Page 98 of Better Than a Duke
The angry female voice wasn’t Iris’s. A hand wrenched at her wheeled chair, and Margaret shrieked again.
“What the devil?” Lady Hentrose grabbed a lamp from the hallway and skidded into the doorway directly behind Margaret and Bradley. “Pauline?”
“Yes, but—”
The dowager marchioness echoed Margaret’s scream with one of her own. “Oh, the scandal!” she wailed. “How could you, Beckett?”
“I’m not Beckett,” the Duke of Trent snapped. “Get your damned chair out of the way, Margaret, before you ruin everything.”
By now the rest of the guests were stomping into the hallway outside the morning room. Bradley squeezed by her in a very improper fashion and began lighting candles, and only her very strong will prevented her from fainting.
Pauline had backed behind the couch and frantically attempted to rebutton her gown, while Trent stood in the center of the room, roaring, his trousers and coat draped over a chair several feet away. Even worse, Iris didn’t seem to be in the room at all.Oh dear. What the devil was happening?
Beckett and Iris ran through the front door to see most of the guests and his staff crowded into the front hallway and honking like geese. Everyone chattered, no one seemed to know precisely what was going on, and he dodged past Lord Harold with Iris on his heels.
“What’s happened?” he demanded, pushing forward.
Ahead of him in the open morning room doorway, Bradley intercepted a charging Edmund and Rebecca, grabbing one under each of his arms, and began plowing against the flow of guests back toward the depths of the house. “No, you don’t, you two. No need for you to see that.”
“Bradley?” Beckett demanded, reaching the senior footman.
“You’d best see for yourself, my lord. The little ones and I will be in the kitchen.”
As they passed, he noted that Rebecca seemed to be coated in something very messy, and he caught the scent of oranges as she vanished behind him. One thing at a time. Had something happened to Trent? Had the duke turned up his toes in the morning room? Good God, he would have to move if he ended the evening with a dead duke on his davenport.
Beckett reached the doorway. His mother and Lady Margaret’s chair blocked the entrance, and he pushed Iris’s aunt forward a foot so he could get around them. “What—”
He stopped. Stopped talking, stopped moving, even stopped thinking for a moment. His eyes saw things that his mind couldn’t—or didn’t wish to—explain.
In front of him, Lady Pauline stood behind the couch, her hands over her face and her dress unbuttoned halfway down her back. As he took that in, the Duke of Trent stalked up to her. Trouserless, his hands on his hips, the duke glared at Lady Pauline.
“Who the devil are you, anyway?” he demanded.
Lady Margaret coughed. “Your Grace, this is Lady Pauline Grenedy. You sat across from her at dinner.”
“Yes, but who is she? Her lineage, damn it all!”
Iris’s aunt flinched. “She…”
“She’s the Duke of Milton’s granddaughter,” Beckett’s mother finished crisply.
“Milton’s granddaughter? Albert and I came up together.” He guffawed, the sound dry and contemptuous. “So to speak.”
Whatever the devil was afoot, Pauline, at least, looked mortified. “That’s enough of that,” Beckett snapped, removing his coat and walking forward to put it around her shoulders.
“Oh, thank you, Beckett,” she said, grabbing for his hands. “I have no idea what’s going on here! It was so dark, and I thought you—he—they locked us in here, and I had no idea he wasn’t wearing any—”
“Why aren’t you in the library?” he asked, freeing his fingers.
“I… Your butler said to meet you here. The—”
Beckett whipped around. “Butler?”
The butler, pretending to be a statue against one wall, shrugged. “I’m as startled as anyone, my lord.”
“Lady Pauline,” Beckett’s mother said succinctly, “claiming your intention was to cavort with a different man does not help anything. Please… collect yourself and leave this house. I will not tolerate such… lewd behavior beneath my son’s roof.”
“Just a moment,” Trent stated, eyeing Pauline again. “I came here for a wife. You’ll do, Lady Pauline Grenedy.” He took a step toward the hallway. “Francis! Send someone to Canterbury. I need a marriage license. John Howard, Duke of Trent, wed to Lady Pauline Grenedy, granddaughter of the Duke of Milton.” He turned to pin Iris, standing at Beckett’s shoulder, with a glare. “Better than you, I’d wager. Younger, too. Ha! I’m cleverer than any of you.”
