Now more than ever. Her somber garb stood in stark contrast to Celeste’s burgundy velvet—a tactless splash of color amid the golden brocades of the drapery, wallpaper, and furniture—and her mother’s hair. Moreover, it had been bad enough to think of Celeste receiving a group of people when by rights the house should be closed in mourning. Even worse to realize her mother entertained only a single gentleman.
She had no shame, though Piper bore enough in that moment for them both.
Celeste’s guest stood near the fireplace, his elbow propped nonchalantly on the mantel, a glass of champagne dangling from his hand. Though he appeared to be at least two score years or more, his golden blond hair, chiseled visage, and crystal blue eyes bespoke ageless, angelic masculinity.
“Your Grace, may I present my daughter, Lady Phillipa Brudenall.” The moniker broke through the bedazzled haze most any handsome man could cast over a young lady of seventeen years, and Piper winced. The proper name it might be, however, she far preferred the nickname her brother had blessed her with years ago.
The manner in which her mother addressed her guest also sunk in to give her pause.
A duke.
True, Celeste cared for rank and wealth above all else. She’d possessed both when she’d wed Piper’s father, Robert Brudenall, after his beloved first wife passed away. Playing on his wife’s dying wish that he provide a mother for their son, she’d finagled her way into his life, his bed, and matrimony. In that order, if the whispers Piper had heard over the years were true.
Her subsequent marriage to Sedmouth had been a step down despite his fortune, and Celeste had never let him forget it. Since his unexpected death five days ago, Celeste had shed the title of viscountess, which she considered low and therefore distasteful, in favor of her former and far loftier one, Marchioness of Aylesbury—the title she preferred far above any other she’d obtained thus far in life.
Including that ofmother.
Or rather, mother of a mere daughter.
Condemnation of Piper’s egregious choice to be born female rather than male had rung like a monotonous chorus in her ears for the bulk of her life. It had been the sole purpose of her existence, after all, and put quite the damper on Celeste’s plans to set her offspring ahead of Piper’s half-brother Harry, laws of primogeniture be damned.
Her grandiose ambitions knew no bounds. In all likelihood, the duke before her would soon sacrifice his stately title to Celeste’s schemes.
His grace offered a lazy smile, as oblivious as a lamb out to slaughter. The poor wretch had no idea what he was getting himself into by keeping Celeste’s company.
“Phillipa,” her mother continued, “this is Ambrose Waldegrave, Duke of Rutledge.”
Not just any duke. An edgy chill summoned by the Rutledge name dashed away whatever admiration for his fine good looks might have lingered. Even at the finishing school she’d attended until the previous year, she’d heard rumors of the scurrilous Duke of Rutledge.
Casting her eyes downward, she studied the intricate pattern inlaid into the wood floors. The Greek key design in light and dark tones began just beyond her toe. Inside that border, interwoven golden circles and rosy cherry squares spread like a carpet. Or as she’d often fancied, stepping stones across a bubbling creek. Now, they were planks traversing the hell fires below…with the devil on the other side.
Rutledge pushed away from the fireplace and strolled toward her. His assessing stare raked her from head to toe and the urge to flee besieged Piper.
Who was the innocent lamb in the room now?
He took her limp, icy hand and bowed over it. “My lady. A pleasure.”
Piper said nothing. Her mother might be able to force her presence but she couldn’t compel conversation. A far better excuse than admitting she feared no sound would emerge from her suddenly parched throat.
Nothing of the wolf Piper had heard him to be reflected in Rutledge’s beatific smile as he studied her. She might have been inclined to dismiss the rumors of his unscrupulous nature if his direct scrutiny hadn’t made her flesh crawl. Dead fish bore more emotion than he.
This man was no pawn. His ruthlessness was legendary. As conniving as Celeste was, she couldn’t hold a candle to Rutledge’s reputation.
“Rarely have I found rumors to bear any truth,” he said so abruptly, Piper feared he’d read her mind. “What a pleasure to confirm those regarding your beauty weren’t exaggerated. You’ve the most vibrant eyes, my dear girl. Like the skies of heaven.”
A nauseating quiver slithered through her as he clasped her hand between his, his thumb caressing her palm. He might resemble an angel, though by all accounts, he’d never get a glimpse past the pearly gates. Piper tugged; he didn’t release her.
“Duke?” Celeste’s tone hardened. “You’ve seen her and I can readily see you approve. Have we a bargain, then?”
Rutledge cocked his head, his pale gaze never leaving Piper. “We do.”
A rustling of papers drew Piper’s attention, even if it didn’t sway his, and she turned to see her mother fanning a sheaf of parchment atop a nearby table. A pen and ink stood at the ready. The reality of what transpired under her nose seized Piper with all the rage that had assailed her for days.
She knew that her mother had pinned high hopes on her marriageability. Not that she differed from any other society matron of thetonwith an eligible daughter to marry off. Many, including her dearest friend Jane’s mother, aspired to a great match. Winning her daughter a duchess’s tiara would be a social coup for Celeste. Admittedly, somewhere in her childish fantasies, Piper had dreamed of the same.
But not yet. Not now.
Over the past year, she’d often overheard her mother badger Sedmouth to arrange an advantageous marriage for her daughter. He always refused to hear of it, saying Piper was deserving of a Season or two before such serious matters were considered. To have her mother coordinate this, days after his death when she’d already thrown propriety to the wind, was too much. Piper wouldn’t have it.
