ell. This gave new meaning to the tired old phrase drunk as a lord. Though perhaps in this instance, it would be more apt to say drunk as a duke.
Daisy stared at her bleary-eyed husband, who had just appeared as she was en route to her lonely breakfast. He wore the same trousers, coat, and waistcoat he’d left in the day before. He was rumpled, his hair disheveled, dark half-moons marring the flesh beneath his eyes. The undeniable scent of spirits perfumed the air.
“It seems I’ve arrived just in time,” he announced as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “Giles tells me you’re about to break your fast.”
She’d far prefer to break a vase. Over his arrogant noggin.
Her mouth tightened as she surveyed him further. How dare he, the cad? Where had he been? What had he been doing aside from plundering London’s whisky cache? Yesterday, she’d thought he resented having to marry her with such haste. She’d felt guilty at her part in the entire affair. Had known a keening despair at his taciturn demeanor. When he had left her alone, she had wanted very much for him to stay.
But he had attempted to brush her off with some feigned sense of honor and disappeared. What had he said? We need time to get to know each other. Ah yes, and her favorite: the unusual haste with which our nuptials took place has robbed from us the chance to court.
What nonsense. The only thing he’d been courting was a thorough sousing. How foolish of her to have known a moment of remorse for using him to escape her father’s clutches. The man before her—somehow still handsome even in his disgraceful state—didn’t deserve a drop of pity. Was he a drunkard, or had he found the prospect of wedding her so loathsome that he’d needed to find solace in a bottle? She had asked if he had ever hit a woman, but perhaps there was a more salient question she ought to have posed.
He stalked toward her when she maintained a frigid silence. “Haven’t you anything to say to me, wife?”
There, before the footmen waiting to dance attendance on a formal breakfast, she raked the duke’s person with undisguised disdain. “You’re sozzled.”
His brows crashed together. “And you’re impertinent. I assure you, I’m nothing of the sort.”
“You’re wearing yesterday’s attire.” She was so vexed with him that she didn’t care that it wasn’t done to speak her mind, and that it was decidedly de trop to do so in front of servants.
He made a show of inspecting his person before meeting her gaze once more with an indolence she found particularly infuriating. “Since I’m wearing it now, I daresay it’s today’s attire.”
A closer look at his wrinkled coat and trousers suggested that he’d slept in them. She wasn’t sure why such an observation would bring her relief. If he’d spent the evening in the arms of a mistress, it was no concern of hers. Theirs wasn’t a love match. He didn’t even seem to like her. And for her part, she had only chosen him because she was desperate.
And because she enjoyed his kisses.
Daisy struck that aberrant thought from her mind.
The compulsion to remove herself from his presence was strong. How could she be affected by her inconvenient attraction to him when he had spent the entirety of their wedding night drinking himself to oblivion and committing Lord knew what manner of sins?
That was it. She needed to escape. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I fear I’ve lost my appetite. I’ll be retiring to my chamber for the remainder of the day.”
“No.” His expression was mulish.
The devil. She skewered him with a glare. “Pardon me, Your Grace?”
“I do believe you heard me, Your Grace,” he drawled.
The obvious sign of the manner in which he’d been frittering away the evening—and perhaps early morning as well—stiffened her spine. For a moment, she thought of the woman she’d been before, in New York, under her father’s watchful eye and stern edicts. That Daisy would never dare to gainsay any man. Not her father. Not her husband.
But her time in England had changed her. The Daisy she had become wouldn’t be insulted by the man she’d married. A man who seemed to delight in leaving her at sixes and sevens, one moment smoldering, the next ice, and the next a reprobate.
She spun on her heel, presenting him with her back and a silent impression of what she thought of his boorish behavior. Daisy Vanreid—strike that—Daisy Trent, as she was to call herself now, would not meekly obey an order. From anyone. Ever again.
At that precise moment, Giles, who had been unflappable from the instant she’d first met him the day before, hurried into their midst at a clipped pace, his expression uncharacteristically pained.
“Your Graces, forgive me, but I’m afraid we’ve a guest who refuses to leave without an audience,” the butler said.
“We aren’t at home,” dismissed the duke without a second thought.
How accustomed he was, she thought, to his life of aristocratic privilege. A duke commanded a certain respect from everyone. From his fellow peers, from his servants. It seemed Daisy was the only one who didn’t hold her husband in awe.
“The gentleman in question claims to be Her Grace’s father,” Giles informed in hushed tones, his gaze darting from Daisy to the duke.
How odd this entire tableau must appear, she thought wryly as a sick feeling of foreboding unfurled within her. She tensed in the same way she always had before a reckoning with her father. This time, he would not be able to strike her.
Would he?
She swallowed, and everything around her seemed to slow to a torpid pace. She was hyperaware of every sound, from the uncharacteristic shuffling of a footman’s feet to the footsteps approaching down the hall. The angry, heavy footfalls of her father.
Daisy would recognize them anywhere.
He stalked around the corner, his gaze lighting on her, fury blazing from his every pore. “You disgraceful harlot!” he shouted.
