Page 3 of Project Duke

William took Grandmama’s handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand, staring at Calliope with barely hidden anger.

“You must have your physician look at your hand,” said Calliope, staring at him directly and stroking the warm, soft fur of her little defender. “Right away.”

He didn’t look away, drilling her with a now positively murderous gaze.

“No,” he said, taking his seat. “Something as minuscule as a cat’s scratches won’t dissuade me from my mission.”

“I do apologize, Huntingham,” said Preston, going to the servants’ bell and pulling it.

“Nonsense,” said William. “Do not think twice of it.”

Grandmama took her place as well, her sharp gaze on Calliope and on Miss Furrington. “That cat surely does love you, dear,” she murmured.

“Let us return to the question your brother had asked, Lady Calliope,” insisted William. “What are your thoughts on renewing the friendship between our families?”

“Friendship is one matter,” Calliope said. “As of ‘deeper ties,’ brother, don’t you think we should wait until Spencer is back before considering such decisions?”

The shadow of Preston’s smile fell off his face. Of course, it wasn’t clear if Spencer was ever going to be back. It was the spoken agreement within the family that they were treating him as if alive but lost and were doing everything in their power to retrieve him. Should Spencer return, Preston would remain the duke, as the title wasn’t reversible, but their family without Spencer was like a body without a limb.

Besides, knowing what had transpired all those years ago, Spencer would never let William marry her.

William’s face paled, and the intense clawlike gaze was wiped from his face. “Is your brother not…dead? Forgive me for such an indelicate question.”

“We’re sure he’s alive,” said Calliope, giving William the coldest stare she could muster. “And we’re looking for him.”

“So you do not know if he is alive or dead? Or where he is?” asked William.

“We do not,” said Preston. “But, as my sister said, we’re doing everything we can to retrieve him. And, Calliope, I don’t think we need to wait for Spencer’s return to make decisions about your future. I know you don’t wish to find a husband, but Huntingham is not a stranger. You’ve known him your entire life. Were you not friends before?”

Calliope raised her eyebrow at William. “Indeed, we were. Every year we spent summer months all together, given that the marquess is the same age as Richard.”

“Then I am sure I could persuade you to change your mind,” said William, his stare on her again. “To be friends again. To forget the misunderstanding.”

He was lying. She could practically smell the judgment, the resentment, the mocking amusement. She could not understand for the life of her why someone like him, a marquess, rich and noble, would want to marry a girl he’d once called a whore.

Calliope swallowed hard, refusing to allow herself to show any weakness to him, despite her blazing cheeks.

“For instance,” continued William slowly, “we could once again connect over our mutual love of books. Is your library here at Sumhall as well stocked as in Grandhampton Court?”

Calliope’s throat was suddenly so parched it hurt. Her cheeks were ablaze.

“I didn’t realize you were interested in books,” said Preston. “Did you know that, Calliope?”

Calliope’s back was drenched in sweat. The weight of Miss Furrington on her lap didn’t feel reassuring anymore.

“No,” she said. “I never knew Huntingham was interested in reading.”

“Are you quite all right, darling?” asked Penelope quietly. “You look so pale.”

He made her this paling, cowardly person she was not going to be. One word spoken by him at the most intimate and vulnerable moment of her life had broken her. Could he still have such power over her fourteen years later?

She wouldn’t let him. She had control over her life, and she wouldn’t allow him to rob her of it.

A little too abruptly, she removed a protesting Miss Furrington from her lap. Free of the little protector, she stood up, hating herself for being unable to confront William, and resorted to flight.

“Indeed, I am unwell, sister,” Calliope said. “You must forgive me, Huntingham. I will be quite busy in the next weeks. In fact, I will probably leave London. I wish you every success with your search for a wife who, sadly, will not be me.”

Feeling like she was a witch being chased away by the Holy Inquisition, and under the shuffle of Preston’s and William’s feet as they leapt up, she hurried out of the drawing room and up the stairs to her bedroom.