Page 12 of The Duke's Bride in Disguise
Chapter Three
Raff Alexander Hamilton, Sixth Duke of Kilbride, most certainly looked like a duke; anyone who caught a glimpse of him, as he strolled into White's, could tell what he was just by the dashing cut of his figure. His posture and bearing oozed privilege, whilst his clothes clearly displayed that he was a man with a taste for fashion and money to burn. He wore a tailored coat by Weston, a waistcoat by Stultz of Cork Street, and knee breeches by Meyer. The duke was better dressed than Beau Brummell himself. Though, many might say, that it was not the clothes which set him apart as one of the highest-titled men in Great Britain, but rather his gaze, which was cold, haughty, and most definitely unapproachable. The Duke of Kilbride's cutting glare was most duke-like, and had caused many an opportunistic young lady to think twice before catching his eye at a ball.
While Raff had mastered looking like a duke to a tittle; feeling like a duke, however, seemed to be completely beyond him. As he strode into White's, on his way to meet his friend Harry Coachford, Marquis of Durham, Raff once again was overcome with the strange feeling of being an actor thrust into a play that he had not rehearsed for.
Warm looks greeted him as he entered, and a half dozen men looked ready to pounce on him, eager to discuss politics. Raff swept his now customary, cold gaze around the crowded room, signalling that he did not wish to be disturbed.
"Lud, that's a Friday face, if ever I've seen one," Lord Coachford called in greeting from his table by the bow window. The coveted seat was reserved for the most influential members of what was already an exclusive club; Raff, after his brother's death, had been shocked to realise that the bow-window was now reserved for him.
"You'd look blue too, if you had to attend Lady Jersey's ruddy ball," Raff grumbled, though he did take heed of his friend's comment, and relaxed his scowl. "It's good to have you back, Coachford. Tell me, how was Italy?"
"Full of Italians," his friend replied with a lazy smile. Lord Coachford, who had spent the past year on a tour of Italy, was an affable fellow, with a ready smile. A bang up cove, was the phrase most used when describing Coachford, though Raff knew that behind his friend's good-humoured facade, was a man as sharp and shrewd as he. Affable Coachford might be, but he was no chawbacon.
"Is that it?" Raff raised an eyebrow as he waited for Coachford to elaborate further.
"Murals, ancient ruins, sun and wine," the marquess shrugged, "What more can I say? Now, what's this I hear about you getting leg-shackled,Your Grace?"
Not once, since he had assumed the title, had anyone addressed him so mockingly. Finally, Raff thought with a smile, there's someone who remembers the old me.
"Well," Raff paused, as a footman placed a tumbler on the table before him, before continuing, "It's what's expected of a duke."
"Marriage?"
"Procreation," Raff retorted, taking a deep sip of his brandy and relishing the burning feeling, as the alcohol wound its way down to his stomach. "A duke's got to have an heir, or so I'm told, and I was never one to shirk my duty."
"You old romantic," Coachford teased, though Raff could see a rather dubious look in his eye. "Tell me, what's the old girl like, then? Are you both smelling of April and May? Will I cast up my accounts at the sight of you both making dove eyes at each other in Lady Jersey's ballroom?"
"Hardly," Raff gave a snort of derision, "My betrothed has barely uttered a word to me. Though, I am told, that muteness is a rather attractive feature in a wife."