The world became small all of a sudden. Everything revolved around the white-haired man tearing toward her like a wild bull. A black circle clouded her vision. Dizziness assailed her. A rushing sounded in her ears. She’d thought she’d prepared herself for seeing him again. But she had not. Her reaction was as terrifying and helpless as ever.
“Father,” she whispered. He came toward her, faster than she would have expected, while she stood rooted to the floor, gasping in air, panic making her heart pound and her mouth go dry. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t defend herself. He raised his fist. And she closed her eyes, bracing for the inevitable blow.
Sebastian remained rather foggy from his nocturnal drinking session with Griffin. Not to mention that his head was pounding. But he could still throw a goddamn punch like the warrior he was. Boxing sessions kept him at peak performance. So when he saw Daisy’s bastard of a father storming toward her with the clear intent of striking her, his instincts went into action.
He threw himself in front of her, unadulterated rage charging through him as he caught Vanreid’s fist in a manacle-like grip midair. His other hand caught the son-of-a-bitch’s necktie and yanked, closing off his air supply. Carlisle’s careful instructions regarding the man vanished from Sebastian’s mind, dispelled by a combination of drink and raw emotion.
It didn’t matter that he risked his cover and reputation both. Nor did he give a damn that he wasn’t meant to bring undue attention to himself since doing so could endanger their mission. All that did matter was the need to protect Daisy, fierce and swift and all-consuming.
“You will never again,” he bit out, stark fury sharpening everything into focus, “raise a hand against my wife. Do you understand me, Vanreid?”
The man was tall, strapping as an ox, but he was no match for Sebastian’s superior strength. His face went red as he choked for air and struggled to unsuccessfully remove Sebastian’s hand from his necktie. He wondered how a delicate, graceful beauty like Daisy had come from such a beast.
“Never again,” he repeated, watching with grim satisfaction as his opponent continued to fight for breath. For a moment, some wild fiend deep within him imagined tightening his hold and not relenting until the swine succumbed. There was a quicker, cleaner manner of choking a man, however, one that required far less effort. And in general, it was a poor plan to commit murder before one’s servants.
He released Vanreid at last, stepping back and drawing Daisy into a protective embrace at his side. They faced her father as a unified front, and though nothing was as it seemed, Sebastian knew that he’d do anything to keep her from ever returning to this brute’s dubious clutches.
Vanreid gasped for breath, his eyes burning them both like hot coals. “You’ve married her?”
Belatedly, it occurred to Sebastian that—like committing murder—engaging in sensitive dialogue was not well done before servants. Their current audience consisted of a wide-eyed chambermaid, two footmen, and Giles. Perhaps consuming a vast quantity of spirits the night before had been ill-advised after all. His head began pounding, and everything else had vanished in the face of Vanreid’s ugly intrusion.
He cleared his throat and cast a meaningful glance toward his domestics. “Perhaps we should adjourn to a more private chamber, Mr. Vanreid.”
A stern look from Giles was all it required for the servants to disperse with quiet but respectful haste. Sebastian, Vanreid, and Daisy stood alone in the eerie quiet, each reeling in a different fashion, he suspected, from the events of the day.
Vanreid’s color had returned to normal, but he was still quite obviously livid. “I would prefer to have an audience with my daughter alone.”
Sebastian cast a glance at Daisy, who had been markedly silent during the entire exchange. She was wide-eyed and wan. Being in the presence of her sire had taken the wind from her sails. The hand he had placed on the small of her back absorbed a tremble.
“There will be no audience with my wife,” he snapped. No chance for the blighter to punish Daisy. No chance for him to harm her ever again. “You will speak before me or no one.”
Vanreid’s lip curled into a sneer. “Who do you think you are? I could have you arrested for your conduct! Pawing at her in a public place, abducting her for a secret wedding. Good God, I haven’t even any proof this marriage is valid.”
Sebastian took a menacing step forward, bringing Daisy with him. The desire to plant his fist directly into Vanreid’s nose was overwhelmingly strong. “Our marriage is legal, binding, and consummated. You will speak to my wife before me or you will not speak to her at all. Furthermore, you will address her with courtesy. You will give her the respect she is due as the Duchess of Trent. If you dare to say a word against her, I’ll have you removed at once.”
Daisy’s hand, resting in the crook of his elbow for support, tightened on him then in unspoken gratitude. But he didn’t want her gratitude. He wanted her freedom. Their marriage was complex, their circumstances even more so. Of one thing, however, he was certain, and it was that he never again wanted to see Daisy Vanreid cower to filth like her father.
“Leave now, Father,” Daisy said, finally using her voice and reclaiming the power that had so long been denied her. “I don’t wish to speak to you.”
Vanreid had eyes only for his daughter, and Sebastian didn’t like what he read within the sinister depths. “You betrayed me. I paid handsomely to garner you a husband, and you disgraced yourself, acting the trollop. I always knew you had your mother’s sinful nature.”
Daisy blanched, her fingers biting into Sebastian’s flesh. “You paid to have me do your bidding, to marry me off to a decrepit scoundrel whose cruelty matches your own. I did what I needed to in order to secure my freedom from such an appalling union. As for my mother, you aren’t worthy of speaking her name. Leave now, and never return.”
