Charles glanced about the terrace at his companions—his veryunwelcomecompanions: the angry couple, the sneering rake, and the young woman whom he’d thought unremarkable at first but, perhaps, if the events of tonight were orchestrated, deserved some praise for her efforts, even if they were driven by greed.
But the expression in her eyes showed neither greed nortriumph—only horror.
Sir Heath let out a bark of laughter that grated on Charles’s senses, so reminiscent it was of the braying taunts of the boys who’d tormented him at Eton. Sir Heath would have been just such a boy at school—attaching himself to the vilest creatures to inflate his sense of self-worth by preying on those he deemed weaker than he. Doubtless he’d been the kind of boy who took pleasure in tormenting kittens and pulling the wings off flies.
The urge to remove the smile from the man’s face threatened to overcome Charles, swelling higher than the need to extract himself from the clutches of a grasping harpy.
Ifshe were a harpy.
The young woman he’d been holding in his arms earlier stared at him, a plea in her that even the most dim-witted soul could understand.
Please, no…
Her distress was so potent he could almost taste it. But it would be nothing to the distress she suffered were the scandal reported in the papers.
Charles closed his eyes for a moment, and the image of his beautiful horse filled his mind—before being slaughtered at Whitcombe’s hands. There was no doubt that the duke would carry out his threat. The man had a reputation for implacability. Perhaps, in another lifetime, the two of them might have been friends. Inthislifetime, it was better to have such as man as a brother-in-law rather than an enemy.
Cursing his fate, Charles met Whitcombe’s gaze and nodded, slowly.
The anger in Whitcombe’s eyes morphed into relief. Charles glanced about the terrace, taking some consolation in Sir Heath’s evident disappointment. That vile reprobate would have to find others to torment.
But the disappointment in Sir Heath’s eyes was nothing in comparison to the cold fury in the duchess’s vivid green gaze. She stared at Charles, her mouth set in a firm line. Then she blinked and turned her attention to the young woman—Charles’s betrothed.
Shit.My betrothed.
But perhaps it was not all bad. He needed a wife, and tonight’s events had, at least, saved him the bother of having to play the gallant suitor. Whitcombe was wealthy enough to give the girl a substantial dowry, and the threat of scandal might persuade him to increase it.
For the first time Charles permitted himself to indulge in a little optimism, which faded as he set eyes upon his fiancée.
The duchess pulled the girl close. “Hush, dearest, all will be well.”
“B-but I don’t like him.”
The young woman glanced at Charles and flinched.
“You’ve no need tolikehim,” the duke said. “Just marry him.” Then he offered his hand to Charles. “Well?”
Charles held his hand out, and Whitcombe took it in a firm grip—a sign of domination, though Charles could have easily crushed the duke’s hand if he wished.
“I shall await you in my study at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Whitcombe said. “I trust you’ll be on time.”
Charles withdrew his hand and nodded.
“Very well. Now, take my sister’s hand in honor of your pledge.”
“Brother!” the young woman said. “MustI?”
Whitcombe stared at Sir Heath before fixing his gaze on the girl. “Yes, you must. And you know why.”
Before he could stop himself, Charles found himself reaching for her, as if his body sought to have her in his arms once more.
“Olivia, take his hand,” Whitcombe said, an edge to his voice.
Olivia…
So that was her name.
Lady Olivia Whitcombe. A respectable enough name for hisintended. At least John would approve, and doubtless the valet would fall for her doe-eyed act of innocence.
