The Duke I'm Going to Marry(46)

Dillie gulped.

Ian wanted to take her hand, give it a light, reassuring squeeze, but he knew it was the worst thing he could do in front of an audience, even though that audience consisted of only one person. But that one person was the most meddlesome in existence. Damn. Lady Withnall was purposely riling Dillie, taking forever to make her way across the kitchen to their side, her gaze never wavering and trained on Dillie.

He heard Dillie sneeze twice, and wasn’t certain whether she was faking. He rose to stand beside her, ready to protect her if the need arose.

“The pair of you look quite cozy in here. Good thing I came along.”

“She’s only treating my wounds,” Ian replied before Dillie could open her mouth and make matters needlessly worse. He stuck out his forearm to show her the burn.

“Hmmph. Scalded you with the tea, did she?” She continued to gaze at Dillie. He moved protectively closer. Probably shouldn’t have, for it put ideas into Lady Withnall’s head. “Gel, you seem to be making a habit of repairing the Duke of Edgeware.”

Dillie let out a shaky breath that blew softly against his shoulder. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do, and you’ve done a fine job of keeping it a secret. An admirable trait in a young woman. But I know that the Duke of Edgeware spent a week in your bed last November.”

Dillie suddenly seemed to stop breathing.

Ian let out a soft growl and put his arm around her, his protective instincts surging to the fore. “Phoebe, what are you playing at? You know I don’t care what’s said about me, but Dillie is innocent.”

The old harridan shook her head and sighed. “You ought to have thought about that before you landed in her bed.” Having said that, she turned and walked out.

Thuck, thuck, thuck.


***

Dillie wasn’t in any danger of swooning. True, the air had built up in her lungs and she hadn’t released it yet, but for the most part she was fine. Fine and angry. Her fists were tightly clenched. She stepped in front of Ian, glaring at Lady Withnall’s turned back as she attempted to follow after the tiny troublemaker.

“Don’t you dare,” Ian warned, holding her back by the skirt of her gown. “You’ll only make matters worse. I’ll speak to her. She and I are friends. She won’t spread that ugly rumor. I won’t allow it.”

Dillie shook her head, certain she had misheard. “Friends? And you think you can buy her silence? What sort of friend extorts another?” She felt her eyes water. They were glistening with anger. “I don’t care about myself. You had better not give her so much as a ha’penny to protect my reputation. My family trusts me and will never believe her lies. No one who matters to me will ever believe her, but your family is another matter. They’re looking for any reason to hurt you. I can’t believe Lady Withnall means to give it to them.”

“She won’t.”

“How can you be sure?” Once again, she started for Lady Withnall, but he held her back. “What’s the matter with you, Ian? You can’t let her hurt you like this. You’ve never taken advantage of me. Quite the opposite, you’ve been a perfect gentleman. And you’ve never harmed anyone or stolen any infants. Why won’t you allow me to defend you?”

“I’m asking you to leave it alone. You’re not my friend,” he said with a quiet determination that made her heart catch in her throat.

“But—”

“Leave it alone, Daffy.” That said, he strode to the opposite end of the kitchen to retrieve his coat from Mrs. Mayhew, and then strode out without a backward glance at her.

Dillie turned to the slightly open window, needing the draft to cool the heat of her anger. Lady Withnall wasn’t the only object of her ire. She was just as angry with Ian for holding her back, for refusing to defend himself. Mostly, she was angry with herself. She had allowed Ian to get to her heart. For a moment, she’d believed that he actually cared for her, but he only knew how to push people away. Is that why his family despised him?

Still, she’d hoped that she mattered to him a little. He’d just made it painfully clear that she didn’t.

The clunch!





CHAPTER 8


SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Ian’s carriage drew up in front of the Belgrave Square townhouse his mother and cousins had let for the season. It was a large house, built of gray stone, and had lots of windows to allow in sunlight. The drapes were drawn, of course, for his mother hated the sun’s glare. It exposed her physical flaws, those hideous age spots that she strove so mightily to conceal.

He descended from his carriage and walked up the stairs to the front door, a large, wooden door that was painted a bright, garish red, like the rouge his mother had taken to painting on her cheeks in the mistaken belief she would appear young and ruddy cheeked. She was wrong. She was aging, and not well.