A solid moment of silence passed between them, during which Raphe congratulated himself for not gagging on his overly affected words. And then Warwick finally spoke up. “I thought I made my opinion of you quite clear when last we met. You are not—”
“I may not have attended Eton, my lord, but will you honestly judge me on that alone?” Raphe leaned toward him. “I am a duke, you know. My influence might serve you well one day.”
Warwick stared. Lady Warwick’s eyes bulged. Lady Gabriella’s mouth dropped open and her aunt . . . well, that lady surprised Raphe the most by actually laughing out loud.
“Your influence?” Warwick said as though Raphe were suggesting they fly to the moon.
“Precisely,” Raphe said without blinking, “Let’s put our differences behind us, my lord. I’d much rather hear your opinion on the Rubens that’s hanging in my library.”
Raphe knew the second the words were out that he’d hit his mark, just as Gabriella had predicted. He’d never seen a man go quite so still, his eyes hungry and his mouth set with the eagerness of a thief who’d just discovered an unlocked jewelry shop.
“I, err—” Lord Warwick began. Turning toward his wife, he spoke with a joviality that Raphe had not presumed him capable of. “Why don’t you go and mingle with the other ladies, my dear. Take my sister and Gabriella with you. Apparently, His Grace and I have something to discuss.”
Lady Warwick looked uncertain. She stared at her husband, then at Raphe, then back at her husband once more. “But—”
“Let us adjourn to one of the salons,” Warwick told Raphe. “If you’ll excuse us, ladies.”
Lady Warwick appeared as though she might start sputtering in response to her husband’s dismissal. Raphe’s gaze drifted across to Gabriella, whose cheeks immediately darkened the moment their eyes met. A smile captured his lips, which seemed to make her blush even more. He loved it when she blushed. He loved knowing how easily he affected her. It was mutual, of course. He’d never met a woman who made his fingers itch with such desperate need to touch her, the way Gabriella did.
Regretting that he would have to forego her company for a while, Raphe hastily whispered in her ear as he passed her, “Save a dance for me.” Without pausing to check her reaction, he followed Lord Warwick to the salon he’d mentioned. It was a cozy room swathed in red hues and with two seating arrangements at each end. “Care for a drink?” Warwick asked as he crossed to the side table.
“No, thank you,” Raphe said, uncomfortable with the idea of helping himself to Coventry’s private selection of liquor without asking permission first. So he took a seat in one of the armchairs instead and waited for Warwick to join him.
“Tell me about the Rubens,” Warwick said a moment later as he lowered himself to the opposite seat and took a sip of the brandy he’d poured himself.
Leaning back into a comfortable position, Raphe began, “I understand that you’re an art collector, my lord, and that you would like to add The Three Graces to your collection.”
The sparkle in Warwick’s eyes confirmed that this was indeed the case. “I offered your predecessor a handsome sum for it once, but he refused me.”
“Fifty thousand pounds, from what I understand,” Raphe murmured. He drummed his fingers lightly against the armrest.
Shifting, Warwick’s mouth twisted as though he’d just bit into a lemon. “It was more than the painting is worth.”
Raphe was aware of this too. He inclined his head in agreement. “Which can only mean that you want it a great deal.”
“It would complete the mythological theme that I’ve been putting together in the north gallery of Warwick House.”
With a nod of understanding, Raphe asked, “What if I told you that I’m willing to part with it?”
For a second, it looked as though Warwick would either leap from his chair with joy, or tumble to the floor in dismay. “That—” He cleared his throat and took another sip of his drink. “I would certainly welcome such a prospect.” He appeared to process the idea for a while before saying, “I suppose you’ll want the fifty thousand for it?”
“No,” Raphe said, amused by Warwick’s stunned expression. “In fact, I don’t want any sum of money in return.”
“No money?” he sounded incredulous. “But—surely you don’t mean to give it to me for free? Especially knowing how I feel about you and your family and considering how unaccepting I’ve been of you.”
