Loved by a Duke (The Heart of a Duke #4)(48)

Wessex was determined to make a bother of himself. “Ahh, I expected you’d say as much.” He inclined his head. “I’ve composed another list.”

How many men did the lackwit truly believe he could drum up that might make Daisy an appropriate match?

“A mere three names this time.”

“That is all?” he said, forcing a droll tone when he’d really stake the blasted list and stuff it down his friend’s throat.

Wessex continued as though he’d not spoken. “The Earl of Warwick.”

“Too fond of the faro tables.”

“Baron Wright,” he returned.

“A mother’s boy.” Daisy deserved far more than a gentleman who was devoted, caring, and resolute to his mother and not one person more.

“The Viscount Reddingbrooke.”

Auric frowned. Reddingbrooke was…And then there was…His frown deepened. “He’s too old,” he said at last. Why, the man must be…?

Wessex laughed, attracting unwanted notice. “He’s a year younger than your miserable self, Crawford, which I suppose explains your need for the quizzing glass.” His laughter redoubled.

The delicate piece he carried at the front of his jacket pocket, a gift given him by Daisy, lent a silent mockery to Wessex’s words. “Shove off,” he bit out. “I…”

Wessex’s merriment faded, and he looked to the doorway, unblinking. “Here.” He thrust his crystal flute in Auric’s hands.

“What?” Perplexed, Auric glanced between the glass and his friend.

“Take a drink,” Marcus advised.

A flurry of activity at the entrance of the ballroom captured Auric’s notice. The hum of noisy whispers flooded the room, as ladies and gentlemen strained their attention to the front of the hall.

Auric didn’t give a jot about Society gossips and their latest on-dit. There was the matter of Daisy to attend. When she set aside her not at all Daisy-like temper and admitted him once more.

Wessex made a strangled sound in his throat.

Auric eyed him, concerned, and made to slap him on the back. “What—?” Then, he followed the other man’s shocked stare to the front of the receiving line. The air left Auric on a swift exhale. There was something familiar in the heart-shaped planes of her face, and yet somehow altogether different. By the splash of color on her freckled cheeks and tightly coiled, dark brown curls, he recognized Daisy’s visage with the same certainty of recognizing his own. And yet the voluptuous woman in ice blue satin, with the fabric clinging to generous hips and bountiful breasts, was a siren.

Wessex let out a soft whistle. “By God, the duck becomes a swan.”

No, the lady was no swan. His mouth went dry as a wave of longing so deep and powerful threatened to consume him there before all of Society. She carried herself with the same comfort and ease, a smile on her plump lips, a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. His Daisy. His girl of the flowers. Their host and hostess, Lord and Lady Ellis, said something to her. She nodded and then, with her mother at her side, moved to take their spot at the side of the ballroom.

Then, her fool mother stepped away to converse with Lord and Lady Ingold. What manner of parent would leave her unattended so any worthless, shiftless bounder could—?

A rush of gentlemen converged upon her. “Bloody hell,” he bit out. Something primal stirred to life inside him. A seething fury that boiled hot and threatened to burn him with his own rage at the sight of the unworthy bastards scribbling their names onto that delicate card upon her wrist.

“Indeed,” Wessex muttered.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed once more, ignoring Wessex’s startled look.

The viscount jerked his chin in her direction. “This will pose a problem in singling out the best match for the lady.” Despite the flippant deliverance of those words, the hard set to his mouth indicated Wessex’s concern with the transformation of Lady Daisy Meadows.

Auric downed the viscount’s champagne. Indeed it did. He took in this new figure being ogled by any manner of lascivious, undeserving rogues. With another curse, he set the glass down hard on a nearby tray then started after Daisy. He’d be damned if he would sit by while those gentlemen removed her silken gown with their rakish eyes.

“Where are you off to, man?” Wessex called behind him.

Auric ignored him, moving with a single-minded intent, narrowing his gaze as the Marquess of Rutland, a notorious reprobate and black-hearted scoundrel, whispered something close to the lady’s ear that raised a blush on her cheeks. He quickened his step and cut a path through the collection of dandies and fops fawning over Daisy. With a black, long-ago practiced, ducal stare, he sent a number of the men scurrying off in fear of earning his ducal disapproval. “Rutland,” he bit out.

Daisy started, the color rising in her cheeks. Annoyance stirred. Surely, the lady was wise enough to not fall prey for a predator such as Rutland.

The marquess stiffened and, straightening his shoulders, partially turned. “Crawford,” he said on an almost lethal whisper.

Auric’s desire to have Rutland away from Daisy had nothing to do with the title of marquess that would forever remind him of Lionel and everything to do with the lascivious leer in the man’s eyes as he ogled her breasts.

Daisy frowned and looked between them, a question in a gaze too innocent for the likes of Rutland.