The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

by Janna MacGregor

  “Would you care to join us?” Terrified he’d ask a few pointed questions of her guests, she prayed he had other plans. “No doubt you have other engagements that you must be off to.”

  “I don’t. I’m waiting for my brother, McCalpin, to return to town tomorrow.…” His words trailed to nothing as he glanced around the room.

  When his eyes filled with a sudden fierce sparkling, it left little doubt there were fireworks in her future.

  “Southart, Happy Christmas,” William drawled in a voice that reminded her of hardened honey. “Farris? My God, how long has it been? Not since university when you were locked outside the dormitory without any clothing. Why aren’t you standing at some pulpit this morning bestowing words that we’re all doomed to hell and soon will be smelling brimstone?”

  Instead of being insulted, Devan beamed. With a wipe of his mouth, he threw down his serviette, then crossed the room and shook William’s hand. “Happy Christmas, my friend. I’m actually changing parishes next month. I wanted to enjoy London before I’m exiled to Northumberland or some remote desolated village in the outskirts of nowhere. Sit down and join us.”

  With his face frozen in a mask of indifference, Paul looked on but didn’t join the exchange.

  William locked his gaze with hers. “If I’m not interrupting?”

  “Of course, please join us.” She extended her hand to the chair next to Devan.

  William chose the chair at the end of the small rectangular table. From that angle, he had a clear view of everyone. Mrs. McBride set a plate service in front of him, but William waved her off. “Just tea for me.”

  Clearly uneasy he’d admitted William into the house, Tait loitered by the buffet, ready to be of service.

  Paul didn’t say a word. Instead of his prior relaxed pose, his posture had stiffened like a hound ready to attack. His normal radiant warmth was gone. In its place was nothing but ice.

  William completely ignored the chill in the room and took a sip of the tea that Mrs. McBride had served him. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed the three of them.

  After taking a long gander, Will turned his focus solely on her. “Tell me, Daphne, how is it that you’re spending Christmas at home alone without Pembrooke and Claire? Are they still at Pemhill?”

  Desperate to find the right words, she straightened in her chair and looked down at her plate. “Well, yes—”

  “I believe that Pembrooke and Lady Pembrooke are returning today.” Paul leaned back in his chair in challenge.

  “Paul, I can speak for myself.” She spoke quietly.

  “‘Paul’ is it?” William queried with an arched eyebrow.

  The tension in the room was palpable.

  “Yes, it is,” Daphne answered. She glanced from Paul to William. Both men were staring at each other like two bulls ready to fight.

  “I see. Of course, that makes perfect sense.” William smiled without any real humor. “You know what else I see?”

  Paul tilted his head. “Please enlighten us.”

  “My pleasure,” William said. “I see five people.” He pointed to Tait and his mother. “Two witnesses.” He directed his index finger at Devan. “A vicar.” Then he pointed first at Paul, then at her. “A groom and a bride. Is this the wedding breakfast?”

  Daphne stood. “What?”

  “Is this the wedding breakfast?” With an annoyingly earnest face, William enunciated the words carefully.

  “You are out of your bloody mind.” Paul stood beside her.

  “Then you married Tait?” William laughed at his own joke.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, William. It doesn’t become you.” Daphne let the rebuke sail across the table. She’d not let her perfect morning descend into the absurd.

  “Wait, Daph. Hear me out. You couldn’t have married Farris, as no one else in the room could have performed the ceremony,” William countered.

  “She didn’t marry me,” Paul growled.

  “I didn’t marry him.”

  She and Paul protested at the same time. Their voices combined into a litany that held a hint of guilt.

  “If you haven’t married and aren’t about to, I can only assume all is innocent here.” Holding Paul’s gaze, William issued the words as a challenge.

  With a stare that could have burned the entire house to the ground, Paul spit out the words, “You assumed correctly.”

