Cecily’s chest tightened. “Who is he?”
Lady Moreland met her eyes squarely. “William Whitmore, the Duke of Blackmoor.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“He’s a–” Cecily stopped. “He’s a duke.”
“Yes.”
She stared at the papers. “I pulled a duke out of the sea.”
Beatrice winced. “Technically, youfoundhim,” she corrected weakly.
“Beatrice, I swear–” Cecily glared at her.
“What? He was already out of the sea when you found him,” Beatrice argued, with the serene expression of a woman who knew she was being unhelpful and had made her peace with it.
“Girls!” Lady Moreland called sternly.
When both of them turned to face her, she continued, brisk now. “He is unmarried. He has a considerable fortune, an estate outside of London, and a house here in Brighton. He was hosting a party the night before last, apparently. He is also…” A pause, deliberate. “Well known.”
“For what?” Cecily asked, already guessing.
“For his charm,” Lady Moreland answered. “For his recklessness. For never being dull. The papers prefer the wordrakish.”
The word landed with peculiar softness, like something dropped from a great height.
Of course he was.
Cecily looked out the window. At the pale Brighton sky above the rooftops, indifferent and unhelpful. She thought of green eyes and a jaw that could have been artistic and a voice that had been rough with pain and still, somehow, faintly amused.
She thought of his hand on her arm and the six inches of charged air between their faces and the way her heart had behaved,which she was now going to stop thinking about immediately and permanently.
“Of course he is,” she muttered.
“Cecily–” Beatrice started.
“No, I mean it quite literally.” Cecily laughed, a short hollow sound. “Of course, the man I stumble across at dawn on the beach is a rakish duke whose name is already in the papers. Of course, that is the exact man. Because anything less would not have been thorough enough a disaster.”
“Mrs. Harrington’s daughter was in Brighton and has been writing letters to London. By Thursday, everyone will know of this.” Lady Moreland folded her hands. “We have perhaps two days.”
“Two days for what?” Cecily asked. “The damage is done, Mama.”
“The damage,” Lady Moreland said, with measured patience, “depends entirely on what happens next.” She glanced at the papers and then back at Cecily. “The Duke of Blackmoor is unmarried. Even if these descriptions are accurate…” A slight pause, as though she was choosing her next word from several candidates. “He is not unknown to scandal.”
“He’s a rake,” Cecily said flatly. “The papers have said so rather clearly.”
“The papers said the same about Edward,” Beatrice murmured.
“The papers are right about this one,” Cecily said. “I saw him on the shore, Mama. It wasn’t—He hadn’t simply gone for an early swim. He was unconscious. He’d been drinking heavily, and something had happened. He was lying in the tide at five in the morning, which is not the behavior of a man of careful habits.”
“His habits,” Lady Moreland said, in the tone of a woman filing information away for later, “are less relevant than his title. And his title is considerable. I believe if he has any honor, he will propose.”
Cecily stared at her. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious.”
“Mama.” She kept her voice level, which required huge effort. “He is a rake. A charming, careless, well-titled rake who makes a habit of scandal and has never, so far as I can tell, considered for a single moment how his choices might affect anyone around him. A life with a man like that–” She shook her head. “I would not know from one week to the next whether he was trustworthy. I would spend my entire marriage waiting for the next disaster. I would be–”
