Page 7 of The Scarred Lyon

The duke had an aura of aloofness that caused her some concern. Would he be a cold man, incapable of developing a friendship? Augusta wanted a man she could converse with over dinner on any number of topics, at least. She’d had something similar with Southen, at least in the first few years. Allenby placed bets at the vingt-et-un table and continued to win. He looked quite frustrated. Augusta was intrigued enough to meet with the duke.

She waved at Hermia, the woman standing nearby in the shadows. “I will meet with the Duke of Allenby as soon as it can be arranged.”

“Very well, Mrs. Cheevers. Follow me upstairs to the private rooms. Would you like a tea tray or wine?”

It was a little late for tea and scones. “Wine, both red and white, and assorted cheeses, biscuits, and fruit.”

“I will see to it at once.”

Augusta followed Hermia up to the top floor and was shown into a lush parlor with a fire blazing in the hearth. She grew increasingly anxious as the minutes ticked by. The tray was brought in, but there was still no sign of the duke. Had he changed his mind, collected his winnings, and left? That would be disappointing. She had only a short window to secure her future as she had to vacate the cottage by year’s end. She eyed the platter of food hungrily but didn’t dare touch it, fearing the duke might walk in while she had a mouthful of biscuits.

Another five minutes passed. Perhaps it was for the best that this masked, distant duke didn’t appear. The entire situation made her stomach churn. Augusta had worried for weeks about how openly to share her clandestine past and her fictional present life with any potential husband. Specific details couldn’t be avoided.

The door swung open so forcefully that Augusta gasped and placed a hand to her pounding heart. The duke made a grand entrance. He was taller than she had initially thought, definitely over six feet. The gold mask covered the left side of his face, and as she had guessed, the right side displayed heartbreaking, handsome perfection.

He glanced at a piece of paper he held. “Mrs. Augusta Cheevers?”

Augusta swallowed hard and stood, keeping her hand flat against the surface of the table to steady her shaky legs. His voice was deep and officious. “Yes.”

“I am Duncan Bamford, the Duke of Allenby.”

Augusta managed a slight curtsy. “Your Grace.”

He closed the door, stuffed the piece of paper into his side coat pocket, then strode toward her. Taking her hand, he bent stiffly over it. That touch of skin against skin (for the duke did not wear gloves, either) sent a bolt of awareness through Augusta. Releasing her hand, he stepped back and motioned to the chair. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”

“Would you care for a glass of wine, Your Grace?” Augusta asked politely.

“Yes. Red, if you please.”

Augusta filled the goblet halfway and handed it to the duke. She poured herself some white wine, taking a fortifying gulp before sitting down. “I imagine you have many queries, Your Grace.”

He kept staring at her with a penetrating gaze. It was all rather disconcerting. The duke had striking blue eyes. Fabricating a backstory would not work with this formidable man, nor was she keen on lying. Keeping all the falsehoods straight would be more trouble than it was worth, and she was tired of living a lie. Besides, Augusta wanted a marriage built on mutual respect, or even a warm friendship, whether it was arranged or not.

“I have a few. I was told you are the daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Hampton.”

“I am. Have you met them, Your Grace?”

“I only became the Duke of Allenby two years ago. This is my first time in London in several years. So no, I have not met them or anyone else in the exalted peerage.”

There was a faint hint of disdain in his tone when he spoke of aristocrats. “You were not the heir apparent?”

“No. That distinction belonged to my cousin. When he died, the heir apparent distinction passed to my father.”

“And you are feeling the need to secure the dukedom’s future, Your Grace?”

The duke took a sip of his wine as he looked at her over the rim of his fancy crystal glass. “Yes. It is a duty I can no longer ignore. I thought I was supposed to ask the questions?”

Augusta reached for a grape and popped it into her mouth. “Well, I believe it’s only fair that I also make inquiries; it is both of our futures that are at stake, Your Grace.”

“True enough. You are a widow, Mrs. Cheevers?”

And there it was: the fork in the road. She refused to lie to this man, a wounded war hero by all accounts, based on what little she had been told.

“I am not a widow, Your Grace. I have never been married. My parents fabricated the tale to keep a scandal from their door.”

The duke’s right eyebrow arched, the first sign of a reaction from the man. “Care to elaborate?”

“I ran off with a married earl ten years ago.”