  “Excellent.” William stood. “I’ll not keep you from your revelries.” He reached into his leather portfolio and extracted some papers. “I picked up two special editions of today’s Midnight Cryer. One for you and Emma. I pay attention. I know how you and she enjoy the scandals. I haven’t read it, so tell me if you find anything of interest.” When he reached the door, he handed the portfolio to Tait. William turned to Daphne and pointed to the mistletoe over his head. “Shall we share a Christmas kiss like we always do?”

  Flames of heat were the only things kissing her cheeks at that moment. Without looking at Paul, she made her way to William. She tilted her cheek for a peck.

  “I’ll not see him hurt you like he did Claire. He will not dally with you, then throw you aside. We’ll make him think you’re mine,” William murmured under his breath. Then without warning, he took her in his arms and swept her into a kiss.

  Startled, she pushed him away. She’d expected a brotherly kiss, but this was anything but. Though Lord William Cavensham was a handsome man, Daphne felt nothing for the kiss—certainly not like Paul’s incendiary kisses. “I don’t need protection from him.”

  William released her. With a devilish grin, his gaze flew to Paul’s and settled. “You look like a lid on a pot on the verge of exploding from the heat.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry, Daph, but you’re family. Trust me.”

  Without warning, William tried to kiss her again.

  “Don’t.” She deftly turned in such a manner that he kissed her cheek. “He will not hurt me.”

  “Get. Your. Hands. Off. Her.” Paul’s words were eerily quiet, but there was no denying the menace in his voice. “She doesn’t want you to kiss her.”

  “Do you think she wants to kiss you?” William’s voice was uncharacteristically innocent. Everyone in the room was aware that the tone was purely to infuriate Paul.

  “William, stop. He’s a guest in my home,” Daphne whispered.

  William’s attention turned to her. “You better hope your brother doesn’t discover what you’ve done. It’ll become the most popular bet at White’s tomorrow, I’ll wager.”

  “What are you talking about?” Devan asked.

  William held her gaze as he answered the question. “Whether Pembrooke locks Daphne up or kills Southart first.”

  “Lady Daphne, I’ll see Lord William to the door.” Paul stood and walked toward them as if nothing were amiss. But the clenched muscles of his jaw revealed the extent of his dismay.

  William nodded his farewell to Devan and then to her. The smirk on his face foretold that he was looking forward to his conversation with Paul. She rushed to follow them both to ensure no blood was drawn.

  “Lady Daphne, leave them be.” The graveness in Devan’s smoky whisper caused her to jerk his gaze to him. “You should see this.” He raised his head from the edition of The Midnight Cryer.

  She made her way to his side while a deep foreboding sprouted like a noxious weed in her stomach. All thoughts to follow Paul were forgotten. Without a word, she took the paper from Devan’s hands.

  Her worst nightmare lay before her in black and white.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE MIDNIGHT CRYER’S SPECIAL CHRISTMAS EDITION

  Gentle readers, we have a gift for you.

  For the pleasure of your Christmas celebration, we’d like to share with you a page out of the diary of a young woman who supposedly lives in Mayfair. We just purchased the entry late last night proving Christmas miracles do occur! We don’t know her identity just yet, but let’s just say … we won’t leave any stone unturned
until we unmask her. We strive for excellence in our pursuit of the truth. Never fear! Once we have her name, we’ll let you know her identity immediately.

  Suddenly, Daphne regretted eating that last tart, as her stomach rolled itself into knots. Struggling for composure, she swallowed her nausea and made her eyes focus on the next paragraph.

  Without warning, he swept me from the garden path into the shade of several trees. With a sweep of his arm, he pushed aside the branches of a stately willow heavy with an abundance of leaves. I took his hand and pulled him close. My finger traced the beautiful outline of his cheeks until I found the scar, the only imperfection on his right cheek, the only flaw on his beautiful face. With ice-blue eyes, he studied me. He caught my hand and brought it to his lips. His touch caused the sweetest hunger, a longing that only he could assuage.

  “I’ll forever find myself beholden to that magpie.” He touched his lips to the pulse on my wrist.

  How long had we been parted!

