Page 11 of My Demanding Duke

His dark mood must have been clear for all to see, for the crowd parted like the Red Sea to allow him quick passage to the door. There, a footman called for his carriage, and within minutes, Hugh was hurtling through the dark streets of London toward an unsuspecting Miss Mosley.

With a clearer head, Hugh might have questioned the wisdom of his actions, but for the first time in years, he found rational thought far beyond his reach. His blood thundered through his veins, urged on by a heady mixture of passion and anger.

After what felt like an eternity, the carriage began to slow, then drew to a juddering halt. Hugh pulled back the curtain to see that they had arrived outside the small townhouse on Bedford Square, which Lord Mosley had leased for the season. A light shone from one of the upstairs windows, indicating that the household had not yet retired to bed.

Impatient now, Hugh threw open the carriage door and hopped lithely down to the footpath. He ascended the steps to the front door with equal speed, and gave the brass door knocker a hearty rap.

He waited a moment, but hearing only silence inside, he rapped the knocker again, it’s sharp rat-a-tat-tat ringing out through the night. This time, he was gratified to hear noises coming from behind the closed door; footsteps running down the stairs, urgent whispers, and the sound of a key turning in the lock.

The door opened a crack, and the face of young man appeared.

“Who is it?” he called to Hugh, in a tone which sounded forcedly steady.

“The Duke of Falconbridge,” Hugh answered, evenly, “I have an urgent message for the mistress of the house.”

“My mistress is abed,” the lad answered, glaring at Hugh suspiciously.

“Then wake her.”

This command, issued in his most ducal tone, had the exact reaction Hugh had hoped for. The young man’s expression grew uncertain and he closed the door to consult with whoever else stood behind it.

Hugh heaved a sigh of displeasure at the delay, though he could not fault the lad for his caution - at least one member of Miss Mosley’s household cared for her safety. He waited a moment before lifting his hand to the knocker, to remind the footman he was there, but before he could reach for it, the door swung open and he was ushered inside.

“My mistress is in the front parlour room, your Grace,” the footman said, gesturing toward the door on the other side of the hallway, “I am only a bell-ring away, if she needs me.”

His last statement, Hugh surmised, was a thinly veiled threat.

“My thanks,” Hugh replied, inwardly thinking that he would find a position for the lad in Falconbridge House after the wedding. Loyal staff were difficult to come by.

Hugh pushed open the parlour room door and stepped inside its dim recesses. The fire was low in the grate and only two of the sconces upon the wall were lighted.

“Do you always conduct yourself with such ill-grace, or do you save your bad manners for my pleasure alone?”

Miss Mosely, who had been standing at the fireplace, turned to offer him a fiery glare to accompany her sharp words, as the door clicked shut behind him.

“On the contrary, I am consumed by thoughts of how I might please you. It keep me awake all night, in fact,” Hugh answered glibly, with a truthful ease.

His words took a moment to sink in and he was gratified to note, even in the dimness of the room, Miss Mosely’s blush.

“Might I ask what you are doing here, your grace?” she asked, with deliberate care. As she spoke, she drew the wool shawl she wore around her shoulders closer to her body, perhaps unconsciously thinking it might protect her from him. A fool’s errand, Hugh thought, for nothing would protect her from his raging desire for her if he decided to give into it, not even that woolen monstrosity.

“I might ask you the same question, Anna,” Hugh replied, arching a brow in response to her mutinous glare. “We had an agreement, did we not? You were to be seen with me, out in public, to help quell any scandalous gossip about our engagement. Why did you not attend the Colridge’s ball?”

“I had a migraine,” she answered, tilting her chin defiantly.

“You also have two servants,” Hugh reasoned, his voice tight, “You should have had one of them deliver me a message to say that you would not be attending.”

“Is your pride wounded, your grace?”

There was a slight bitterness to her tone, that made Hugh carefully consider his response. Was he in a position to complain about his bruised pride, when hers was still grievously wounded from learning just how little she meant to her father?

“My pride has taken many a battering,” Hugh waved away her concern with a gloved hand, “Do not concern yourself with that.”

The none-too-discreet roll of Miss Mosley’s eyes let Hugh know that she was not at all concerned by his suffering.

“We had an agreement,” Hugh continued, determined to finish his piece before Miss Mosley tried what remained of his patience, “Which you reneged upon.”

“I did, your Grace,” she agreed, with surprising alacrity, “I suppose this means that you no longer wish to marry me?”

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