My Fair Marchioness (Scandalous Affairs Book 3) Christi Caldwell (popular books of all time txt) 📖

Park to Grosvenor Square, he’d felt an urge to learn even more about the lady, and for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with his suspicions. Just as the kiss in the marble room hadn’t been motivated by anything other than this magnetic draw he neither wanted nor needed. He did not need being pulled toward a possible liar.

And oddly, he’d had a wonderful time, too. What he’d intended as a fact-finding mission, meant to further learn anything he might about this woman whom the duchess had welcomed so readily into her residence, had led to a discovery of a different sort.

“So?” Rothesby asked, pulling Harris from his thoughts.

“So, what?”

The other man gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Come on, man. What is her story?”

“You know her story,” Harris said automatically. All of Polite Society knew the tale of the duchess’ lost niece.

Rothesby, nearly as cynical as Harris himself, scoffed. “Surely you aren’t believing she is, in fact, who she claims to be.”

Since the moment he’d learned of her reappearance, he’d been filled only with a cynical intent of protecting the duchess at all costs, the young woman who’d entered Her Grace’s household be damned. Only to find himself, after this short time with her, not so very cynical as he’d believed. Not when presented with the honesty she’d shared about her struggle and also in everything she’d revealed about the harshness that had been her life. He had been…captivated.

And hearing Rothesby’s jaded words about the lady, it felt wrong to admit what he really thought to this man. Even if their friendship did go back more than fifteen years.

“Why can’t she be who she claims to be?” he countered instead.

The duke choked on his drink. “Because you, my friend, know how the world operates.” A hand still on his glass, Rothesby stuck his littlest finger in Harris’ direction. “More specifically, you know how women operate.”

“The duchess is happy to have her returned, and as you’re well aware, only a fool questions anything that brings Her Grace happiness.”

It was undoubtedly the lifetime of friendship between them, and his knowledge of Harris’ turbulent life, that allowed him to latch on to that which Harris hadn’t said.

“Ah, but you do have reservations?”

He resisted the urge to squirm in his leather seat. “I would be a fool not to have some doubts.” A lot. He had a ton.

“Well, worst case is, you’ve found yourself a pretty piece to replace the countess. How is the countess, anyway?”

At last, they’d moved to safer discourse. “We have parted ways amicably.”

“Splendid.” The other man smiled widely. “You won’t be offended if I extend the lady an offer of my protection.”

“Not at all.”

“And I do not suppose this timing has anything to do with the sudden arrival of the delectable Lady Julia Corbett…Julia Corbett who has an altogether different name than the duchess’s actual niece.”

Harris gnashed his teeth. Bloody hell, the other man had effortlessly and trickily steered Harris back to the topic of the duchess’s niece. Leaning across the table, he spoke in a tense, measured whisper. “Have a care with the lady’s name,” he bit out. “Whether you or I or anyone has doubts, the duchess does not, and she will hardly tolerate the smearing of the lady’s name, and for that matter, neither will I. Am I clear?” he snapped.

Lord Rothesby stared back with wide eyes, and surely for the first time in the other man’s life, he was absolutely and completely silent. Then a knowing grin curled his lips at the left corner in a mocking, knowing half smile. “You are… abundantly clear.”

Let it go.

Say nothing.

“What?” he demanded, and damned if he didn’t step through the door and all the way into it.

“Well, it is just that the notoriously roguish Lord Ruthven, with his disavowal of all things innocent, seems a good deal concerned with the lovely young lady and her honor.”

Harris’s ears went hot. “You are making more of it than it is,” he said tersely, taking a drink of brandy.

All the while, he felt the other man’s amused, smug eyes on him. “Am I?” Rothesby asked. “Am I?” he repeated, placing a greater emphasis upon that same question.

“You are. I am merely assisting the duchess.”

Rothesby patted a hand against his heart in an exaggerated way. “My goodness, how very generous and kind you are, Ruthven.” The other man put his drink down. “I’ve two predictions for you.”

“I really do not need to h—”

“One, you land yourself in the bed of that lovely beauty, who is decidedly not your godmother’s niece, and two, you toss her out on her arse afterwards when you have confirmation that she isn’t who she claims to be.”

He didn’t know why it should matter the other man’s opinion. It was, after all, the very one held by Harris himself. Something, however, spoken that way from this man’s lips filled him with a potent rage.

“Well, well, well, what is this I hear of carriage rides with young, respectable ladies?”

They both looked up.

A grinning Lord Barrett looked back and forth between Harris and the duke, before claiming a seat.

“This again,” Harris muttered, while the other man took a glass from the waiting servant.

Snifter in hand, the other man kicked back on the legs of his chair. “It makes sense you know,” Barrett said to no one in particular.

“What?” Harris asked impatiently.

“Why you broke it off with the countess.”

“You know that?” Too. Were there no secrets kept in this damned Society?

“She shared it with my mistress, who shared it with me. Between that and the fact you, the last gent anyone in Society expects, are seen squiring a young miss about, well, eyebrows have been raised. As have been the wagers in the betting books.” The viscount motioned