Page 134 of The Duke's Daring Bride

“Aye, well, Kipling inherited. He wasnae supposed to, but I’ll let ye hear all that from him. That’s the sort of thing which requires its own novel. Or a short story, at least.”

Alistair gaped. Kipling was a duke now?

“I suppose his fiancée would’ve dragged him to yer soiree, if she hadnae someplace else to be.”

Kipling was a duke…and engaged?

Fawkes saw Alistair’s expression, and the corner of his lips twitched. “Ye dinnae ken about that, either?” He shrugged. “The engagement’s no’ official, but Kipling’s mother is pushing it for the connections. Y’ken mothers.”

Good God, Kipling was back in London. And engaged. And a duke?

He couldn’t wait to hear this story. Or possibly read it.

“So Kipling’s no’ here, but there’s a few I hadnae expected to see in yer company. That’s Viscount Thornebury trying to see down yer sister’s gown, aye?”

Alistair narrowed his eyes, wondering what exactly was so interesting down his sister’s bosom.

When he realized the answer to that, he frowned, even as Fawkes grunted softly.

“And Bonkinbone, as well? No’ verra nice men, him and that brother of his.”

And truthfully, Bonkinbone—with his pompous ways—would’ve been the last person Alistair wanted to invite into his home. This was his sanctuary, his peace, his home. But how to explain this whole soiree was to lure the man here so he could be poisoned?

As they watched, Bonkinbone waved off an offer of a drink from Rocky. The footman frowned, then shot a glance toward Olivia, who made a small nevermind gesture someone else might’ve missed. The hulking idiot turned and trotted off toward a potted plant, where he stood awkwardly holding the glass.

Alistair made a note to keep an eye on Rocky. Last thing they needed was for the footman to get bored and sample the poisoned wine himself.

Damnation.

“He doesnae look verra good, truth be told,” murmured Fawkes.

Alistair followed his friend’s gaze, to see he was also still watching Bonkinbone. Frowning, Alistair tried to see what his friend saw. The Earl did seem pale. Even across the room, the fact he was sweating was obvious.

The overweight man pulled a handkerchief from a pocket to wipe his brow, even as he laughed weakly at something one of his companions had said. It was amazing how arrogant the man could appear, while clearly ill…or drunk?

Alistair’s attention was drawn from Bonkinbone to Olivia, who was laughing at something one of her companions had said, and he found himself smiling in response.

Seeing her here, among the cream of Society…it was easy to see what really mattered. Nay, she didn’t fit in, did she? She was too loud, too tall, too coarse, too willing to get her hands dirty to help those less fortunate…

She was perfect.

And ye love her.

Aye. Aye, he did love her.

Perhaps he sighed or mooned or did something equally silly, because Fawkes chuckled under his breath. “She’s going to set them on their heads, ye ken.”

Alistair nodded with a sigh. Perhaps that’s what Society needed.

“I dinnae think that’s such a bad thing.”

Grinning, Alistair gave a gruff snort, gaze still locked on his wife who was taking her leave of her companions.

“Perhaps they need someone like her.” Fawkes nudged Alistair, causing him to turn in surprise to find his friend grinning. “Perhaps ye do too.”

Alistair didn’t hesitate. “Aye,” he rasped. “I do.”

“Well then, I’m pleased to see this marriage has been good for ye.” Fawkes clasped him on his shoulder. “I’ll leave ye be, and go rescue Amelia from Thorne’s ogling. She looks like she’s got a pair of eggs down her gown, does she no’?”

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