This was the love his wife spoke of.
This is why she gave the Kearsleys her devotion and heart.
Because they were deserving of it.
After he’d made arrangements for his necessary departure, Argyll went to save his wife.
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.
