Burke came around the side of the house, emerging from the shadows with a spring in his step. Light from three dozen blazing torches lit the sweeping front drive of Alcott Hall. Several carriages stood in the line-up as late stragglers arrived in time for dinner.
He slipped behind a group of coachmen to drop Rosalie’s ruined chemise on a brazier. It wasn’t a terribly cool night, so the brazier was little more than embers. When he dropped the chemise on top, the fire sparked back to life. He grinned, watching it go up in flames. Now, the next time he saw Rosalie, he got to picture her in nothing but stockings and stays.
Perfection.
He nodded to a few more footmen as he trotted up the stairs. If they questioned why he was coming out of the darkness, they tactfully said nothing. Neither did anyone ask him for an invitation as he wove through the crowd into the entry hall. If he played his cards right, he could fix it so he sat next to Rosalie at dinner. It wouldn’t be the first time he ruined the duchess’ carefully planned seating chart to sit next to a pretty girl.
He made his way through the grand gallery, head turning as he looked for her. There would be a few more dances before dinner. He could hold her in his arms again. Maybe a waltz. No blasted reels. He’d keep her dancing waltzes all night if it meant no one else touched her.
He slipped into the ballroom, eyes scanning the crowd. A large set danced a quadrille. He spied George dancing with one of the Nash twins—Christ—he’d almost forgotten about all that. Burke thought James might shit kittens when he told him George’s plan. Twins as wives. George Corbin was nothing if not original.
Before he could find Rosalie in the crowd, Reed approached, weaving between the guests like a solemn black crow. “Her Grace is asking for you, sir.”
Burke glanced around until his eyes locked on the far side of the room. The duchess stood surrounded by her ladies, each stirring the air with a feathered fan. A king’s fortune in jewels sparkled from every wrist, neck, and ear. Tiaras signifying rank sat perched atop piles of curls and powdered wigs. The duchess ruled as queen over them all.
“She asks for you to meet her in the music room,” Reed said, standing at his shoulder.
It was all Burke could do to keep his cool. Christ, how did the woman always know everything? Was it so easy for him to forget that the walls of Alcott had eyes and ears? All whispers eventually made their way back to her. No doubt it was a nosy footman listening at keyholes. If Burke figured out who it was, he’d pummel the man into the dirt. His moment with Rosalie was not something he wanted shared.
Damn it. One thought of her, and he wanted her again. He could feel himself aching with it. Another stern look from the duchess was all it took to cool the fire in his blood.
“She’s quite insistent, sir,” said Reed.
“Yes, fine.” Burke wove his way through the throngs of people. His eyes locked on Rosalie, who now stood with little Madeline. Her cheeks were still flushed, those dark eyes bright with excitement. He wanted to go to her, to whisper something in her ear—anything, to keep that bloom in her cheeks. But he couldn’t stop. The duchess might already know about his activities tonight, but he could hope that perhaps she didn’t know who was with him.
Rosalie raised a brow as he moved closer. With a subtle shake of his head, he tried to warn her, trusting in that unspoken ability she had to read his every look. At first, he found it vexing, but now it was a gift. Don’t worry, he said. I’ll handle this. She looked crestfallen for a moment, and he fought every urge to kiss away that frown.
He pushed his way through the crowded ballroom and retraced his steps back to the music room. The room glowed with warmth. He much preferred the darkness of his stolen moment with Rosalie. James and George stood in the middle of the carpet, watching as the duchess prowled between the piano and the sofa. It didn’t seem likely she would chastise him in front of the others. Perhaps he was mistaken in intuiting her purpose. He raised a wondering brow at James, who just shrugged.
“Finally. Burke, shut the door,” the duchess called. “I don’t want us disturbed.”
For the second time that night, Burke shut the door to the music room. He had a feeling this conversation would end much differently than the last one. Schooling his expression, he crossed the room to where George and James stood.
The duchess continued to pace as her gown fluttered across the carpet. Each turn made the diamonds at her throat twinkle in the candlelight.
“Mother…our guests will surely notice we’ve—”
“They can entertain themselves for ten minutes,” she snapped. “We need to talk.”
“Shall I get you a brandy, mama?” George asked. “A glass of ratafia—”
“Don’t you dare ‘mama’ me.” She slapped her feathered fan down atop the piano. “I told you I wanted the matter of George’s marriage settled.” She glared at Burke and James each in turn. “I expected the two of you to guide him in making a sensible choice. Instead, you’ve spent the month helping Tom Renley!”
James scowled. “Renley is our friend—”
“George is your brother! He needs you, James. You’ve disappointed me. Both of you.”
Burke allowed himself to feel a moment of guilt. Nothing she said was untrue. He’d done nothing to lift a finger to help George.
“I’m not a child,” George whined. “I can handle my own affairs—”
“And I could not have picked a better word,” she replied. “I see I shall have to handle this myself. For you three are either too deep in your own pleasure to make a sensible choice,” she glared at George, “or you’re wasting all your time helping Renley flirt with the only unsuitable girl in the house.” Her eye landed on Burke again. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your inappropriate attachment to Miss Harrow too.”
He clenched his jaw but said nothing. So, she didn’t know how far he’d already taken things with Rosalie. How inappropriate they’d been together in this very room…right where the duchess currently stood.
“And you,” she said, glaring at James. “If you weren’t so preoccupied with trying to be a duke when you’re not—”
“Thank you,” George cried with a wave of his hand.
