His stomach roiled.
My God, he was not a man given to violence against a woman, but if he were…
Daria’s voice cut softly through. “Are you saying you were once my husband’s lover?”
A knife-like sensation ripped through his chest. There was no one else more direct and less inclined for word games than his wife.
“He does favor the forbidden.” The dowager smiled quietly. The lust in her eyes, that came from hurting the young woman before them, blazed bright.
“Daria,” he said, his voice coming thick.
Ignoring him, she tipped her head and continued conversing with the worst woman in the world.
And Argyll was the worst man.
He was ashamed.
“You must have been very young when you married the duke,” Daria said softly, catching the other woman off guard.
Catching Argyll off-guard.
The dowager duchess’s lips moved like a fish sucking in air.
She found her voice. “I was eighteen. No different than any of us,” she said huffily, shooting another pointed look at Daria.
“You are likely near an age to His Grace, no? I suspect you are maybe two or three years younger than my husband.”
High heat flooded his stepmother’s plump cheeks. “I am two years older,” she said, her admission stiffly reluctant and likely only given because she knew Argyll would’ve been all too happy to set the matter straight.
“And so, when you married my husband’s father and struck up a relationship with him, he mustn’t have been but fifteen or sixteen. And you were a grown woman, married and pursuing your stepson.” Daria declined her head. “That does not strike me in good form, or moral, Your Grace. Now if you’ll step out of my way, I find I really don’t like you.”
Cheeks afire, the dowager sputtered. “How dare you insult me?”
“Forgive me.” Argyll’s tone was level, almost bored. “I favor the truth—and I forgot you are a woman of low moral character.”
With a thin, animal shriek, she lunged.
She stumbled—but not before Argyll stepped between his father’s late wife and the woman who was now his own. Braver. Bolder.His.
Daria moved, retreating as he caught the dowager duchess, her strength feral, surprising. He restrained her, muscle locked, breath measured.
And yet—
His attention fixed on Daria.
Their gazes met.
Her eyes held his. Dark. Too intent. Haunted.
She mouthed something.
His grip tightened as he strained to read her lips. What was she saying?
His heart lurched violently. Pain tore through his chest as the world narrowed to her alone.
The prophecy.
Time fractured—one endless, merciless moment in which he knew only this: he was too far.
