“So did a number of other people, I imagine. I don’t see what that has to do with me, Dunwitty.” What did it matter to him if some ancient marquess expired?
“Were you at all acquainted with the marquess, Grantham?”
“Not well acquainted, no.” He’d met him once or twice, though not recently. The marquess was nearing eighty years, and rarely ever left his country estate in Oxfordshire.
“I see. Perhaps you don’t know, then, that the Marquess of Oxenden is—or was—my maternal grandfather.” Dunwitty smirked at him, looking for all the world like a cat with a bellyful of cream. “That rather changes things, does it not, Grantham?”
Oxenden, Dunwitty’s grandfather? How the devil had that little detail escaped his notice? Dunwitty had inherited the viscountcy years ago when his father passed away. That meant there’d been no troublesome elder brothers standing between him and his father’s title, but there could well be a dozen uncles preventing Dunwitty from taking his grandfather’s marquessate—
“I’m my grandfather’s sole heir, which makes me the current Marquess of Oxenden. I daresay you’re aware, Grantham, that the Oxenden title is a blessed one.”
As it happened, hewasaware, because he made it his business to be aware of aristocrats’ changing fortunes. Or hehad, before he began rusticating in Fairford.
By blessed, Dunwitty meantwealthy.
If he’d realized Dunwitty stood to inherit from Oxenden, he wouldn’t have chosen him to court and marry Rose. It was too risky, what with these ancient aristocrats dying off at the least convenient times and leaving their massive fortunes to their arrogant grandsons.
Dunwitty—troublesome pup that he was—hadn’t only traded the title of viscount for the considerably grander marquess, he’d also increased his modest fortune by tenfold, at least.
Alas, that sort of money made him far more difficult to manipulate.
“I see you understand me, Grantham. I’m more than capable of meeting my uncle’s obligations to you.” Dunwitty leaned over the desk, his eyes gleaming. “You have nothing to hold over me anymore—nothing left with which to blackmail my family.”
How naïve the boy was. There was alwayssomething, some scandalous secret hidden away, like a mad aunt, or a ruined niece—something the family would prefer never saw the light of day. It was simply a matter of digging deep enough to find it.
Not that any of this mattered now. “What a happy coincidence, then, that I’d already made up my mind to put an end to the scheme.”
“The scheme, yes.” Dunwitty made a great show of studying the tip of his boot, but a smirk twitched at the corners of his lips. “But not necessarily the courtship.”
Courtship? What bloody courtship? There was no courtship any longer, unless . . . good God, did Dunwitty think to rival him for Rose’s affections?
A silence fell as they stared at each other, each weighing the other’s mettle, Max’s face aching from the effort of hiding his fury. Underneath the desk, his hands clenched into fists.
At last, Dunwitty broke the silence. “You understand, Grantham, that I was a trifle put out when I was torn away from my comfortable fireside in London and banished to the wilds of Gloucestershire.”
“Thankfully, your warm fireside still awaits you in London, Dunwitty.” It wasn’tquitethe same as tossing him out of the house, but it was a broad enough hint.
“Gloucestershire, of all places. I’ve never seen so much bloody snow in my life. All this bother, to marry some chit I’d never laid eyes on.” Dunwitty gave him a slow, maddening smile. “Then, of course, I laid eyes on her.”
Max didn’t fall into fits of temper. He didn’t shout, or rage, or challenge other gentlemen to duels. He certainly didn’t engage in fisticuffs with his house party guests. But now, he would have happily leaped over his desk and hurled Dunwitty to the floor.
“Of course, there are plenty of pretty young ladies in London,” Dunwitty went on, heedless of the danger he was inviting. “But I’ve yet to come across a single one who has Miss St. Claire’s sweetness. It would be pleasant, would it not, Grantham, to have such a lovely, obliging wife?”
“What makes you think Miss St. Claire would have you, Dunwitty?”
Dunwitty laughed. “You think she’d rather haveyou? Come, Grantham. Your reputation is well known. Surely, the rumors of your ruthlessness have made it as far as Fairford.”
Of course, they had. Rumors always did. But he’d never been the cold, merciless Duke of Grantham when he was with Rose. That is, he’d been curt from time to time, and arrogant, and his manners had been lacking on occasion. Then, of course, there’d been that business with her doorknob, and his loathing for her father, and—
Very well, damn it. Hehadn’talways been at his best with her, but he hadn’t been at his worst, either, unless one counted his plot to manipulate her into a marriage with Dunwitty, then take Hammond Court from her.
God above, but he’d been a perfect devil, hadn’t he? He had to tell her, to confess the truth to her, and soon. What would she think of him, once she knew? His only saving grace was that he’d put a stop to his plans before any real harm had been done.
Except was that really true? Hadn’t he harmed Rose? She didn’t know it yet, but he’d betrayed her trust, lied to her, and manipulated her.
Christ, Dunwitty might be right. Why would she wanthim, after she knew the truth?
Particularly when she could have Dunwitty, with his brown eyes, fair hair, and easy smile. He was young, fashionable, and handsome, with charming manners and an impeccable character.