“An incident that I will be willing to forget, in exchange for an apology.” When Warwick’s jaw tightened in protest, Raphe leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, I know I’m not what you imagined I’d be, but I am the Duke of Huntley, and I will not continue to allow you or anyone else to treat me with less respect than I deserve.” He paused for emphasis before spreading his hands and saying, “But, if you’re too proud to admit your faults, then perhaps I ought to hold on to the Rubens after all . . .”
“No. You are right,” Warwick spoke with haste. “You have improved yourself greatly since our first encounter—impressively so, in fact. And—and, I apologize for the things I’ve said to you. It was badly done.”
“Thank you, Warwick. I appreciate that.”
Looking like a dog with his tail between his legs, Warwick averted his gaze and took yet another sip of his drink. “So then the only question is, what do you want in return for the painting?”
Savoring the power that he knew he now held over the earl, Raphe took a second to answer. He laced his fingers together and did his best to hold still, in spite of his straining heart and the blood that thundered through his veins. “Permission to court your daughter.”
“What?” Warwick’s face went white.
Raphe smiled sardonically. “I believe you heard me.”
“You—and Lady Gabriella?” When Raphe nodded, Warwick’s expression tightened, his eyes narrowing with piercing intensity. “No,” he said with the swipe of a hand. “Absolutely not.”
Praying that Gabriella was right about her father’s obsession with The Three Graces, Raphe shrugged with a casualness he did not feel, and began to rise. “I wish you luck in completing your Greek theme then, Warwick. A pity I wasn’t able to help you with that.” It was the oldest bargaining trick in the book. One he’d witnessed more times than he could count on the streets of St. Giles, applied by vendors and buyers alike. Just walk away, he told himself. He turned to leave.
“Wait!”
Stopping, Raphe schooled his features before looking back at Warwick, eyebrows raised in question.
“Fielding came to see me earlier today. He formally asked for my permission to marry her, and I have given it,” Warwick said. He almost sounded apologetic.
The comment was like a punch to his gut. “Does she not have a say in the matter?” Raphe felt his blood begin to boil. Whatever agreement Fielding and Warwick had come to, Raphe was certain that Gabriella knew nothing about it. Which made him wary.
“The match will be good. The best, in fact.”
“And marrying me instead would be bad?” When Warwick didn’t answer, Raphe said, “My rank trumps everyone else’s, except for the Regent’s. Are you really telling me that the prejudice you have for me on account of my inferior upbringing is going to deny your daughter the chance of becoming a duchess?”
An infernal length of time followed before Warwick formed a response. “I don’t like mystery,” he eventually said. “And where you are concerned, there are too many unanswered questions. Like which relative it was, exactly, who took you in after your parents died. I knew your mother’s family well enough to say with certainty that they did not have any relatives near the Scottish border. As for your father’s side, I’ve looked into his relations since meeting you, and have come up with no verifiable facts. Which makes me wonder if you really are who you claim to be.”
“I can assure you—”
“Don’t bother,” Warwick clipped. “I’ve dealt with imposters before, and I suspect that I am dealing with
one right now.”
“I am not an imposter,” Raphe said, his voice dangerously low.
“Then tell me where you’ve really been for the past fifteen years.”
Glaring at him, Raphe felt whatever hope he’d had of winning Gabriella for himself slipping away like sand through an hourglass. Confiding the truth would not help. On the contrary, he stood to lose so much more than just Gabriella if he did that. So he said the only thing he could say. “I cannot.”
A long, drawn-out silence settled between them, and then Warwick finally rose from his chair to face Raphe. He stood completely still, eyes boring into his. “Keep the painting,” he finally said with cool disdain. “And stay away from my daughter.”
Raphe watched him walk away with mixed emotions. As much as he hated the man for denying him the chance he’d requested, he also admired him for putting his daughter’s best interests—no matter how misguided Raphe and Gabriella both believed them to be—first.
I’ve dealt with imposters before.