  I slid my hand around his neck and pulled him close. My lips mated with his as I unbuttoned his coat. I would not allow this opportunity to fall through my fingers. He was my lover. We’d been parted for days, and I hungered for his forbidden touch—for his body. With deft hands, he unbuttoned my gown.

  Gentle reader, did this titillating entry capture your interest? We hope so, as we’re actively negotiating the purchase of the rest of this scandalous diary from a longtime informant, an intrepid young boy who came about this journal honestly. He has a nose for business and promises that the book is filled with similar entries. There’s mention of even more dishonorable family secrets.

  Today’s question begs an answer. Would she seduce him? Would a lady really have allowed such liberties from a “forbidden” man?

  Alas, whoever she is, the fact remains—she’s already ruined! We’ll reveal her name as soon as we’re able. No man should be saddled with such a scandalous sinner.

  She audibly gasped at the ugly words. Unable to breathe, she stood still like the wooden maiden in Bernini’s statute of Apollo and Daphne. She tried to swallow her humiliation, but her throat turned drier than a dusty toll road. She clenched her hands into fists to stave off the threatening tears.

  “You’re writing about Southart, aren’t you?” Devan stood and faced her. “I asked him about the scar once, and he told me a magpie attacked him.”

  She couldn’t answer him or shake her head to deny such a statement. But to acknowledge the truth would destroy her and so many others.

  “Your secret is safe with me.” He took her hands in his and squeezed. “My God, you’re terrified. I promise, I’ll not say a word.”

  “I’m ruined.” Somehow, she forced the words out. Her voice sounded muffled, buried six feet under in a cave.

  “No. You’re not. Southart will understand.” Devan smiled.

  It was one of those compassionate smiles a vicar is known for—the ones she grew to despise after her sister’s death. Smiles intended to be sympathetic but, in reality, made one furious, since the giver had no clue what the definition of real pain entailed.

  Yet she believed Devan truly was concerned for her situation. The genuine warmth in his eyes was designed to soothe and calm.

  “That’s not what I’m concerned about.” She lowered her hands from his and wrapped her arms about her waist.

  Devan shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “If other pages are published, my entire family will be destroyed.” A sob threatened, but she refused to allow it to escape. It wouldn’t help matters. She had to think. Too much was at stake.

  Paul entered the room. His face was calm, but the flash of his eyes betrayed his ire with William. He wouldn’t handle any teasing from Devan. She could imagine his reaction if she shared the news that The Midnight Cryer had revealed one of her diary entries about him.

  Paul joined them, but when his gaze captured hers it was apparent she was his only concern. “What’s happened?”

  Unable to find the words to answer, she gazed at Devon, who smiled in encouragement. With a single small movement, she shook her head. Not now. She couldn’t have that conversation now. She’d hoped she never had to share her writings and the accompanying embarrassment with the Duke of Southart.

  Ever.

  Yet over the years, Daphne’s hopes and her inevitable reality had never proved good bedfellows. Her hand had been forced by the despicable gossip rag The Midnight Cryer. For the sake of their friendship, she had to tell Paul. If anyone discovered she’d written about him, his own reputation could be in jeopardy.

  “Mr. Farris, would you mind if I have a private word with His Grace?”

  * * *

  Without saying a word, Paul followed Daphne into the sitting room where they had opened their presents together. Their earlier merrymaking was long forgotten. Instead, an icy fear twined around her heart under his steady scrutiny. Silently, she handed him the article and waited for the inevitable.

  She didn’t have to wait long for her grief to rear its ugly head.

  Like a thief, memories of Alice stole into her conscience. When she was unhappy or worried, her thoughts always circled back to Alice. Seeking some distance to control her wayward emotions, Daphne stood in front of the mantle with her back to the blazing fire that failed to keep the cold at bay.

  She should be able to manage the pain now. Years had passed since Alice’s death, but it simply wasn’t enough. Daphne had concluded that even eternity wouldn’t promise any peace from the sorrow.

