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A tall form cut through the crowd like a saber through an apple. He bore a faintly irritated expression on his face, and though he wore a sedate dark blue suit and waistcoat overworked in black, no one could mistake the command in his carriage. He bore down on d’Arque, while at the same time Lord Caire glided forward and murmured something in Mr. St. John’s ear.
“A duke like that one,” Penelope drawled with so much throaty satisfaction in her voice that Artemis’s brows drew together in honest worry.
“Do you have a head cold?”
“No, silly,” Penelope said with some irritation. She caught herself and smoothed her expression. Penelope had a fear of wrinkles setting on her face. “I’ve decided it’s past time I marry, and naturally I shall wed a duke. That one, I think.”
For of course the gentleman now causing Lord d’Arque’s high cheekbones to darken was Maximus Batten, the Duke of Wakefield.
Artemis blinked. Penelope was the daughter of an earl—a fabulously wealthy earl. And while it was the way of the world that dukes often married fabulously wealthy, titled heiresses, would the Duke of Wakefield really want a wife so silly she insisted on putting ground pearls in her morning chocolate? Penelope claimed the pearl dust added a glow to her complexion. Artemis privately thought it made a good cup of chocolate gritty—besides being a waste of pearls.
Artemis knew her opinion mattered very little. If Penelope had made up her mind to marry a duke, she would no doubt be a duchess by this time next year.
But Wakefield?
Artemis glanced over now to where he’d straightened, his long face impatient. He was tall, but not overly so, his shoulders broad but lean, and the very sternness of his face kept one from calling him handsome. If she had to use only one word to describe the Duke of Wakefield, it would be cold.
Artemis shivered. From what she’d observed of the duke from countless balls spent in the shadows unseen, he didn’t seem to have a trace of humor—or compassion. And one had to have both to live with Penelope.
“There are other eligible dukes,” Artemis reminded her cousin. “The Duke of Scarborough, for instance. He’s been widowed a year and has only daughters. No doubt he’ll wish to marry again.”
Penelope scoffed without taking her eyes from Wakefield. “He must be sixty if a day.”
“True, but I’ve heard he’s a very kind man,” Artemis said gently. She sighed and tried another tack. “And what about the Duke of Montgomery?”
Penelope swung around to stare at her in horror at the name. “The man spends all of his time in the country or abroad. Have you ever seen him?”
Artemis wrinkled her nose. “Well, no …”
“And neither has anyone else.” Penelope turned back to watch Wakefield with a calculating gleam in her eye. “No one has seen Montgomery in ages. For all we know, he’s a hunchback or has a harelip, or worse”—Penelope shuddered—“is mad. I wouldn’t want to marry into a family that had madness in it.”
Artemis inhaled sharply and looked down. No, no one wanted to marry into a family with madness. She’d tried to immure herself against the pain in the last couple of years, but at times such as now, when something caught her off guard, it was simply impossible.
Fortunately, Penelope hadn’t seemed to notice. “And what if he has run through all his money traipsing about the Continent?”
“You’re an heiress.”
“Yes, and I want my money spent on me, not repairing some run-down castle.”
Artemis knit her brows. “I presume that leaves out the Duke of Dyemore.”
“It does indeed.” Dyemore had at least three castles in need of repair. Penelope nodded in satisfaction. “No, there’s only one duke for me.”
Artemis turned to watch Wakefield’s retreating back. Somehow he’d persuaded—or more likely threatened—Lord d’Arque into retiring with him. The duke might be a proud, cold man, but Artemis still felt a twinge of pity for him.
What Lady Penelope Chadwicke wanted, she got.
“I WOULD BE grateful if you stayed away from the Viscount d’Arque,” Godric said as he led his wife onto the dance floor. He mentally winced at his own stiff tone, but in this matter he could not seem to see reason.
She was his wife and he’d damn well not take her straying lying down.
She cocked her head, looking more curious than outraged. “Is that an order?”
He immediately felt a fool. “No, of course not.”
The music began, the movement of the dance drawing them apart before he could explain further. Godric inhaled deeply as he paced, trying to subdue the incredible wrath that had overtaken him at the sight of Margaret with d’Arque.
When the dance brought them together again, he murmured low so the other dancers could not overhear, “I know it’s hard for you, wanting a child, but this isn’t the way.”