Briefly closing his eyes, he hoped the earl would not investigate him any further. Perhaps coming here this evening had been a mistake. Perhaps enlisting Gabriella’s help had been selfish. If her parents discovered the extent of their relationship with each other, they would never forgive her. Worse than that, she risked a respectable future with a respectable man—a man whom she’d been dreaming of marrying until he’d come along and ruined that dream.
Christ, what a mess!
Inhaling deeply, he made his decision and strode forward with purpose. Gabriella was funny, intriguing, beautiful and kind, and by God, if she didn’t make him want things he’d never wanted before. He liked her more and more every day and could not imagine losing her to someone else.
So he returned to the ballroom with the intention of seeking her out. He’d have his dance, and then he’d tell her what her father had said. Perhaps together, they could find another solution.
He spotted her almost immediately, her expression serene and with a perfect Society smile adorning her lovely face like a piece of jewelry she’d put on to match the rest of her ensemble. She was standing with her parents and Fielding, listening to whatever it was he was saying with polite attentiveness. And then, as if she sensed he was watching her, she turned her head, and her face lit up, eyes sparkling as her trained smile transformed into a more natural one of pure happiness.
Unable to look away, he smiled back. Oh, how he longed to go to her, to have her in his arms again—to trace his lips along the delicate curve of her neck. He wanted to run his hands over every part of her, feel her tremble and sigh in response to his touch and . . .
Fielding, as if registering Gabriella’s sudden lack of interest in him, looked his way as well. His eyes darkened with uninhibited rage. Gabriella, however, didn’t seem to notice, her gaze never straying from Raphe’s, her body turning as though she meant to come to him.
Fielding’s mouth twisted, and in that moment—in a split second—Raphe knew that something awful was about to happen. He wasn’t sure what, but he knew that somehow, he had to prevent it. So he started forward, intent on reaching her side.
One step.
That was all he managed before Fielding reached his arm around Gabriella’s shoulders, pulling her back to him and kissing her, right there in the middle of the Coventry ballroom, for everyone to see. All conversation ceased, not even a whisper could be heard. And then, finally, after what felt like a decade of inexplicable torture, Fielding stepped back and, speaking to the assembled guests, said the one thing that would ruin Raphe’s chances forever. “Lady Gabriella has just agreed to be my wife. You may congratulate us both.”
Chapter 20
Raphe had taken his fair share of punches before, but none had ever hit him as hard as this. Whether or not Gabriella had really accepted Fielding’s offer was inconsequential. She would not be able to refute it now without scandal.
Cheers and applause swept through the ballroom as the partygoers began closing in on the newly betrothed couple. Raphe wished he could just see her face—wished he’d be able to see the truth in her eyes. Instead, his gaze found Fielding’s. There was an arrogant flicker about it that caused Raphe to clench his fists, nails digging against the palms of his hands. And then the bastard winked! The crowd closed around him and Gabriella, and Raphe, cursing the day he’d met the earl, turned on his heel and strode away.
“I’ll walk,” he snapped at his coachman. He didn’t care that it was raining—a steady downpour that soaked his greatcoat and dripped from the brim of his hat. The gray wetness suited his mood, the beat it played against the shimmering cobblestones matching the furious beat of his heart.
He shouldn’t care, he told himself. She was just a woman. A woman he’d known for a very short time. But the thought of having lost her was gut-wrenching, no matter how he looked at it.
Pulling his hat further down on his forehead, Raphe crossed Piccadilly, his shoes sloshing through a stream of water that flowed toward the gutter. By the time he reached his front door, he looked as though he’d just been for a swim in the Thames.
“Your Grace,” Pierson said, his expression a little perplexed as Raphe handed him his soggy hat and greatcoat. “Did something happen to your carriage?”
“No,” Raphe clipped. “Is the fire lit in my study?”
“Ye—yes. Yes of course.”
With a nod of approval and the anticipation of having a very large glass of brandy, Raphe stepped past his butler.
