fortified wine on each and every occasion?”
“What if we do?” Merry retorted, raising her chin. “What possible reason could you have to condemn or approve the practice?”
His eyes drifted over her, and not in an agreeable way, not in the appreciative manner that he’d looked at herbefore. Something was different about him now. He looked every inch the aristocrat.
“As you mentioned earlier, Miss Pelford, you are clearly in need of instruction about how to comport yourself in English society. Permit me to note a rule that your governess overlooked: young ladies do not drink spirits. You will have to take care not to display inebriation.”
“I have never been inebriated,” she said hotly.
“I am relieved to hear it. I have one more point to make, and then I’ll escort you to my brother.”
Merry ground her teeth. “Please do,” she managed.
“My brother is overly fond of brandy.”
For a moment Merry couldn’t imagine whom he referred to. Was there another Allardyce brother, one whom Cedric had neglected to mention? No, of course not. The duke meant Cedric. It was slanderous, and proved that this estrangement was far worse than she’d believed.
She had to defend her betrothed. “You are mistaken,” she said, letting her voice have a distinct edge. “I have never even seen Cedric tipsy.”
His gaze was rock-steady. “You will.”
To her dismay, Merry realized that the duke’s stubborn insistence meant that one of her fiancé’s claims about his brother was indeed true. Cedric had once told her that the duke spread lies about him throughout London, including a fantastic tale about how Cedric had once almost shot a bishop.
And now His Grace was telling her that his brother—her fiancé—was an inebriate. She made a silent apology to Cedric, resolving to say as much when she saw him next. She was ashamed that she hadn’t entirely believed him.
“His claims are absurd,” Cedric had told her, “but you know how it is. Some people will believe anything.”
She couldn’t abide underhanded men, not after Dermothad sneakily borrowed against his expectation of marrying her.
She let some of her disdain creep into her eyes. His Grace shouldn’t be allowed to think that everyone would believe the lies he told about his own brother. She, if no one else, would always take Cedric’s side.
“I gather you do not believe me,” he said.
Merry didn’t know how to answer. She could hardly inform the duke that Cedric had warned her that his brother would try to ruin his reputation.
The duke’s eyes rested on hers for a moment and then he looked past her at the crowded ballroom. It was remarkable that no one had interrupted them, but the ball seemed to be swirling on, taking no account of the two of them. Of course, everyone knew they would soon be family members, and there was nothing very interesting in the chatter of a brother- and sister-in-law.
“Has he told you how our parents died?” he asked, with an abrupt change of subject.
“He has not.”
“Then I shall tell you. Seven years ago, on a fine spring evening, my father took my mother out for an airing in a light phaeton.”
Merry felt a trickle of dread.
“Phaetons require deft handling and can be dangerous even in the best of circumstances.” His voice was even, but something flickered in his eyes that could only be pain. “And easily fatal, if the driver has consumed the better part of a bottle of brandy before taking up the reins.”
The implication was plain. “Tell me your mother didn’t die in that carriage accident,” she whispered.
“They both did.”
Her stomach clenched. “No,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sadly, my father often drank to excess, and Cedrictakes after him in that respect.” His voice didn’t invite pity; without question, he would damn the pretensions of anyone who offered sympathy.
Her fingers twitched with a ferocious wish to put her hand on his cheek and soothe the pain that
“What if we do?” Merry retorted, raising her chin. “What possible reason could you have to condemn or approve the practice?”
His eyes drifted over her, and not in an agreeable way, not in the appreciative manner that he’d looked at herbefore. Something was different about him now. He looked every inch the aristocrat.
“As you mentioned earlier, Miss Pelford, you are clearly in need of instruction about how to comport yourself in English society. Permit me to note a rule that your governess overlooked: young ladies do not drink spirits. You will have to take care not to display inebriation.”
“I have never been inebriated,” she said hotly.
“I am relieved to hear it. I have one more point to make, and then I’ll escort you to my brother.”
Merry ground her teeth. “Please do,” she managed.
“My brother is overly fond of brandy.”
For a moment Merry couldn’t imagine whom he referred to. Was there another Allardyce brother, one whom Cedric had neglected to mention? No, of course not. The duke meant Cedric. It was slanderous, and proved that this estrangement was far worse than she’d believed.
She had to defend her betrothed. “You are mistaken,” she said, letting her voice have a distinct edge. “I have never even seen Cedric tipsy.”
His gaze was rock-steady. “You will.”
To her dismay, Merry realized that the duke’s stubborn insistence meant that one of her fiancé’s claims about his brother was indeed true. Cedric had once told her that the duke spread lies about him throughout London, including a fantastic tale about how Cedric had once almost shot a bishop.
And now His Grace was telling her that his brother—her fiancé—was an inebriate. She made a silent apology to Cedric, resolving to say as much when she saw him next. She was ashamed that she hadn’t entirely believed him.
“His claims are absurd,” Cedric had told her, “but you know how it is. Some people will believe anything.”
She couldn’t abide underhanded men, not after Dermothad sneakily borrowed against his expectation of marrying her.
She let some of her disdain creep into her eyes. His Grace shouldn’t be allowed to think that everyone would believe the lies he told about his own brother. She, if no one else, would always take Cedric’s side.
“I gather you do not believe me,” he said.
Merry didn’t know how to answer. She could hardly inform the duke that Cedric had warned her that his brother would try to ruin his reputation.
The duke’s eyes rested on hers for a moment and then he looked past her at the crowded ballroom. It was remarkable that no one had interrupted them, but the ball seemed to be swirling on, taking no account of the two of them. Of course, everyone knew they would soon be family members, and there was nothing very interesting in the chatter of a brother- and sister-in-law.
“Has he told you how our parents died?” he asked, with an abrupt change of subject.
“He has not.”
“Then I shall tell you. Seven years ago, on a fine spring evening, my father took my mother out for an airing in a light phaeton.”
Merry felt a trickle of dread.
“Phaetons require deft handling and can be dangerous even in the best of circumstances.” His voice was even, but something flickered in his eyes that could only be pain. “And easily fatal, if the driver has consumed the better part of a bottle of brandy before taking up the reins.”
The implication was plain. “Tell me your mother didn’t die in that carriage accident,” she whispered.
“They both did.”
Her stomach clenched. “No,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sadly, my father often drank to excess, and Cedrictakes after him in that respect.” His voice didn’t invite pity; without question, he would damn the pretensions of anyone who offered sympathy.
Her fingers twitched with a ferocious wish to put her hand on his cheek and soothe the pain that
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