Page 131 of The Duelist for the Ton
Angela’s reputation seemed to have escaped unscathed from the events of last Season.
But as for another woman…
If what Stephen suspected were true,herreputation had been destroyed by an act of…
An act of love.
As he reached the main doors, Stephen closed his eyes at the memory—the way her eyes darkened with desire util they were almost black, as the final moment of surrender, when she offered her body to him, and…and how her body had welcomed him into her warmth, rippling and pulsing with pleasure until it had burst forth, drawing him in as he claimed her as his.
He blinked, and moisture stung his eyes as the burden of guilt pressed on his soul.
He raised his hand, but before he could knock, the door opened to reveal the black-clad butler.
“It’s Reeve, isn’t it?”
The butler arched an eyebrow, his face seeming to creak with the effort. “Are you expected?”
“Is Lady… I mean, the family, are they at home?”
Stephen stepped forward, moving his foot into the doorway. The butler lowered his gaze, then curled his lip in a sneer.
“Wait here.”
He turned his back and disappeared into the house, where Stephen could discern the blurred shapes of items of furniture still covered in dust sheets.
At length, the butler returned, his slow, steady footsteps clicking over the floor.
“Follow me.”
Without awaiting a response, the butler led Stephen to a small parlor near the back of the house. All the furniture within, like the items in the hall, was covered in white sheets.
“Is the duke intending to stay in Town?” Stephen asked.
The butler ignored him, instead giving the slightest of bows before disappearing, closing the door behind him.
Stephen crossed to floor to the window that overlooked the garden. A thin layer of dust covered the glass, and he ran his finger along the sill before inspecting the tip and wiping it on his jacket. The faint smell of damp and dust lay heavy in the air.
Then the door burst open.
“I thought I’d already said that you weren’t welcome in my house.”
Stephen turned to face the Duke of Foxton. “At Forthridge, yes,” he replied. “You said nothing about your townhouse.”
Foxton’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever qualities my sister believed she saw in you are well hidden,” he said. “If they exist at all.”
“Is Portia at home?”
“LadyPortia is not your concern,” Foxton said. “I thought I’d made that perfectly clear when you turned up uninvited at Forthridge”—he twisted his mouth in a sneer almost identical to the butler’s—“with your brat of a sister and that dowdy mistress of yours.”
“I have no mistress,” Stephen said.
“Understandable,” Foxton said. “After all, once you’ve had a taste of the choicest cut of meat in my sister, you’re unlikely to want to take a bite out of a bit of scrag end, are you?”
Anger boiled in Stephen’s gut and he curled his hands into fists. “Howdareyou insult her!”
Foxton let out a chuckle and thrust his hands into his pockets. “You must have set your cap at that old woman if you’re so vehement in your defense of her.”
“I meant your sister!” Stephen said. “She deserves better than to be spoken of in such a manner.”
