“Yes?”
“What is the second condition?”
Swifdon folded his hands together. “I hope it goes without saying, but the second condition is that you keep your hands to yourself. Regardless of the law, as far as I’m concerned, your annulment is contingent on your marriage remaining unconsummated. If you so much as lay a finger on her, I’ll kill you myself.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rafe watched from afar as the guests arrived one by one. He’d been taking brandy and cigars in the study with Swifdon but a seat in a corner of the drawing room provided a better view of the proceedings.
One by one Pengree ushered in the guests. This small group would be staying overnight and attending the ball the next evening. Derek Hunt, Duke of Claringdon, and his wife, Lucy. Garrett Upton, the future Earl of Upbridge, and his new wife, Jane. Upton’s mother, Mary. Viscount Berkeley, Sir Roderick Montague, Adam and Collin Hunt, the duke’s brothers, and finally, Lord Edmund Fitzwell.
Rafe disliked the man on sight. He narrowed his gaze on him. Rafesupposedhe was handsome enough, if one liked men with short-cropped blond hair and light blue eyes and a bit of an arrogant attitude that was off-putting to say the least.
Minutes after the baron had strolled into the room as if he owned the entire town house, Rafe stood and made his way over to meet the man. Daphne scurried in between the two and looked as if she might jump from her skin with fright when she introduced them.
“Lord Fitzwell, Captain Rafferty Cavendish.” Her gaze darted back and forth between both of them as if she expected Rafe to blurt out their secret in front of the room at large.
Rafe was accustomed to quickly sizing up a situation, watching for small clues. People always gave away cues. For instance, Daphne was twisting her ring finger so vigorously Rafe wondered if it might come off. It smacked of guilt. He smiled to himself. Conversely, Lord Fitzwell had swallowed, his Adam’s apple working, which belied his seeming ease in the rest of the company.
Lord Fitzwell bowed. No doubt the tightness of his obviously expensive custom-made buckskin breeches made raising his back a bit difficult. But Rafe stuck out a hand the man was forced to take. The baron’s clasp was firm. But his hand was smooth. Clearly the lord had never worked a day in his life. No doubt the most danger he’d ever encountered was seating himself in his carriage.
“Captain Cavendish,” Fitzwell drawled, flashing a white-toothed grin at Daphne that made Rafe want to punch him in the gut. “How exactly are you acquainted with the Swift family?” The implication was clear. What was a mere army captain doing rubbing elbows with thehaute ton?
Rafe arched a brow at Daphne.
Daphne’s nostrils flared and she jerked her head in a shake. Rafe had been so preoccupied by Lord Fitzwell, he hadn’t taken a good look at Daphne since she’d entered the room. Why was she wearing a marmish fichu? It gave the effect that she was being swallowed by a lace monstrosity.
Rafe forced his attention away from Daphne’s insane fichu and back to the baron. “I’m a longtime friend of the Swifts,” Rafe answered, squeezing his hand too hard. He let go but didn’t fail to notice that Fitzwell flexed and rubbed his palm. Rafe grinned at him.
“Claringdon and I both served with Cavendish in the army, you know, Fitzwell,” Swifdon offered. But Rafe couldn’t help but think, of course he didn’t know. Men like Fitzwell didn’t know anything about the harsh realities of war. They preferred to read about it over snuff and lace cuffs in their gentlemen’s clubs. They would never deign to get their soft hands mussed with blood and dirt on the battlefields.
“Well done.” Fitzwell gave Rafe a throwaway smile before returning his attention to Daphne, or more precisely, her brother. “It’s good to see you again Lord Swifdon.” He glanced over Swifdon’s shoulder. “I’d not realized the Duke of Claringdon would be here.”
Swifdon turned to include the duke in the conversation while Rafe eyed the baron carefully. He blinked rapidly. Fitzwell was a liar and not a particularly adept one. Everyone knew Swifdon and Claringdon were thick as thieves, their wives close friends. Of course Claringdon would be at a party hosted by Swifdon. Claringdon turned toward them. Fitzwell leaned closer to the duke and opened his mouth to speak.
“Have… have you met his grace?” Daphne rushed to ask. She looked flustered. Her pale skin was turning a bit pink underneath her fichu. Rafe had never seen Daphne flustered. It was disarming to be sure. He watched her from behind his brandy glass with ill-concealed amusement.
“I have not.” The baron’s smile widened. The man had far too many teeth. He immediately bowed to Claringdon. There was something irritating about that bow. A bit too practiced. A bit too obsequious.
Claringdon inclined his head.
“His grace, the Duke of Claringdon, please meet Lord Edmund Fitzwell,” Daphne said.
“My pleasure, your grace.” Fitzwell clicked his heels together and bowed again. There was something irritating about that, too.
“Nice to meet you,” Claringdon said, eyeing the shorter man carefully.
Lucy, Claringdon’s wife, was introduced next and the baron acted as if he’d never been in the presence of a duchess before. It was “your grace” this and “your grace” that.
“Makes one want to start a drinking game, don’t it?”
Rafe turned to see Sir Roderick Montague at his elbow. Sir Roderick was a confirmed bachelor who was more interested in his clothing and carriages than ladies. He had an eye for detail, fashion, and a famous biting wit. He’d been a close friend of the Swifts for years and he and Daphne often attended many of London’s amusements together with other friends.
“Eh?” Rafe turned to the knight.
“Let’s take a drink every time Fitzwell here says ‘your grace,’” Sir Roderick offered.
Rafe was forced to turn his head to hide his laugh. “I expect we’d both be beneath the table in a trice,” he whispered back.