“You will depart of your own accord,” he ground out when the bastard hesitated, looking as if he wished to spew more acidic rage, “or be forcibly removed, Vanreid. The choice is yours.”
Vanreid’s dark eyes glinted the obsidian of the harshest, darkest night as he stared down first Daisy and then Sebastian. “I will go. But mark my words. This shall be your greatest regret.”
Sebastian had faced far more worthy opponents than a ruddy-faced tyrant with a penchant for abusing his innocent daughter. But even so, something about Vanreid’s countenance chilled his blood.
Keeping his expression carefully rigid, he called out for Giles, who had strayed far enough for propriety but not too far. The butler appeared, two burly footmen at the ready.
“Your Grace?”
“See Mr. Vanreid to the door, if you please,” Sebastian instructed Giles, careful to keep his tone languid. His training had been stamped into his marrow. Show no weakness. Bend to no one. Offer no mercy. “I shouldn’t think he’ll be returning.”
“You will regret this,” Vanreid hissed, his tone as dark as his expression. Those dark, devil’s eyes of his focused on Daisy alone. “Mark my words. One day, you’ll regret this, but by then it will be far, far too late to save yourself.”
Daisy swayed into Sebastian, and he steadied her with ease. It was a natural gesture, instinctive reaction, being her support. Something deep inside him wanted to tear out Vanreid’s throat. To beat him to a bloody pulp for daring to harm the woman at his side. For daring to attempt to control her and foist her lush, vibrant beauty and mind off on an old lecher for his own benefit.
“Go to hell,” Sebastian growled as the footmen—who were in truth far more than mere footmen—crowded Vanreid, prodding him to begin his retreat.
“You’ll join me there one day, Trent,” Vanreid swore before turning on his heel and stalking away.
Daisy’s father disappeared from view in the great hall. So too the footmen and the ever-vigilant Giles. The moment he was gone, Daisy tore herself from Sebastian. He felt the abrupt departure as if some part of himself had been suddenly removed.
“He is gone now,” he said to his wife, unnecessarily. And because the silence between them was awkward and because he was acutely aware that he’d spent their wedding night tippling whisky and because he knew she was displeased with him.
It didn’t matter that he didn’t know who Daisy Vanreid truly was. That she was a cipher to him. A woman he was warned against, and yet ordered to keep close. A woman who could be capable of incredible deceit and depravity if the information he’d received about her was to be believed. A woman he was drawn to more than anyone else before her, against all good judgment and certainly against all reason.
She faced him, as august as the queen. “You never returned last night.”
He clasped his wrists behind his back, unapologetic because he could not afford to be. Feeling like a cad anyway. “No.”
“You smell of spirits,” she accused. “Tell me, Your Grace. I would hope that our marriage could at least begin in honesty. Do you have a mistress? Is that where you spent the night?”
He stared at her, not knowing what to say. Ladies weren’t meant to be so forthright. His father had kept his position in the Special League from his mother for the entirety of their union. He had also kept a mistress for fifteen years. His mother had never been aware of either fact.
But Sebastian had. His mother had been a good woman, kindhearted and gentle. She’d deserved far more than his father’s callous deception. Sebastian had thought it then, and he thought it now. The only difference was that now he understood what it was like to bear the onerous burden of membership in the League.
It fostered deception. It took a man’s life from his own hands.
“I do not,” he answered Daisy truthfully. Not that it is any of your concern. “This is not the sort of dialogue we ought to have here.”
Not with the servants about. Not when he was still half in his cups, head still pounding like the devil’s blacksmith himself was using his cranium as an anvil. Better yet, it was a conversation they ought never to have, for what could he say?
How was he to explain himself to her when he could not? When he could not even trust her? When she was his bloody wife, and there was nothing he wanted more than to strip her from her layers and lose himself inside her softness, but he could not touch her? Yesterday had been a mistake. He had no right to touch her, to kiss her, to long for more. Today was a mistake. Standing here, now, in the same space as her, breathing in her exotic scent, was a grievous error.
Misery slithered through him. He wasn’t meant to feel anything for her. She was a means to an end. So why the hell did her stricken, pale face rattle him? Why did seeing her so vulnerable make him want to take her into his arms?
“Where should we have such a dialogue, Your Grace?” she asked quietly into the silence that had fallen between them. “Because I wish very much to know where I stand.”
An odd, tight sensation began in his chest and settled low in his gut.
Guilt.
Surely not. He was trained to never empathize. His capacity for emotion was tainted by years of living a secret life, of never allowing anyone to breach his defenses.
He swallowed, unable to look away from her. Daisy. The woman he’d married. The woman Carlisle wanted to throw into prison. Jesus, as if she hadn’t already suffered enough. It was guilt, alright. He felt lower than a goddamn worm.
He was lying to her. Manipulating her. Using her.
She could be innocent. Or she could be guilty as sin.
“Come to my study in two hours’ time,” he bit out, tamping his conscience firmly back down to the furthest, unreachable depths of himself. Precisely where it belonged.