“Shut up, George!” She leveled a gloved finger in his face. “If you were half the duke you ought to be, we none of us would even be in this position. If you knew anything of duty, you’d be married already with an heir and a spare.”
“But I made my choice, mama. I’m marrying one of the Nash twins—”
Burke heard rather than saw the slap that sent George reeling. The duchess stood before George, hand raised, chest heaving with emotion. For a moment, George stood, wholly surprised by the affront. The moment shattered, and he lunged forward as if he meant to return the favor. James and Burke grabbed him by the arms, wrestling him still.
“You dare hit me,” George grunted, cheeks pink with embarrassment “I am a duke! You will not hit me in my own fucking house. I don’t care if you’re my mother, the Queen, or the Virgin Mary!”
But the duchess wasn’t backing down. “Did you really think I wouldn’t discover your ridiculous plan? As long as you dare insult the honor of this family by claiming to take both those women, you will see nothing but the palm of my hand against your worthless face!”
George pulled on the others, trying to free his arms.
“Touch our mother in anger, and I’ll kill you myself,” James grunted in his ear. “Then I’ll throw you a funeral worthy of a fucking duke.”
Burke held George tighter, keeping one arm wrapped around his middle while the other held his arm pinned behind his back. James kept the other pinned too, twisting it until George hissed in pain.
“Enough,” George whined. “Let me go. I won’t touch her.”
James relaxed his grip slightly, but neither man let go.
The duchess squared her shoulders at her eldest son. “George, you will marry Piety Nash. You’ll propose to her tonight.” She took a step closer. “And if I hear even one peep out of you regarding Prudence, I shall hunt down a pair of sheep shearers and castrate you myself!” Surprising all three men, she shot out her hand and grabbed George by the bollocks, squeezing until he squirmed. “Do you understand me?”
He pulled against the arms that held him. “Ungh—ouch—fine,” he barked. “Yes, fine. I’ll marry Piety Nash, just let go.”
She held on a moment longer before releasing him and stepping away in disgust.
George panted, leaning against Burke. He chanced a look at James and whispered, “Which one is Piety?”
“Christ alive,” James muttered, giving his brother a shove as he let him go.
Assuming it was safe to do the same, Burke did too.
George centered the tie of his cravat. “Why isn’t Renley in here getting castigated? Is he not also supposed to be announcing an engagement too?”
“I don’t care about the marriage prospects of Tom Renley. Hang Tom Renley! He is not my son. You three are.” She narrowed her eyes at each of them in turn.
While Burke’s immediate reaction was to feel a sort of warm relief, he also felt it important to say, “Well, technically—”
“Don’t you dare.” She rounded on him. “You are my son if I say you are.” She raised an imperious brow. “And though you’ve all made your best attempts to bungle this, I am happy to say I’ve found a way to salvage the situation that will be to everybody’s benefit.”
An ominous feeling prickled the back of Burke’s neck.
“Mother, what are you talking about?” James asked.
“I’m saying I know about Lady Olivia too,” she snapped. “I know what happened the other night, though you all tried your best to keep it from me.”
“She came on to me, mama,” George hedged.
“Be quiet,” she snapped again. “I’ll not hear a word about it from you. James should have been the one to tell me, rather than me hearing whispers from a footman. Then I had to drag the rest of the sordid story out of a maid. So, the lady is set on hunting husbands like a common whore, is she?”
“I think she was just feeling desperate,” James said with a frown.
George scoffed. “Not desperate enough, apparently—”
“I said be quiet, George,” the duchess hissed.
“Since James is so talkative, did he tell you who was in the stairwell with him?” George said, eyes flashing.
The duchess seethed. “What are you on about?”
“Only the fact that James wasn’t the only one to come to Olivia’s aid.” George said with a sneer.
“George, you’re a fool. Nothing happened,” James barked.
“Ahh…so Miss Harrow wasn’t hidden in the stairwell with you?” said George. “She wasn’t deliciously disheveled—those dark curls tumbling loose over her shoulders, those pink cheeks and kissable lips—”
James lunged and it was all Burke could do to hold him back, even as he fought the urge to turn his bracing arm into a strangle hold. Was it true? Why would James keep it from him? Why would Rosalie?
George darted away like a cheeky fox, laughing as James fought to get free.
“Nothing happened,” James shouted. “Do not impugn the lady’s honor or mine!”
“Then why was she with you?” George teased.
Yes, Burke very much wanted to know the answer to that question as well…
“If you remember, she dropped her sketchbook when she found you in the stairwell fucking a maid into the bloody wall!” James replied.
“Enough!” the duchess shrieked. “Burke let him go. Speak out of turn again, and I shall have you both horse whipped.”
Burke let James go and the duchess took a deep breath, closing her eyes.
“Here is how it shall be,” she intoned. “George will propose to Piety Nash. It’s settled. I’ve also spent the better part of an hour tonight negotiating with the Marchioness of Deal. She has agreed to my terms. Burke, tonight you will propose to Lady Olivia. Now, we won’t announce it tonight, obviously, but—”
“What?” Burke barked at the same time James said, “Not a chance.”
“Congratulations,” George jeered. “A double wedding, how fun!”
Burke’s heart had stopped. He blinked slowly, glancing from a horrified James to the Duchess, who looked supremely self-satisfied. “And…do I get any say in this?”
“I’m afraid not,” the duchess replied. “You shall take the Corbin name, we will settle on you thirty thousand pounds, and on your wedding day you’ll earn your title. You’ll marry from this house and settle in London by the New Year. Now, come and kiss me, for I’ve just made you a baron.”
