Gregory gave her brother a quick, cool once-over, then put the full force of his focus—and charm—on the rightful recipients.
“Lady St. John. Viscountess St. John, it is a pleasure and honor.” Gregory sketched a sweeping bow. “Please forgive my late appearance.”
Both women sank into the curtsy his rank merited.
Awkwardness hung over the exchange. Daria shifted on her feet. In fairness, most exchanges for Daria were uncomfortable, but this one was more than most.
Ever the regal hostess, the founder of London’s infamous Mismatch Society, Sylvia found her voice. “Your Grace, welcome to our…home and…” Alas, even regal hostesses faltered. “Family?” the question that crept into her voice cast serious doubt upon the family’s reception.
With a look of death in Clayton’s always calm gaze, he stood. “Do tell me, what prevented such a devoted husband from accompanying his young bride for such a meeting with her family? Hiding behind your wife?”
Daria scowled. “That is unf—” Her eyes landed on her husband, and she forgot her redress.
With his arms clasped loosely behind him and a tight smile on his lips, Gregory had his steel-hard, icy ducal focus on her brother.
The two men sized one another up. In sheer physicality, Clayton out-measured Daria’s husband by several stones and inches, but what Gregory lacked in size, he made up for—and then some—with a dangerous, disciplined grace.
“Your sister,my wife…” The noticeable emphasis he put on those two words brought Clayton’s eyes narrowing. “Asked to speak alone with you. And as a gentleman, I honored her request.” Gregory scraped a punishing stare over the viscount. “But let me be clear, St. John, if you disparage her so, if you call herdifferent, as some equivocal praise or indiscriminate adulation, they will be the last words you speak to her or in front of her ever again.”
Like a trout out of water, Clayton’s mouth moved before he finally found his voice. “Daria is my sister! I love her as if she were of my own loins—”
“And as such, you will honor the lady with words befitting that devotion.” Gregory quirked an eyebrow. “Is that what you intend to say? No need, St. John. A mere affirmation that you’ve heard my warning and understand will suffice.”
All manner of people spoke ill of her. She’d grown accustomed to the stares and unkindness. Her brother had never been included amongst the ranks of the cruel. All the same, a traitorous warmth like liquid sunshine spread through Daria, and it appeared to be contagious.
Just beyond Gregory’s shoulder, her mother and Sylvia stared with softer, much less sad eyes at Daria’s new husband.
Ignoring Clayton’s mutterings, the dowager viscountess held her gloved hands out in an invitation. “Your Grace,” she greeted, half-way across the room, “it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” As soon as she’d realized what she said, distress flickered across her face.
Gregory collected her mother’s hand and bent as low as he would for the queen. “The pleasure is entirely mine, my lady.”
As pleasantries were exchanged, Clayton hung on the perimeter, seething and silent.
“Please, may I ring for refreshments.” Sylvia gestured to the sofa framed between the armchairs at the viscount’s desk.
“That won’t be necessary, as we must be leaving.” Gregory softened that rejection with a smile.
It didn’t help.
“N-Now?” Daria stammered.
It is moving too fast.
Her mother’s composure finally broke. “S-so soon?”
What did you expect?
Tears filled Sylvia’s eyes.
What, did you believe the Duke of Argyll would want to sit and become friendly with your big, noisy family?
Clayton slid his fingers into his wife’s. The love and support tendered struck a place in Daria’s heart. Somewhere near that, a spot that existed which keenly felt other people’s suffering and sorrow as if it were her own.
You are nothing to him…
Her fingers reflexively curled into fists and she scratched at the smooth surface of her palms.
And perhaps in some small, or maybe even large, part it was because this proved to be the moment when it hit Daria with all the weight of a runaway carriage—this was goodbye. From his moment, she’d cease to share the walls, halls, and regular laughter and stories with these people. The ones who loved her and knew her most…and best.
