The bachelor duke knew enough to bow his head.
“Furthermore, why the hell are you still here?” Argyll snarled. “I would like a meeting alone with my wife.”
He caught the glance that passed between Daria and Rothesby.
I am going to burn this blasted townhouse to the ground and use Rothesby as kindling.
Her fingers betrayed her distress—so did the telling way her index fingers worried at her thumbs.
Instinctively, he wanted to reach out and still her, to keep her from breaking the skin and then soothing it with her mouth.
Daria pushed herself onto one knee to rise.
Rothesby reached out to assist her.
“Get your hands off my damned wife, Rothesby,” Argyll hissed.
Stalking forward, he caught Daria at the waist, fury burning through him as he set her on her feet.
Dead. Forget dawn, pistols, or rapiers—Argyll would tear the bachelor duke apart with his bare hands.
“Gregory,” Daria’s voice reached him gently. “Lord Rothesby and I are friends.”
Friends? “You go back some time, do you?” Argyll jeered.
Daria blinked slowly. “Why, yes.”
That brought him up short.
Argyll opened his mouth. Then closed it. Opened it again.
Daria sighed, like some beleaguered governess who had dispensed the same lesson too many times. “I’ve told you—”
He closed his eyes. A low, ironical laugh built in his chest. How could he forget?
“You are friends with rakes.”
“Beg pardon,” the dark-haired duke took it in stride. “I prefer to think of myself as a rogue.”
“Oh, hush, Rothesby. They are one and the same.”
His wife turned and made a point of including Argyll.
“We had quite a laugh over our now holding the same rank. Isn’t that right, Rothesby?”
“It’s the only thing to do with the title.” Grinning, Rothesby jerked his chin Argyll’s way.
Knowing he had to do something—becausethey were including him—he nodded, slightly unevenly.
To think that day he had jeered Daria’s lack of familiarity with rakes, only to learn she knew most of them by name. The ease with which she scolded the duke spoke to their familiarity, and…and—Argyll appeared to be the last rake in London who had never known the pleasure of sitting in Daria’s presence.
A sad thought, that.
It crept into his chest—an impossibility that demanded he consider the what ifs.
How easily it might have been Rothesby she’d approached. Any feckless rake would do…
“…I saw us, Gregory. From the start. I saw your office and the people present the day we were married…”
