Page 73 of Guilty Pleasures

A blackness came over Anthony like a curtain going down, and the next thing he knew, his greatest friend was on the floor with a bloody lip, a bone-jarring ache was in his fist, and other members of Brook’s had seized his arms to hold him back.

Dylan touched his hand to the corner of his mouth. He glanced at the smear of blood on his fingertips, then raised his gaze, confronting Anthony’s rage with a rueful smile. “You see, my friend?” he murmured. “Madness comes to us all. Even you.”

Chapter 25

As he had promised Lady Fitzhugh, Anthony accepted the invitation to her card party, though he knew it would only inflame the already rampant gossip.

He wanted to see Daphne. He wished propriety did not prevent him from seeing her privately, but seeing her amid a group of people was better than not seeing her at all. When he arrived at the house in Russell Square, however, he received exactly what he had been hoping for—a chance to be alone with her.

The usual flutter of excitement the arrival of a duke created was followed by introductions to the other guests, and resulted in the inevitable awkward silence. Lady Fitzhugh cleared her throat and turned to her husband. “Perhaps we should begin?” she suggested.

Sir Edward concurred at once. “Yes, yes, capital idea, Elinor. Let us start the play. A pair of us will have to make do with piquet, I fear, instead of whist. Mr. Jennings has developed a cold, and his wife sent word late today that they would not be able to attend, so we are two short for whist.”

Daphne turned to Anthony. “Perhaps your grace would prefer chess to cards?” she suggested, gesturing to the doorway that led into an adjoining room.

The silence that followed was not awkward, but deafening. For some reason, Daphne wanted a private interview with him, and though he doubted it was for the same reasons that motivated him, he was quick to take advantage of it.

“I love chess, Miss Wade,” Anthony said. “I would be honored.”

“Excellent.” She strode into the adjoining room, where the chessboard had been moved out of the way for the card party. He bowed to the other guests and followed her. When she sat down, he took the opposite chair.

“Your grace,” she began without preliminaries, “you have to stop—” She broke off, frowning at the smile on his face. “Why in heaven’s name are you looking at me like that?”

“Because by tomorrow everyone in London will know we are engaged.” He gestured to the board. “A lady makes the first move.”

“What are you talking about? We are not engaged.” She frowned as she shoved a pawn two spaces forward in an abstract fashion. “And I do not care in the least what people think.”

“In front of everyone else in the room, you have invited me to be alone with you,” he pointed out, moving his own pawn. “The inevitable conclusion is that we are engaged. If I had known it would be this easy, I would have maneuvered you into chess days ago.”

Daphne shot an impatient glance at the doorway and slid another pawn forward. “This is ridiculous. We are not alone and the doors are open. Lady Fitzhugh can see us perfectly well from where she is sitting.”

“It doesn’t matter. We have moved into another room, and we are now having a private conversation. No couple not engaged are allowed this sort of liberty.” He moved his knight, and looked at her, still smiling. “When you were looking up rules in etiquette books, did you miss that one?”

“Anthony, you must stop this. The fact that I even need etiquette books proves what an inadequate duchess I would be.”

“You will be wonderful at the job once you get the gist of it. Everything you do, you do well.”

“That is not true, and it is not the point anyway. I am not going to marry you.”

“So you keep telling me, but I can only hope that one day, you will see my torment and take pity on me.” He pointed at the board. “It is your move.”

“Why do you do this?” she demanded, caring nothing for the game. “Because I am a temporary madness? When this madness has passed, what will take its place? Will this Marguerite return to your bed? Or some new mistress perhaps? How many mistresses have you had, anyway?”

“More than one. Less than a dozen.”

“Have you—” She paused and looked away, and Anthony felt a glimmer of hope as she asked, “Have you seen that woman?”

She cared. She must, or she would not be asking these questions. He told her the truth. “Yes. Once, on the Row. I saw her from about seventy feet away. I had already sent her a letter and ended our arrangement.” He reached across the table and cupped Daphne’s chin, returning her attention to him. “Are we playing Twenty Questions now,” he asked gently, “instead of chess?”

“No, but—” She pulled free of his grasp and glanced around, as if trying to think how to put what she wanted to say. “You once said I am a mystery, but it is you who reveals nothing. Since that dinner with the Benningtons, I have told you many things about me. My life, my work, my father, my . . . my feelings for you. Yet, you have told me only the smallest things about yourself. I do not know you well enough to marry you.”

“What would you like to know? Ask away. I shall interview for the post of husband.”

“I am not interviewing you for a post! And this conversation is making me appreciate more and more that nothing I would ask could be satisfied in words. Or flowers either, for that matter. You do not love me. You offer me your name only because you are determined that honor be satisfied, and because you are so damned obstinate and arrogant and—”

“And you say you do not know me well enough to marry me?”

She made a huff of pure vexation, and stood up. Turning away from him, she crossed the Persian rug to the fireplace. He glanced at the other room and observed that Lady Fitzhugh was fully occupied with her cards. He got out of his chair and followed Daphne to where she was gazing into the fire. He halted behind her and leaned close to whisper in her ear.

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