*
Orchestrating a successfulsupper was completely out of Noah’s repertoire. Even Aunt Verda, who’d once lived in London, professed her own inefficiency at such matters. Docia, of course, would excel at such a task even without experience, but Mrs. Knagg, thankfully, had been cognizant enough to add staff—and he used the term loosely—from Alnmouth. Winfield could be counted on to keep things in order.
The parlor held his father’s body, so pre-dinner drinks were served in the library, where Mrs. Knagg and Hicks—Stonemare’s other longtime footman—moved unobtrusively about. So far, no one had dropped any trays of sherry, madeira, ratafia, or brandy.
The conversation was a low hum due to the solemnness of the occasion and the crowd being relatively small. Curiously, Aunt Verda and Uncle Sander maintained a large distancebetween themselves and Rathbourne, and despite that gap, the air between them shimmered with hostility.
Noah had forgotten Aunt Verda’s father, Baron Krupt, had wanted her to marry—snagwas the term she’d used—when referring to Rathbourne. The duke had desired her as a mother to his only child. A child who was now tied to Lucius. The families were intertwined in a most inconvenient way. Lucius stood with Sander and for the moment was resigned to glaring daggers at Rathbourne’s back.
Those of thetonwho hadn’t made it to Northumberland would be sorely disappointed, as supper should prove worthy of an “event of the season” marque. And not in a gracious way.
Impatience rippled through Noah. He tugged the fob from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it open. Ten past seven.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Docia taunted him in a low voice. “The little bird will fly from her nest and arrive before you know it and dressed to the nines. One minute detail regarding Lady Abra Washington is her resourcefulness. Astonishing, given—”
Noah snapped the fob shut and slipped it back in its pocket, piercing her with a sudden hatred that surpassed all the resentment through the years. “Just what are you getting at?” he hissed. The sense of having been there before made him dizzy. As if he and Docia were back to their ten- and eleven-year-old selves, prepared to tear one another’s throats out. A blazing fire of fury tore through him. “Say more about Abra’s character and I shall haul you out of here by the delicate lace of your fichu for all the guests to witness.”
Eyes flashing, she turned her back on him and sauntered to the duke. Perhaps they could claw one another’s eyes out. “Good evening, Your Grace. I thought perhaps Lady Pender would have accompanied you,” Docia said, loud enough to fill the chamber.
Noah chanced a glance at his brother, whose white-knuckled grip threatened the heavy glass he held.
“She’s unwell of late,” His Grace returned smoothly. “An unfortunate side effect of being with child, I suppose.”
The sudden stillness that crowded the room didn’t do justice to Docia’s gasp and her face draining of color. Glass shattered behind Noah and he turned to see the same shock on Lucius’s expression, and his hand now bloodied with shards of glass amid brandy dripping on the toes of his Hessians.
The door to the library swung wide with Winfield entering and announcing, “Lady Abra Washington and Miss Geneva Wimbley.”
Rathbourne’s entire body jolted as if prodded with a blacksmith’s iron.
Abra entered, and while her dark skin glowed against her burgundy gown and the draping shawl that looped her arms, his gaze was riveted to the woman behind her in deep bronze. She was a vision with her almost-black hair swept up but for a few wispy curls that framed her face, giving an ethereal halo effect. Her full lips had more color than he recalled. Unsurprising, the gown was a tad too long but appeared to fit across her nicely shaped bosom.
His Grace let out a gasped curse worthy of a rookery gaming hell.
Neither young woman flinched. So, they knew the duke, it appeared.
“What the hell are they doing here?” Rathbourne demanded. Truly, there was not a subtle bone in the man’s body.
Noah quickly took two glasses of sherry from Hicks and hurried forward. “They are here for the same reason you are, Your Grace. To pay their respects.” The little white lie would serve its purpose—he shot Miss Wimbley a telling look—if she didn’t argue outright with the statement.
Miss Wimbley skirted Lady Abra and strolled right up to the duke. She was as foolhardy as Docia.
It was his urge to shield her from Rathbourne that had Noah starting in her direction.
Miss Wimbley tilted her head just so and a small smile curved her lovely lips as she fell into a deep and perfect curtsey. “Your Grace. How nice to see you… again.”
She obviously didn’t realize the havoc such a man could wreak on those who mocked him. And, mock him, she did. It was right there in her tone.
A snicker from Docia, who’d appeared to recover from her previous shock, sounded under her breath.
Noah shot her a glare and started toward Miss Wimbley, but Winfield’s timely manner announced dinner, thankfully, staying any further fireworks. Noah wouldn’t have been surprised had a second turret on the property collapsed.
Rathbourne’s reputation preceded him and no one was fond of the pompous ass. For a minute, no one moved.
“Did I misunderstand the man?” the duke barked, spurring the sudden clink of glasses being set aside in various parts of the room. With Lucius’s wife not in attendance, Abra was the highest-ranking lady, but the Duke of Rathbourne pointedly ignored her. Instead, he offered his arm to Docia and escorted her out. It was a direct cut, but Lucius’s brooding went on hiatus as he stepped forward without hesitation and approached Lady Abra. Other parties moved out of the library. And, as inappropriate as it was, Noah slowed Miss Wimbley with a hold on her arm, forcing them both to lag behind the others. “You are either the boldest person I’ve ever met or the reckless.”
She bristled. “Your point?”
He let out a harsh breath. “Rathbourne does not make a favorable enemy, Miss Wimbley.”
