“You didn’t have to look like you meant it.”
Drake threw his hands in the air, uncomfortably aware of Lord and Lady Montgomery observing the spectacle unfolding before them. “Was I supposed to glare at her? As her father, you must have known she was terrified. I was trying to put her at ease.”
At this, the marquess’s expression softened. His gaze momentarily jerked away.
If Drake were any other man, he might have even received an apology from Stratford.
Instead, the man mumbled, “I’d forgotten.”
He’d forgotten?! His own daughter’s paralyzing fear? “You should be proud of her. She fought through it like a good soldier, slaying her demons and performing beautifully.”
Stratford’s gaze darted away, unfocused and dreamy. “She did, didn’t she?”
A father’s love shone in the man’s eyes. Drake couldn’t deny it, much as he wished to. It was easier to hate the man if Drake believed Stratford truly didn’t care about his own flesh and blood’s happiness.
But he did—at least his perception of what would make Honoria happy, misguided as that might be.
Drake’s anger abated. “Put your mind to rest, Lord Stratford. I am not pursuing Lady Honoria. As you so accurately point out, I am simply Burwood’s man of business, here to ensure the duke’s transition into society runs smoothly.”
Stratford gave a jerk to his head that Drake supposed was a nod.
Before he could remove himself from the uncomfortable situation, Honoria appeared at her father’s side. “Mother is asking for you.”
Drake’s gaze tangled with hers, catching the slightest twitch of her lips. She’d always been a horrible liar.
Had she come to rescue him from her father’s wrath? He did his best to hide the love bursting in his heart—especially after his pronouncement to her father.
Luckily, the man’s attention was on Honoria, for Drake failed miserably.
As she led her father away, Drake mouthed the wordsthank you.
Her tremulous smile made the confrontation with Lord Stratford worth it.
“What was that all about?” Simon shook him from his stupor.
“Nothing. Just Stratford delivering his usual warning to leave Honoria alone.”
Surprisingly, Simon didn’t pursue it with his usual dare to defy the man. “Frampton just alerted me that Aunt Kitty has arrived. She’s waiting in the rose parlor. Not very patiently from the way Frampton described it.”
Drake pulled down on the front of his coat. “Then let us charge into the fray.”
On their way, they discussed their strategy, and Drake reminded Simon of the family particulars.
“I know. I know,” Simon said. “It’s you who will have to remember to call me Pierce if necessary.”
“No.” Drake shook his head. “It’s you who don’t remember. As your man of business, I should only be calling you Your Grace or Burwood. Aunt Kitty would surely pick up on the slight.”
“Right.” Simon grinned. “I think I like that part.”
Unsure what to expect when they entered the parlor, Drake prepared himself for a frail octogenarian.
Aunt Kitty was anything but. Although she leaned upon a walking stick—a gnarled, arthritic hand clutching the polished mahogany handle—her eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s. Lined with age, her face seemed to crack into a million pieces when she smiled as they entered. Wisps of silver hair had pulled free from their pins and floated about her head like a halo, the effect a bit unnerving.
“My boy!” She hobbled toward them as fast as Drake presumed her diminutive stature could manage. After stopping a moment, she pulled Drake into her arms, then, pushing him away, proceeded to swat him on the arm—hard.
“I should use my cane on you, boy! Not to invite your father’sfavorite aunt to your party. Henry”—she peered up at the ceiling—“God rest his soul, would be appalled at your manners.”
Drake swallowed hard, exchanging a terrified look with Simon. “Forgive me, Countess, but this is the Duke of Burwood.” He pointed to Simon.
