DuMond, never lifting his gaze from Lady Faith, angled his head slowly—without breaking contact—until he looked directly at Argyll.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Argyllwasspoiling for a fight. Craved it. There was a whole volcano of coiled tension inside him, and throwing fists felt like the only thing that might release it. At least, at present.
The other thing—the only thing he truly wanted—was to bury himself deep inside his new wife.
Bride, he corrected grimly, grinding his teeth.
She was still his bride.
“Your Grace?”
Argyll cursed violently and jumped. At some point—while he’d been lost, yet again, in thoughts of his vexing wife—the lovebirds had ceased their murmured cooing. Lady Faith and DuMond now stood near the front of the room.
Without a word, Argyll reached for the door handle, intent on expediting her departure.
DuMond clamped a hand over his, broad, unyielding, and strong enough to halt him with ease.
“Answer the lady,” DuMond said, his voice silk…and menace, for those inclined to hear it.
Argyll and DuMond had enjoyed plenty of rows during boyhood—and later, at university—where they had tested their respective skill in the fighting ring. Argyll had always emerged the victor.
The only person I wish to come out on top of…
He cut the thought off and sketched a bow DuMond could not fault.
“Good day, Lady Faith,” he said smoothly.
Marquess and marchioness exchanged one of those private looks—known only to the happily married—that Argyll rather despised.
Lady Faith cleared her throat. “I asked after the duchess.”
“What of her?” Argyll snapped, his brows drawing together.
“I would say out of politeness,” she replied, in a cloying sweetness clearly designed to grate. “But I am concerned for the lady, as she’s married you.”
“She is fine,” he bit out. “Better than fine.”
He knew precisely what Lady Faith was about: provoking him for sport. Well, she and her besotted husband had already had more than their fill.
“Splendid,” the irritating love of his friend’s life said, a small smile dancing on her lips. “Every bride wishes to be…fine. Or—how did you put it?Better than fine—the day after her wedding.”
Argyll’s nostrils flared.
This time, DuMond neatly edged him away from the door and ushered his wife outside with efficient haste. Even the most devoted husband knew when his wife had pressed too far.
The instant she was gone, DuMond turned the lock.
“Well?”
Fine. Better than fine.What a bloody answer. Lady Faith had been right to find amusement in it.
Argyll did not wait for an invitation. He strode to the sideboard, surveying his options.
He selected DuMond’s best bottle, wrenched the cork free with his teeth, spat it to the floor, and downed a solid quarter in one pull.
