your power and prestige wants to do more with his life than have mistresses, attend White’s, go to Devonshire House, and box every now and then.”
“It’s a good life,” Crispin gritted. “And I do the best I can for causes that I think are important. I support the party which you belong to. You should know that.”
The duke pursed his lips but he seemed unimpressed. “Indeed, indeed. I’ve seen you at Devonshire House.”
“You have?” he queried, surprised.
The duke gave him a calculated stare. “You don’t think everything going on in Devonshire House happens in the gambling rooms and main halls, do you? Can’t stand the Duke of Devonshire myself. He’s a dry stick, but his wife? She knows what she’s about.”
“Then you should know that I am not just a rake who enjoys life at White’s,” Crispin defended.
“But you are not much more,” returned the duke. “And so I am wary of letting Hermia marry such a one as you.”
Crispin flinched inwardly. Was that what the duke thought of him? That he was just passing through life, making no mark? And then it hit him. Painfully. Was it true? Was that all he was doing?
The duke sighed dramatically as if it was all very sorrowful. “Yes, old boy. I do think you already have one foot in the grave, though you are but thirty years old. You’re not living very well, are you, for a man of such means?”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “You really do have a great deal of audacity.”
“I’m a duke.” He gave a mocking bow, the pistol at his side. “Of course, I have audacity. Now, you’ll marry my sister in the morning. You’ll do what I say, and all will be well.”
“And if I don’t do exactly as you prescribe?” Crispin challenged.
The duke cocked the pistol and his eyes glittered with intensity.
“You’re going to murder me?” Crispin growled.
“I could murder you, absolutely, and make it look like an accident,” the duke said lightly, eyeing his pistol. “I’m a very clever fellow. But I don’t really think that’s necessary, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Crispin agreed.
“Good.” The duke smiled. “Besides, there are myriad other ways that I could make your life very, very difficult. I don’t have to kill you to do so. I could simply tell everyone that you’re a fool and make certain that you are no longer allowed in any club or anywhere of interest. Your mother’s life would become a shambles. She would no doubt be deeply distressed by this.”
Suddenly, Crispin wondered if he had made a terrible mistake in allowing himself near the family of the Duke of Westleigh.
As if the duke knew this, he gave him a merry grin. “Too late to turn back now. Unless you wish to be completely and totally ruined.”
Crispin frowned. “I don’t like being backed into a corner,” he said.
Much to Crispin’s horror, the duke lifted his pistol and fired. The pistol went off, and he held perfectly still because the duke had not pointed it directly at him.
A head bust exploded five feet away from him.
There was a burst of noise from downstairs. “All is well,” the duke bellowed. “An accident and a bit of broken porcelain.”
“Not again!” the duchess called from the salon down below.
Crispin was stunned by how their voices carried. No doubt it was all the theatrical experience.
“Bloody hell,” Crispin yelped. “What the blazes is wrong with you?”
“A great deal, I suspect,” the duke replied. “But no harm done is there?”
Crispin tensed.
The duke shook his head and gestured to the shattered bust on the floor. “I always hated that thing. Terrible, terrible reproduction of Galileo. It should never have been allowed in my office.”
The duke very carefully placed his dueling pistol in the inlaid box, closed the lid, and gave Crispin a merry smile. “Shall we rejoin the ladies?”
There was a loud, impatient cry from the hall.
“I think the ladies are about to join us,” Crispin pointed out.
And just as he turned towards the door to see if his mother was going to burst in, Hermia threw open the panel and charged through.
“What are you doing, brother?” she demanded, her cheek high with color.
The duke rolled his eyes. “Never fear. I am simply letting him know that he is welcome to the family. A salute was required.”
“A pistol shot?” she queried.
“Don’t you think he should know where he stands before he marries you on the morrow?”
“On the morrow,” Hermia exclaimed. “His mother said…”
“Hermia,” her brother said, “I know you hate parties. And I have made it so that you won’t have to attend them. He’s going to put you in the country anyway. Isn’t that what you told Mother?”
She swallowed and looked from man to man.
Crispin winced. There were clearly never going to be any secrets between them and her family. And he should have been horrified, but he found himself remarkably impressed. Impressed that her brother was willing to go to such lengths to make her happy. And he knew that his life would now forever be in the hands of the Duke of Westleigh. Strangely, he didn’t mind so much. Because frankly, if he could have had a brother like that, he might’ve sold his soul for one.
The Duke of Westleigh met his gaze, and he inclined his head in a bow. The duke seemed to understand his admiration and inclined his head back. “Welcome to our mad world, Drexel. We shall see you on the morrow.”
“No,” Hermia bit out.
“No?” her brother echoed, his head swiveling toward his sister.
“I made a deal with the earl. And I will not shirk it. Do you understand?” Hermia’s shoulders squared, and she looked like a positive spitfire as she stared down the duke. “He is not in the wrong. In this moment, you are.”
Given the fact that the duke had just fired a pistol, it was a surprise that Hermia was so defiant.
But then again, they were a notorious family. And that reputation was clearly warranted.
“But, Hermia—” the duke began.
“I will stand my ground,” she insisted. “No marriage tomorrow. It shall take place in two weeks at St. Paul’s as his mother wishes. And I shall attend every party the earl asks. It is a small price to pay for a lifetime of having my way.”
The duke blew out a sigh. “Fine then, sister. I will not stop you from following your sense of honor.”
She nodded. “Good.” Hermia turned to Crispin, holding out her hand. “Come,” she called, her eyes alight.
Given the antics of the last few moments, and much to his surprise, Crispin strode to her, took her hand in his, and followed her lead.