Daria’s pulse renewed its frantic drum. Not out of fear, but from a sudden discovery that there’d be no closing the curtains on.
He donned a veneer of insouciance the same way masquerading gentleman did dominos. He’d let his mask slip and revealed a protected corner of his soul.
“He is the worst rake!”
It is a façade.
Gregory Goodheart, the Duke of Argyll, was a veritable Vitruvian Man, and himself the artist behind the masterpiece. Unlike all the women riveted by his good looks and dashing nature, Daria found herself compelled by the enigmatic mystery about him.
As if he felt her scrutiny, Gregory angled his head quick, too swift for Daria to glance away.
His eyes collided with Daria’s.
His broad shoulders encased in the finest black wool coat went taut.
“It is not his fault,” she whispered her revelation aloud, trapped by the energy passing between them. “Stop.”
Did she seek to silence herself in seeing more in the man she was about to marry or the noisy spectators?
Gregory’s gaze pillaged her spiraling thoughts, turbulent wonderings, and the emotions she could not name. It mocked her. In a silent dare? Or a blitheness as fabricated as the rest of his persona?
Lady Raina raised her voice to be heard in the fray. “If they are each here of their own choosing, I see no need to do so in such a clandestine—”
“Stop!” Daria’s cry peeled around the duke’s crowded office.
Panicked, Daria glanced around at the powerful peers and peeresses she’d silenced. She dragged her sharp thumbnail along the soft pad of her index finger and fixed on that distracting motion. It didn’t have the calming effect it usually did.
She landed herself in a place she’d never been and never wanted to be—at the center of people’s focus.
And once you say your vows this day, a place you are destined to remain until you die…
The tremble that started in her legs moved quickly to the rest of her limbs.
“Daria?” Delia asked with a sister’s gentleness.
Daria flexed her palms to keep from shredding up the flesh of her finger.
Perspiration slicked her palms while the moisture left her mouth. “I said…stop,” she repeated tonelessly. “I am here of my own will.” Daria glanced at her marked finger and swiftly placed them behind her back to hide the violent shaking.
Their wedding guests slid subtly dubious glances around at one another. Why, even his closest friends and partners, Lord Rutherford and Lord Kilburn’s features cast doubt upon her claims.
What did it say about the people in Gregory’s life? How…lonely. How sad.
“Gregory has not coerced me,” she repeated with greater force. “There is nothing at play here.”
Delia took her lightly by the wrist. “Daria,” she murmured.
Inspired by Lady Millie’s earlier spirit, Daria freed herself of that manacle. “You will disrespect him so?” she asked the room at large.
Gregory’s family and friends looked properly chagrined.
It wasn’t enough.
She looked to her bridegroom. Silently, Daria compelled him to take them to task as only a duke surely could.
With an air of boredom, Gregory lifted a single shoulder in a shrug that said her defense was neither needed nor wanted.
Daria firmed her jaw. By God, she was a Kearsley. Kearsleys stood with Kearsleys, and in marrying Daria, Gregory became one of them too.