  Paul’s eyes widened as his eyes scanned the page. He gently shook his head as if denying what he was reading. Finally, the agonizing moment was over, and he placed it on the table before him. She had to keep her feet planted to stop herself from picking it up and hurling it into the fireplace.

  “Are you shocked? Revolted?” The anticipation of waiting for his answer made her want to shatter into a million pieces.

  “Neither.” He arched a brow as only a duke could.

  Whether it was a show of haughtiness or arrogance, it was difficult to determine. It made little difference at this point. Whether he was disgusted with her or not, she was repulsed by her own actions.

  “I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. I always considered myself the consummate seducer, but you certainly have surpassed my capabilities with what you’ve written here.” Suddenly, he grinned, and his ice-blue eyes caught the light. “You must teach me some lessons, I see.”

  He wanted her to laugh, but her grief was too powerful. “It’s not a laughing matter, Your Grace.”

  His grin slowly disappeared. He stared at her in such a manner that she felt as if he could see every lurid and wicked thought she’d ever possessed. The urge to hide grew, but she curled her toes in her slippers, preventing her escape. She forced herself to stare back.

  “When did you write this?” His simple question and nonchalance pushed open Pandora’s box, spilling all the burdens Daphne had carried for years.

  “Several months after Alice died.” All she could do was shake her head, hoping to control the surge of grief that flooded her thoughts. The cold gripped her, causing everything within her to still. He had read one of her intimate fantasies, a fiction about the two of them that she’d created out of her vivid imagination. She should be hotter than an inferno with total humiliation. Instead, she stood frozen waiting to crack in two. “It’s completely inadequate, but all I can offer you is my sincerest apology.”

  “Why?” he asked in a calm voice. “Why did you write it?”

  She smoothed the nap of her velvet skirt, then forced herself to look at him. “I found it comforting. You were always so kind to me. Then when you and Alex had a falling-out, writing about you and me together like that … was a way of lashing out against everyone. You weren’t welcomed by my family anymore, and I could say anything I wanted to you in the journal. You were a safe haven from my grief.”

  “Much like forbidden fruit?” With his gentle gaze, h
e searched her face for answers—if only she had them.

  She shrugged. “You were a fond memory from days long ago. But I’ve put your reputation into jeopardy. I wouldn’t blame you if you went to Martin Richmond—” Suddenly, her mortification at what she’d done burned through her, replacing her earlier cold. Unable to withstand any more, she turned and stared at the fire. She wouldn’t shed a tear—she’d done that a thousand times without any resolution to her guilt or its faithful companion, grief. “I’ll not ask your forgiveness, as I cannot forgive myself.”

  Suddenly, strong arms that promised comfort, a safe sanctuary, surrounded her. As desperate as she was, she’d take everything and anything he offered.

  “Daphne. I would never be disloyal to you.” His deep voice rumbled as if he, too, suffered. Without thought, she turned and buried her head against his chest. His embrace was an escape from the pain.

  One tear broke free for the loss of her best friend, her sister. Another tear joined the first as she grieved for her sister’s reticence in not sharing all the humiliation and pain she must have suffered.

  His arms tightened around her, but it didn’t lessen the agony. The wound Daphne battled every day had the power to twist her insides until she felt completely annihilated. How fitting that it reared its ugly head with a vengeance and attacked on this almost perfect Christmas Day.

  Not only would she not forgive herself, but she’d also never forgive Alice.

  She’d never forgive her one and only sister, the sole person with whom she had shared every secret, every hope, and every fear she’d ever possessed. She’d never forgive Alice for not being there for all the events that made life special. They were supposed to share their Seasons, celebrate their marriages, coo over each other’s babies, and write letters to each other in their doddering old age.

  Daphne’s biggest heartache, the most deceitful and disloyal act that Alice had committed, could never be undone or forgiven.

  Never.

  Alice had never told her why or said good-bye. Numbness slowly washed away the pain, and she could breathe again. The comfort of his arms was heaven, but she couldn’t stay there forever. He deserved the whole truth, no matter how horrible. She owed him that much. “But there’s more you need to know.”