Lord of Darkness (12 page)

“A duel!” Lady Penelope hissed delightedly and much too loudly. “Oh, I do hope this ends in a duel.”

Artemis stared at her cousin in horror. She was very fond of Penelope most of the time—well,
sometimes
, at any rate—but really, she could be a ninny.

“I thought you liked Viscount d’Arque?” she asked with muted exasperation.

Penelope tossed her head in a gesture she must’ve been practicing in front of her vanity mirror, for it made the jeweled combs in her hair catch the light. There were three of them, and each had tiny ruby and pearl flowers on thin wires that shivered whenever Penelope moved. They probably cost more than Artemis’s entire wardrobe, but they did perfectly complement her cousin’s inky locks.

“I do like Lord d’Arque,” Penelope drawled, “but he isn’t a duke, is he?”

Artemis blinked, unable to follow her cousin’s thought process, which was rather a recurring problem. “What does—”

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.”

“What way do you mean?” she asked carefully. Too carefully.

Nonetheless, he could do naught but answer truthfully. “With d’Arque as your lover.”

For a second her eyes flashed with wild hurt before she could shield the emotion, and he realized he’d just dug himself into a hole.

“You think I’m a whore,” she said.

A very deep hole.

“No, of—”

But she whirled away, caught in the steps of the dance. This time he watched her anxiously, this wife he knew so little about. Had Clara ever thought she’d been so grievously insulted, she would’ve wept. Or perhaps stomped off. He truly didn’t know because he never would’ve gotten into a discussion like this in the first place with Clara. The very idea was ludicrous.

Margaret in contrast held her head high, her cheeks flagged with a becoming rose color. She looked like a goddess enraged. A goddess who might, if they were alone, assault his person—the thought of which unaccountably aroused him.

When the dance brought them together again, they both opened their mouths at once.

“I never meant—” he began.

“You convict me without trial,” she hissed over him, “and on pathetically thin evidence.”

“You were flirting, madam.”

“And if I was?” she asked, her eyes widening dramatically. “If every woman who flirted in a ballroom were deemed a
slut, then all but nuns and babes would be thus branded. Do you truly think I meant to start an affair with the viscount?”

He hesitated a fraction of a breath too long.

Her beautiful brows snapped together. “You are the most maddening man.”

They were drawing stares, but he couldn’t let this bit of outrageousness pass.

“I?
I
am maddening? I assure you, my lady, that
you
are the maddening one. I’ve never caused a scene in a public venue before in my—”

“And now you’re on your second,” she flung back.

A childish retort, but also deeply annoying, as she managed to get it off just before they were forced to separate.

Which, naturally, gave her the last word.

He didn’t even bother hiding his scowl as he followed her movements broodingly. A slightly plump matron took one look at his face and tripped over herself, bumping into the next couple.

His scowl deepened.

“Have I ever given you cause to doubt my fidelity?” she asked as soon as they came together once more.

“No, but—”

“And yet you accuse me of the worst thing a man can accuse a woman of.”

“Margaret,” he said helplessly, all his eloquence evaporated.

She inhaled and spoke quietly as he paced around her. “Why do you even care? You’ve made plain
your
disinterest. Why play the dog in the manger?
Why
did you marry me in the first place?”

His eyes slid away from her face, noting all those trying to hear
their conversation without seeming to do so. “Your brother asked me—”

“Griffin hardly knew you.”

He glanced back at her and saw the determined expression on her face. “This is not the place—”

“Why?”

“I had no choice!” he finally growled, and immediately regretted his words.

Oh, God, she looked so stricken.

“Margaret,” he began, but she was already out of earshot, and he wasn’t sure if he was glad or not. He should be disinterested. Whether she slept with another man or not should be no concern of his. He’d been willing to accept her child by another man before … and yet he simply could not now.

The thought astonished him. Everything had changed, it seemed, in only a matter of days. Ever since, in fact, he’d discovered his wife in St. Giles.

Damnation. What was Margaret doing to him?

He couldn’t consider the matter now. They were on a dance floor with the better half of London’s elite surrounding them. He needed to bring his wife under his control and try to retain some normalcy.

When at last they drew together again, he was ready, speaking low and steadily. “Despite your behavior earlier tonight and right now, Margaret, I have never held you in low regard. Rather, I wish to make sure you don’t let your overpassionate nature lead you astray.”

To which reasoned words she leaned in close and said, “I may be overpassionate, but at least I do not act as if I’m already
dead
. And I loathe the name Margaret!”

Whirling, she glided off the dance floor in high dungeon, the scent of orange blossoms trailing in her wake.

Which Godric
couldn’t help but admire, even though it left him alone in the middle of a dance like a prize ass.

A large form loomed on his right-hand side.

“Marriage certainly has effected a change in your personality,” Caire drawled. “I’ve never seen you come so close to a duel—and to top that with a sparring match with your lady wife on the dance floor. Words fail me.”

Godric closed his eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“You mistake me, man.”

Godric opened his eyes to see Caire grinning at him. Caire, grinning! “Good God, St. John. I’d nearly given you up for dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Godric muttered.

“The whole of London knows that now,” Caire said. “Come. I’ve an idea where our host keeps his brandy.”

And Godric followed his old friend gratefully, because if this was life, it was much more complicated than he remembered.

Megs stormed from the ballroom, uncaring of the scene she was making.
How dare he?
How dare he think her a loose woman when all she’d been doing was laughing with Lord d’Arque? Trying to find out if the man had heard any news about Roger’s death.

She swiped at a hot tear coursing down her cheek and ran down the stairs. She hadn’t even been able to get as far as questioning the viscount about the Ghost before Godric had shown up and started insulting the man—and her.

“Megs!”

She stopped and turned on the landing.

Sarah was
panting behind her and Megs realized that this wasn’t the first time the other woman had called her name.

“Are you all right?” Sarah paused, looking worriedly into her face.

“I …” Megs tried for a calm, ladylike tone but in the end burst out, “Oh, Sarah, I just want to hit him sometimes!”

“Well, and I don’t blame you,” Sarah said loyally—or rather disloyally since she was taking Megs’s side over her own brother’s.

But Megs couldn’t be anything but happy that Sarah was such a good friend. “I can’t go back in there—not right now.”

Sarah frowned. “Where will you go?”

“I need …” She needed to speak to Griffin. The thought bloomed in her mind fully formed, and she knew at once that it was the right thing to do. She had to ask Griffin several long-overdue questions.