“If you have the breath in your lungs to endlessly gripe at me, then you can manage just fine. Leave it alone,” the irritating lad commanded, and would not let him touch a single fold. Horace even had the audacity to yell at him when he happened to sit down on his coattails. “Get up! What are you, a barbarian? You’ll wrinkle the jacket!”
“Bloody blazes!” Gideon shot to his feet. “Must you fuss? I hired you as a valet, not an alewife.”
“Fine, be that way. Why should I care? Just because this is your first ball and the most important moment in Lady Berry’s life? But go ahead and ruin it for her. Leave her in tears because you do not know how to properly protect your clothing. It isn’t as though she is the kindest, sweetest, most darling lady in all of London. It isn’t as though she deserves better than an oaf of a betrothed who walks around in wrinkled clothes.”
His friends were all laughing, which only encouraged Horace.
But Gideon did not mind. Horace adored Berry, and he was right. This evening was very important for her. His every step was going to be watched and every misstep reported in all the papers. He was even wearing fancy evening shoes that pinched his feet tighter than the deuced cravat that was strangling his neck.
“You must tell me what Lady Berry is wearing,” Horace pleaded, folding his hands as though praying. “Take down every detail.”
Well, that wasn’t going to happen. What did Gideon know about gowns other than how to slip them off ladies?
But he nodded. “Sure, Horace.”
Since Lord Berwick’s carriage had been damaged during the abduction, Gideon collected him and his wife in his own carriage, after which they rode to Duchess Square to pick up Berry.
“Blessed saints,” he murmured when she greeted him at the front door.
She looked like a dream in white silk and lace. Only the trace of a bruise could be seen on her forehead. Gideon was surprised she had not tried to cover it up with powder.
“Oh, no,” she said as he assisted her into the seat beside Lady Berwick. “I want people to notice the bruise and remember what Lord Hawthorne did to me.”
“The wretched cur is in prison now,” Lady Berwick said with a satisfied nod. “Where he deserves to be for the next fifteen years. I am certain his family had a say in his sentencing, because he would have been placed under house detention otherwise and received a shorter term.”
“He is such an odious man,” Lord Berwick muttered. “He got what he had coming.”
“He ought to have been hanged for what he did to you, my dear.” Lady Berwick cast her husband a loving look. “And to you as well, my dear Berry.”
“Unfortunately, he will be released sooner if he becomes a marquess,” Berry pointed out.
“One can only hope that will never come to pass,” Lord Berwick grumbled. “And speaking of inheritances, I have news for you about Broadingham’s heirs.”
Berry leaned forward in her seat. “What have the duke’s solicitors found out?”
Gideon tensed. He had yet to accustom himself to the possibility of a child of his being in line to become a duke or duchess. Not to mention, Berry herself might become a duchess.
“There were two potential heirs that we knew of, but one has died without leaving any surviving issue. The other heir has been found…”
“And?” Gideon and Berry asked at the same time.
“The poor man is on his deathbed and not expected to last the year.”
“Oh dear,” Berry said with genuine concern. “Any children?”
“Yes, he has three children…but they are stepchildren. Not blood related.”
Gideon let out a breath. “What are you saying?”
Berry’s eyes were wide as saucers as she awaited the impossible response. “No, it cannot be.”
“Berry, it seems you will soon be Duchess of Broadingham, my dear.” Lord Berwick turned to Gideon and laughed softly. “Prepare yourself, Knight. You may not know who your parents are, but your children are going to have no such doubts. With the Lord’s blessing, you are going to sire the next little Broadingham duke or duchess.”
Gideon’s heart was in his throat. Was this not the greatest irony? Him. A nobody. Siring the heir to a dukedom?
Lord Berwick shook his head. “Broadingham’s solicitors would like us to meet with them at some convenient time in the upcoming weeks. No rush, but they would like to get things in place, since the heir is on his deathbed, as I said. The man lives on some small island off the coast of Brittany, so word of his demise might be delayed. But it will reach us soon enough, and his solicitors want to be prepared for this eventuality. Brittany? Who would wish to live in such isolation?”
“I’m fairly certain Hawthorne is wishing for it right now,” Gideon remarked. “Anything must be better than the confines of his prison cell.”