“Err—Your Grace,” Pierson called after him, halting him in mid stride. “You should know that there’s a man waiting to see you.”
Raphe spun back to face him, annoyed that he would not be allowed to wallow in peace. “At this hour?”
“I told him you’d be late in the hope that he’d return at a more decent time, but he insisted on waiting for you—said you would want to meet with him.”
Expelling a breath, Raphe thanked Pierson for the information before resuming his progress. He wasn’t sure who the man could possibly be—he didn’t think he knew anyone who’d be rude enough to call on someone after ten o’clock at night. But when he reached his study and stepped inside, he realized that unfortunately, he did. “Guthrie,” Raphe growled.
“Good to see ye,” Guthrie said before setting the crystal tumbler he held to his lips and taking a long sip. He didn’t bother to rise from the chair on which he slouched. But he did extend one hand and make a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole room. “Nice place ye ‘ave ‘ere.”
“What do you want, Guthrie?” Raphe asked. Perhaps if they got straight to the point, he could get rid of him again soon.
Guthrie chuckled. “Per’aps I just wanted to stop by. See ‘ow ye’re doin’.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Raphe said. Picking up the carafe that stood on a tray on his desk, he poured himself a brandy, downed it and refilled the glass.
“Rough night?” Guthrie asked.
“None o’ yer business,” he said, falling back into the old dialect. “Now tell me what ye’re doin’ ‘ere. I’ve paid off the debt plus some, so the way I see it, I don’t owe ye a damn thing.”
“Is that so?” Guthrie’s eyes narrowed. “We ‘ad an agreement, you an’ I. Did ye honestly think I’d let it go fer a couple o’ pennies?”
Raphe froze. His muscles went taught. “I paid ye a hell o’ a lot more than that.”
“Nevertheless. I ain’t lettin’ it go.”
Raphe glared at him. “That arrangement was made so I could buy me freedom, Guthrie. I’ve done that now, with interest, if I may remind ye. So go find someone else who can fight fer ye.”
Guthrie nodded, and for a long, wonderful moment, Raphe thought he’d managed the situation to his own advantage. But then Guthrie set his glass aside and smiled the smile that Raphe had seen a thousand times before. On the surface it looked pleasant enough, but Raphe knew better. He braced himself for what was to come.
“It�
�s not just about yer freedom, laddy. It’s also about winnin’. An’ I can’t think of anyone else who’s capable of winnin’ against the Bull.” His smile widened. “He’s the reignin’ world champion. People will pay twice—nay, thrice as much as usual. An’ if ye win . . .” He gave a low whistle.
“How about if I match the expected winnin’s meself,” Raphe suggested, “for yer trouble?”
Guthrie snorted. “Ye really want out, don’t ye?” Raphe nodded. Guthrie studied him a moment, and then shrugged. “Like I said, it ain’t just about the blunt. And besides, ye owe me.”
Raphe’s eyebrows shot up. “How do ye figure that?”
“Because,” Guthrie said, “ordinarily, when a man doesn’t make good on ’is word, I’d find a way to punish ’im. But—considerin’ our ’istory, I’m only goin’ to ask for the fight.” He appeared to consider his nails. “I won’t even mention the fact that ye’re a duke, if that’ll ease the deal fer ye.”
“An’ if I refuse?”
Guthrie pinned him with an unforgiving glare. “After everythin’ I’ve done fer ye? Or ’ave ye forgotten that I was the one who provided ye an’ yer sisters with food an’ a place to sleep at night after ye lost yer ’ome? Ye’d be dead in the street if it weren’t fer me, laddy, or worse, yer sisters would be gettin’ paid to lie on their backs.”
“Bastard!”
“That I ain’t,” Guthrie said, “but I do take care o’ me own.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Everythin’ trickles down, ye know. St. Giles depends on me an’ on the protection I offer. If the Bull wins that fight, it’s a win fer Bartholomew too. ’e’ll take over—toss me out, an’ then where will we be?”
A Most Unlikely Duke Page 19