Page 2 of In Service to the Duke

The little omega working for her, however, will not be. If I find her putting even a toe out of line, she will feel my wrath. My cock lengthens as I picture her sweet face in my head. Just as quickly as the lust threatens to overtake me, anger edges it out, replacing it until I’m nearly shaking with fury.

Such a sweet face usually hides the most horrid of secrets. It matters not that the beguiling scent I caught a whiff of as I escorted them to our estate dances about in my mind. It matters not that her soft sighs and coquettish charms threaten to unman me. As someone just a bit higher than the servants, she’s trouble.

Her actions, no doubt, are practiced, her expressions designed to lure in unsuspecting males. But I am not like them. I cannot, will not, be overtaken. Pretty faces are never to be trusted. Better to marry someone plain who shares the same values as you do. It’s a lesson I cannot afford to forget while catching glimpses of the sweet angel she purports to be.

Shaking my head, I pull my mind back to the present, attempting to be here for my brother. It doesn’t matter if his wife is my choice or not. It is his. He made it, and now he has to live with the consequences—whether they be good or bad.

A slight smile curves my lips as I watch my brother looking upon his wife with fondness. In everything, I suppose I should be happy to see him so settled and content. It’s a far cry from the tortured child he was when he came to us.

Again, I brace myself, doing my utmost not to wince as yet another yelp of exultation punctuates the air. This time, it appears a wishbone has been found. Amongst the cheers of “merry thoughts,” and “good fortune,” the young lady, whose name currently escapes me, graces the room with shy smiles.

The room quiets once more as they take in her beauty. Perhaps I should inquire after her name and station? After all, she seems to be the sort of lady fit to be a duchess. Then again, with the way the other men crowd around her, it’s best to just leave her to them.

From what I’m hearing spoken about the room, she seems to be Miss Augusta Hunt. The daughter of a viscount is certainly better than the daughter of some random lord, but even her title is not enough to make me break through the throng to engage with her. Besides, my mind is far too occupied with Miss Gillet, the new governess, to properly be able to make an overture.

Hushed whispers race about the space as more pieces of cake are passed out. However, once Miss Campbell pulls out what looks to be a tiny ring from amongst the crumbs, pandemonium reigns. Mutterings turn into frantic, joyous shouts as they all bound about. She cradles the small token as she looks up, her eyes going directly to Norhaven.

Ahhh. So that must be who the poor fool is mooning over like a milk-sick calf. For some odd notion, I thought him to be done with her after their collision during the Twelfth Night celebration, but based on his daft expression, he’s just as sotted as ever. I do not pity him, but I pity his older brother, Whiteport. Even now, the stodgy duke looks about, his posture rigid and uncomfortable.

Despite the obvious show between the two, he looks as if he’s oblivious to them. If I were his older brother, I would put an end to this now. No good can come from marrying so far from our station. William is happy now, but that’s only because his wife turned out to be the daughter of an Earl.

Now that she’s no longer masquerading as a denizen of the clubs we all ascribe to, she’s able to put back on the airs her birth has given her. However, if she were just some lowly harlot, it would have ended badly for my brother. Those not born as we are not able to understand the sacrifices we endure. They cannot walk with the same grace or fortitude. In the end, We are just not compatible.

Just like Norhaven will realize he’s not compatible with the daughter of a baron. Perhaps not in the first year or so, but once the rutting need to claim and consume wears off, he’ll realize his mistake. Even now, as he prowls forward, I see the pained look in his eyes, the agony her station causes him.

Best to just leave well enough alone and find some other, more suitable miss. I turn to leave, no longer wishing to inflict such an auspicious time with my dour mood, when a small hand on my forearm stops me. Without me needing to turn around and confirm it, one whiff of the air tells me it’s my dearest sister-in-law.

“My dear brother,” she murmurs, her voice flitting about with the grace and dignity one of her station should possess.

I bristle at the familiar term. It takes every ounce of restraint not to jerk my hand away, dishonoring her in front of her guests and my brother. Besides, with all those in attendance watching us, any misstep on my part might make them look far more closely at the nefarious match. It doesn’t matter if most of The Ton believe their antics were mere married lovers’ games. If even only one person has a doubt, it can poison the well.

With a restrained bow, I turn and force a smile. In kind, she nods at me, the air of unease dissipating from around her.

“The festivities are not yet over. Can you not indulge a bride on her wedding day and join us for your piece of cake?”

I glance up to find all eyes on me. Irritation rolls down my spine as I allow the tiny omega to lead me over to the table. Already the other single lots in my cadre of friends hold a delicate plate with a piece of cake atop. The unclaimed ladies watch us, their eyes wide as we slide our forks through the moist dessert.

There’s almost an air of longing drifting through the space. If only I paid attention to the rules of the game. The others sift through their crumbs, looking for these elusive charms. I, on the other hand, have no such desire to find one.

Unfortunately, luck is not on my side today. At the first hint of metal, the ladies look over, their eyes wide as they peer up at me. With a heavy sigh, I hold up the object. It closely resembles the Hessian boots I’m fond of wearing.

“Oh, goody!” Catherine, my new sister-in-law, exclaims, clapping her delicate hands. “The boot is a charm, meaning you’re soon to travel! Have you any destination in mind?”

“None at that moment,” I reply before stepping back away from the table so the other gentlemen can present their findings.

Her face falls for a brief second, bringing my brother up behind her. He curls his arm around her waist and glares at me. I wish I cared enough about her to let this small display of saddened emotions sway me, but I still know nothing about her. She may take on the Dowding name, but she’s no sister of mine. Not yet, at least.

Still though, to placate my brother and keep him happy during this farce of a celebration, I tip my head forward and muster a charming smile. “At least none in my immediate plans. If that is to change, I will be sure to inform you both of that intention.”

As if I’ve given her the greatest gift, her face brightens. Next to her, William gives me a terse smile, and I know he’s still upset. Be that as it may, his emotions do not sway me either.

Again, she bounces about, little quivers so slight many might not notice. But I do. Despite her happiness, my words are dishonest. I do have plans to travel. The very next day, in fact.

Though I have no intention of conversing with anyone on the matter, the instant I’m allowed to quit these grounds, I am to go back home to Whitmore Manor, my ancestral seat. With Mother doing so poorly and a new interloper to care for, I desire to make haste. Anyone in the know might only slow me down.

Since I will not have to accompany anyone, I can go as fast and as far as my steed will allow. We will only rest when he is fatigued, then carry on again. Even now, my soul aches to be home.

Leaving Mother there tore at my heart. She was so frail, so slight. Though she was all smiles by playing a part in my brother’s dull-witted scheme to enact a bloody highwayman performance en route to the home, there was still a tremor to her hands that wasn’t there before. There’s an emptiness in her eyes where once there was vibrant life.