Victor removed his gloves and handed over several documents from his satchel. “The figures from Liverpool were lower than expected,” he said briskly. “I want the contracts revised.”
Hembroke adjusted his spectacles while examining the papers. “Certainly,” he replied. “You look rather well, Your Grace. If I may say so, married life appears to suit you.”
Victor narrowed his eyes slightly. “Has all of London become determined to torment me?”
The solicitor blinked in surprise before chuckling nervously. “My apologies, Your Grace.”
Victor spent the next hour discussing estates, trade agreements, and investments with ruthless efficiency. Numbers soothed him somewhat. Contracts did not blush beneath his gaze or tempt him into forgetting his own rules. By the time he departed Hembroke’s office, the sharp edges of his frustration had dulled slightly.
Unfortunately, London itself refused to grant him peace.
At his merchant offices along Cheapside, one of his shipping associates greeted him with a broad grin.
“Your Grace!” the man exclaimed. “I hear congratulations are in order for you and your beautiful new Duchess.”
Victor removed his hat with visible restraint. “If one more person offers congratulations today,” he replied dryly, “I may begin committing crimes.”
The merchant laughed loudly while leading Victor through the warehouse accounts.
“You cannot blame society for wanting your happiness,” the merchant said while sorting invoices. “A beautiful duchess softening the infamous Duke of Mulford.”
Victor nearly frowned at the phrase softening. “I have not softened,” he said coolly.
The merchant wisely hid his smile after that. The hours dragged onward in a blur of business meetings, property inspections, and endless correspondence. Victor reviewed contracts near the docks, argued over grain tariffs with one associate, and inspected textile shipments with another.
Everywhere he went, someone inevitably mentioned Charlotte. The seamstress thanked him for purchasing so many gowns for the duchess and her sisters. A banker remarked that married gentlemen always seemed more stable. Even a booksellersmirked knowingly while discussing poetry volumes suitable for wives.
By sunset, Victor was exhausted. Yet still he lingered in London.
He sat astride his horse outside White’s club for nearly a full minute debating whether returning home was truly wise. The image of Charlotte waiting there rose instantly in his mind. Her soft smiles. Her warm skin. Desire stirred inside him so sharply that he muttered a curse beneath his breath.
“Your Grace?”
Victor looked up to find Morgan standing outside the club entrance holding a cigar.
The marquess grinned wickedly the moment he spotted Victor’s expression. “Good Lord,” Morgan said cheerfully. “You look precisely like a man attempting to flee his own marriage.”
Victor dismounted stiffly. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet you came anyway,” Morgan replied brightly.
Inside the club, the atmosphere was dim and warm with cigar smoke curling lazily beneath chandeliers. Gentlemen lounged in leather chairs discussing politics, gambling losses, and society gossip while servants drifted quietly between tables with trays of drinks. Morgan immediately claimed a private corner table and slid a glass toward Victor.
“To domestic bliss,” Morgan toasted smugly.
Victor drank half the brandy in one swallow.
Morgan leaned back comfortably. “Now then,” he said. “Tell me how miserable marriage has made you.”
Victor fixed him with a flat stare. “You seem remarkably invested in this topic.”
Morgan shrugged carelessly. “Naturally. Society spent years wagering whether the Duke of Mulford would ever wed. I merely wish to enjoy my winnings.”
Victor snorted despite himself.
“So,” Morgan pressed. “Have you thought again about resuming your old habits yet?”
Victor swirled the amber liquid in his glass thoughtfully. “No.”
