“Let them look.”
As Conrad lifted her hand to his lips, her ring caught the light and blazed with purple fire. If that wasn’t sufficient proof of his claim, the matching sapphire-and-diamond necklace draped around her throat surely was. The modiste had dressed Gigi in violet taffeta, which heightened the contrast between her raven hair and fair skin, bringing out her vivid eyes. The elongated bodice clung lovingly to her slender torso, the full skirts swaying with her graceful movements. Gigi looked every inch the duchess she was, the kind of woman who made a fellow stand tall with pride to have her by his side.
“By the end of the night, the only topic of conversation will be how beautiful you are,” he murmured. “And what a lucky man I am.”
“I think your announcement might compete for attention.”
Hearing the ruffle of anxiety in her wry words, he said, “You do not have to do this with me. If you wish to go back to the carriage?—”
“I am not letting you do this alone.” Looking adorably outraged at the very idea, she straightened her shoulders, which were rimmed by sensual black lace. “I am ready when you are.”
She squeezed his hand, and he gripped hers. They were next to be announced, and when it was his turn, Conrad gave their names to the steward. At first, the fellow looked confused, but when Conrad gave him a commanding look, the fellow shrugged, probably assuming the name was a coincidence or that he was some distant relation.
“Lord Christian Beaufort and Lady Georgiana Beaufort,” the steward boomed.
Gasps and whispers erupted as Conrad led Gigi down the stairs. The moment they reached the dance floor, they were swarmed by guests buzzing with the need to know who he was and why Gigi, one of their own, bore his last name.
He ignored them, steering her through the throng toward his destination: a small group standing by a potted palm. Well, not all of them were standing. Conrad’s gaze was fixed on the man sitting in a grand, wheeled chair. Fashioned to look like a throne, it appeared to function like a gilded cage. Despite getting regular reports on his brother’s condition, Conrad felt a brief shock at the changes.
Robert’s once stately figure had shriveled. He was slumped in his seat, a blanket draped over his withered lap. His thick hair had been reduced to a few oily strands combed across his skull. The disease had carved into his flesh, leaving scars and collapsing his features. His nose, half-dissolved, left a gaping shadow where an arrogant, hawkish edge had once been. Yet his eyes were the same. Even though they were now covered in a dull film, Conrad saw recognition flare in those pitiless depths.
Robert’s wife, Lady Katerina, stood at his side. Dressed in an unflattering shade of pink, she was a tall, plain brunette who looked as if life had sucked the marrow from her. Deep lines were etched around her eyes and mouth. She watched Conrad like one watches a tiger escaped from its enclosure. Her eldest daughter, Lady Anne, was a younger, less depleted version of her and stood on the other side of Robert’s chair. Next to her was Harold Stockton, a short, balding fellow whose tailoring attested to the universal truth that wealth could not buy taste.
The final member of the cozy group…well, that was a surprise.
“Mr. Godwin.” Isobel Denton’s light laugh was no doubt intended for the surrounding guests, all of whom were avidly eavesdropping. “If this is meant to be a prank, it is far from amusing. You are interrupting an important occasion, the betrothal between Lady Anne and Mr. Stockton?—”
“That is precisely why I am here,” Conrad said. “I couldn’t miss such an important family occasion, could I…brother?”
He was ready for Robert to deny their connection. His Grace’s refutation would be meaningless, for Conrad had documents, meticulously compiled by Marvell: parish records and eyewitness testimonies that established who he was.
Robert bared his chapped lips, revealing teeth rotted at the roots.
“I always knew you would come back.” His words were raspy and effortful. “Like any mongrel, you are a survivor.”
“I’ve done more than survive,” Conrad said coolly. “I believe you are acquainted with my wife, Lady Georgiana Beaufort?”
Looking uncertain, Gigi nonetheless played her part with disarming charm.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Your Graces,” she said. “Lady Anne.”
“It is lovely to see you, Lady Gigi.” Lady Anne’s mouth pulled into a tight smile. “I haven’t yet thanked you for introducing me to the Chuddums Water Cure. It has worked wonders.”
When Gigi gave her a friendly nod, Conrad’s mood darkened. His family did not deserve kindness from his wife.
“Do you know why I am here?” Conrad asked.
Robert’s gaze darted, but even if he could run, there was no place to hide.
He grunted. “I suppose you’ve come to claim what is yours, brother.”
At the acknowledgement, gasps went up around the room.
Knowing he had won, Conrad expected to feel some sort of satisfaction. Instead, what he felt was coldness and rage. The wrongs Robert had committed against him crowded his head, banging against his skull. His temples pulsed. On the verge of regaining what was rightfully his, he found it wasn’t enough.
I must have justice. An eye for an eye. Your blood for every drop you took from me.
“As your heir and the soon-to-be Duke of Grantley, I came to apprise you of my plans,” he said. “For you see, brother, I will show your family the same courtesy you’ve shown me.”
