Page 22

"Uncle George! Will you and Aunt Helena bring Oliver to our house for the grand assembly next week?" Timothy asked, his small, high-pitched voice ringing out clearly over the shuffling feet of the carriage horses and the low rumble of iron-rimmed wheels.

George looked down at the boy. "Oliver is far too small to be traveling to grand assemblies, Timothy. Even if I do, Oliver is much too young for such frivolities."

Caspian stepped down from the carriage mounting block, a teasing smirk spreading across his face. "Stop jesting, George."

Caspian chided lightly, before bending down to ruffle Timothy's dark curls. "Certainly, the Duke is expected to present himself with his duchess at such events."

George shifted his weight slightly, staring at Caspian with a stoic expression. "My presence in London society is entirely a matter of necessity, Caspian, not a desire for merrymaking or foolish display. The governance of this estate requires my absolute focus, and I see little reason to drag my household into the chaotic tumult of a London ballroom merely to satisfy the idle curiosity of the ton."

"Nonsense, my dear friend," Caspian replied with a booming laugh that drew a soft smile from Arabella. "It would do everyone good to have fun, forgetting whispers and rumors after everything these past few weeks have shown."

George felt a familiar spike of anxiety prickling the back of his neck. The thought of stepping out into the glittering, predatory drawing rooms of the London elite with Helena at his side sent a cold dread through his veins.

The ton is an ocean of vipers waiting for the slightest drop of blood in the water, George thought. If Helena and I enter those ballrooms, every eye will dissect our carriage, our garments, our glances, our words, seeking any proof that our union is a hollow arrangement.

Caspian observed the darkening of George's expression and stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You cannot keep yourself locked away in here forever, George. Society knows you are married. To isolate yourselves here will only invite more malicious suspicion."

George looked at Caspian. "What is the point of going to the ball to forget the whispers, when half the ton would already be there?"

Caspian shook his head, leaning in closer to his old friend. "You say that, but hiding Helena will only encourage the rumors."

George froze, weighing Caspian's logic against his own protective instincts. Caspian was entirely correct. If he kept Helena cloistered within while the rest of high society gathered for the season's grandest festivities, the gossips would immediately declare that he was ashamed of his bride, or that their marriage was a fractured sham. To protect her dignity, he could not hide her away forever. He had to parade her before the world as his undisputed and magnificent duchess.

"Perhaps... you possess a grain of wisdom after all, Caspian," George admitted reluctantly.

"I always do, George," Caspian grinned, clapping him soundly on the shoulder before turning to assist Arabella into the coach. "We shall expect your arrival by Friday evening. Do not dare disappoint my wife!"

With final bows and calls of farewell, the door of the traveling coach clicked shut, and the heavy carriage rattled down the winding gravel driveway.

The following afternoon, George walked along the polished parquet floor of the picture gallery, land boundary maps tucked securely beneath his arm.

As he walked past the stone alcoves, the murmurs of hurried voices drifted out from behind a pair of heavy draperies that separated the main gallery from a servant's dusting closet. George slowed his pace instinctively, sharp ears picking up the distinct tones of two housemaids engaged in illicit gossip when they ought to have been tending to the brass sconces.

"...saw them with my own eyes yesterday morning," one housemaid whispered breathlessly. "His Grace walked straight past Her Grace's bedchamber without so much as a glance at her door. They do not share chambers, Martha! Not a single night since she arrived!"

"It is just as the head cook said," the second maid chimed in, her tone dripping with salacious satisfaction. "He only pretends to care for her. You can tell by how deliberately he looks at her dress and her hair and then stops, as if there's something more important. And have you seen how Her Grace reacts whenever he steps near? She avoids his touch like the plague, stepping back as if his fingertips were dipped in ice!"

George stopped dead in his tracks. His fists tightened, a terrifying storm cloud gathering behind his eyes.

"It is plain as day," the first maid continued snidely. "This marriage is merely a convenience for the infant. It isn't a real marriage at all. Mark my words, once the child is settled and grown a bit, she won't remain here. She is only a temporary Duchess, holding the seat until His Grace tires of the arrangement!"

"And really, it is obvious that he'll be on the hunt for a mistress as soon as Her Grace is cleanly out of the way."

The words cut through George's chest as a wave of fury surged through his veins, turning his blood to fire. His mind became clouded with rage, not because the servants had dared to comment upon his own unapproachable demeanor, but because they had dared to degrade Helena to a mere temporary convenience in her own home.

Instantly, he threw back the velvet curtain, stepping into the stone alcove like a vengeful shadow.

The young housemaids gasped in horror, dropping their dusting cloths onto the floor as their faces turned ghostly white. They shrank back against the cold stone wall, trembling under the weight of his icy stare.

"If I am correct, I am the lord of this manor and the Duke of Cavendish. So, my ears must be mistaken, as I heard some slander about the Duchess and myself. Or did I actually hear correctly?" George demanded, his voice dropping into a thunderous growl.

"Your Grace!" Even the bolder of the two shrank back against the wall.

George took a step forward, looking down at them with disdain, his dark brows drawn into a terrifying scowl. "Do you imagine that because you whisper behind closed doors, your words cease to be disloyal?"

"No, Your Grace! Please!" the elder maid whispered, wringing her hands together. "We apologize for this discourtesy, Your Grace. We spoke out of turn."

"You spoke with unforgivable insolence and malice against the mistress of this house," George snapped, his voice cold and sharp as honed steel. "You are relieved of your duties at Cavendish Manor effective this very second. Gather your belongings from the servants' quarters and leave my estate. If you are gone before the sun sets, you may depart with a reference. Otherwise, I shall have the footmen escort you off the grounds. If I ever hear a single whisper of this slander repeated anywhere in London, I shall ensure neither of you ever finds employment again. Begone from my sight."