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“The Duke of Wyndale,” the Dowager said, each word frosted, “does not carry papers to tradesmen like a shop-boy.”

“The Duke of Wyndale,” Chester returned, “will do exactly as he pleases with his own time, Mother.”

The room had not yet settled from Pepper’s exit. Heads turned again, scenting a second spectacle.

Darley, sprawled in indolent comfort three chairs down, let out a low chuckle. “Is this the same little house that produced our Limping Lady?” he drawled.

Silence snapped around the words.

Chester felt something cold and bright go through him.

“Mind your tongue, Darley,” he said.

Darley smiled, lazy and sharp. “Why? Because you’ve kissed her?” he murmured, just loud enough. “Forgive me, Wyndale, but the ton will have opinions about a duchess who limps and may never bear children—particularly one who smells faintly of custard. Word travels. Even if it was only mumps, and years ago, her attachment to that bakery is enough to stir suspicion.”

Mother sucked in a breath. “Darley,” she said sharply. “That is quite—”

Chester didn’t hear the rest. The world narrowed to the man’s vile words and the words damaged goods, unspoken but hanging there, oozing.

He crossed the distance between them without deciding to. One heartbeat he was standing by his mother’s chair; the next he was in front of Darley, fist already drawn back.

“You will never speak of her like that again,” he said, very calmly.

Darley opened his mouth. “The Flour Duke and the Limping Lady, it’s comical!” he sneered.

Chester hit him.

His knuckles met cheekbone with a satisfying, sickening crack. Darley toppled out of his chair in an undignified sprawl, clutching his face, swearing like a dockhand. A lady shrieked. Someone’s glass fell and shattered. The Dowager’s fan snapped shut with an audible smack.

“Chester!” his mother hissed. “Have you lost your mind?”

He flexed his hand once, shaking out the sting. “Possibly,” he said. “But not my hearing.”

Darley struggled upright with the help of a footman, eyes watering, nose already beginning to swell. “You’re mad,” he muttered thickly. “Over a lame girl who—”

Chester took a single step forward. The look he gave Darley this time required no fist at all.

“Finish that sentence,” he said softly, “and you’ll be borrowing another man’s teeth to do it with.”

Darley’s mouth snapped shut.

The Dowager’s gaze went flinty. “You are a duke,” she said, low and lethal. “Your first duty is to your line. Not to tears on a girl’s face or temper in a drawing room.”

He thought of Pepper’s eyes when she’d realized who he was. Not just tears—betrayal.

“I know my duty,” he said. “All of it. If you think I will marry anyone but the woman I love that you all drove out in tears, then you have misjudged me more than I believed possible.”

The word love hung there, shocking in its plainness.

His mother went very still.

The Dowager drew breath, poised to unleash a war of titles and expectations. Before she could, Chester stepped back.

“Reed,” he called.

His steward was already hovering near the door, as if he’d smelled trouble from three rooms away. “Your Grace?”

“My horse,” Chester said. “Now.”