Page 18 of Dangerous

“I would speak with His Grace, Abermarle.” He spoke softly, with his usual cool command.

“You’re bloody well right we’ll speak with my father, Exley. There is no time like the present.” Cian stalked through the open doorway without another word, revealing that Rebecca had been cowering behind him.

Exley looked down at her, his eyes cold and hooded, as if their all-too-brief tussle on the sofa had been a figment of Mia’s imagination. “I apologize for my unseemly haste, my lady, but if I dally much longer he will have quite the lead on me and I am not dressed for sprinting.” He bowed and closed the door softly behind him.

“Oh Mia,” Rebecca cried, almost breathless with hysteria. “Please tell me you cannot be considering the attentions of that man.”

Mia drew herself up. “I will thank you not to refer to my betrothed in that fashion.”

“Betrothed! But you cannot sacrifice yourself, Mia. You cannot!” Rebecca collapsed into a heap on the settee beside her, taking the place Exley had just vacated.

“Calm yourself, Cousin. I know more than enough. He has had two wives and they have died. Neither you nor Cian have been able to tell me anything exceptional about either woman’s death. There is nothing but rumor, conjecture, and gossip.”

Rebecca cried even harder.

Mia sighed, unwillingly recalling the hundreds of crying episodes she’d been forced to tolerate during her time in the harem. At least there would be no danger of poison or knives this time. She put an arm around the weeping woman and uttered soothing words while patting her back.

* * *

Cian Marlington stood in front of the duke, his hands fisted at his sides. “Have you no shame, Father?”

The Duke of Carlisle shot to his feet, his proud, handsome features suffused with anger. “You forget yourself,” he thundered, forgetting himself as well in his sudden rage. “If you cannot control yourself, you will leave the room.”

Adam smiled at the rare spectacle of the distinguished Duke of Carlisle engaging in a common row with his rebellious heir. It occurred to Adam that this was something he could look forward to himself if he managed to get his own fiery, redheaded offspring off Euphemia Marlington.

The younger man whipped around as if Adam had spoken out loud.

“You find this amusing, Exley?” Abermarle demanded, and then lunged across the room, one arm thrust out as if to grab him. Adam seized the outstretched arm at the wrist, yanked it low to pull him off balance, and then twisted it sharply behind his back, until Abermarle arched and grunted with pain.

“I don’t think so, my good man,” Adam said, sliding an arm around his brother-in-law-to-be’s neck and flexing, the action eliciting a choked squawk. “After all, it would be nothing to me to add another corpse to the pile, would it?” He gave a quick squeeze to punctuate his question before giving the younger man a sharp push that sent him stumbling toward his father’s desk.

“Good God, Cian, what is wrong with you?” The duke came from behind the massive slab of mahogany and grabbed his son by the shoulders. “Gather your wits, boy. You are making a fool of yourself.”

“It is you who should gather your wits, Father. You who are selling your daughter to a murdering villain who is so debased he can’t even be bothered to defend himself against the claims leveled against him.” He shot Adam a look of unbridled loathing.

Adam lowered himself into one of the fan-backed chairs across from the duke’s impressive desk, placed his booted ankle on his opposite knee, and leaned back. He felt his face shift into its habitually bored lines, and this time it wasn’t an act. He really was bored with the small drama unfolding before him.

Abermarle stood his ground and boiled with impotent rage as his hot green gaze flickered from his father to Adam and back. The younger man was as unpredictable and angry as his flaming hair would suggest. Oddly, the duke, the source of his fiery coloring, was as cold and calculating as a man could be. Would Adam barter any of his daughters to a man reputed to be a wife-killer?

He pushed the pointless question from his mind. His daughters could never marry.

“I have come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage, Your Grace.”

“You cannot have it!” Abermarle raged, moving a few steps toward Adam before recalling the last incident and halting.

“She has already given it,” Adam bit out, unable to contain his irritation any longer. “I am here out of courtesy, Abermarle. Your sister is a woman grown and has no need of any man’s permission to marry.”

The younger man gaped, robbed of all argument.

For an instant, Adam felt sorry for him. He wished he could talk to him man-to-man and offer him some reassurance. He obviously loved his sister too much to hand her over to somebody with Adam’s reputation.

He dismissed his foolish impulse. Abermarle, like the rest of the ton, had made up his mind about Adam long ago; talking to him about anything would serve no purpose.

Adam stood and faced the Duke of Carlisle. “Lady Euphemia and I are in agreement on the matter and neither of us sees any point in delay. I shall make myself available to you any day this week to discuss particulars.”

The duke nodded. “Very well, I shall send word to my man of business and let you know.”

Adam nodded and strode to the door. He waved away the footman who waited outside the duke’s study. “I can find my own way.”