Loved by a Duke (The Heart of a Duke #4)(54)

Auric ran through all the gentlemen who’d looked upon Daisy. Astor and Danport, even Rutland at that blasted ball two nights ago. Every one of those men had lust in their eyes. Auric tightened his grip reflexively upon his cup, nearly shattering the porcelain.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and he glanced up as his butler presented Wessex. The other man’s face was set in a serious mask. “Crawford,” he greeted, his gaze taking in the scandal sheets littered about the table. When he returned his attention to Auric, there was shrewdness in his far too perceptive eyes.

A dull flush climbed up Auric’s neck. He motioned the other man over.

Wessex bypassed the sideboard. “I see you’ve taken to reading the gossip columns,” he said with more than a hint of knowing as he slid into the chair on Auric’s right.

“Go to hell,” he gritted out, taking another sip of his coffee.

A footman rushed over with a steaming cup for the young viscount who accepted it with a word of thanks, before returning his focus to Auric. “She must wed,” he said without preamble.

The muscles of Auric’s chest tightened painfully. “I know that.” Only, now he thought of the woman Daisy with some undeserving cad like Rutland, and the man learning each lush contour of her body, something dark and primal roared to life inside his breast until he wanted to toss his head back and howl like a primitive beast. Nor was there anything remotely brother-like in this desire to crush all those unworthy men who dared to look upon her.

When it became apparent he didn’t intend to speak, Wessex set his cup down and leaned forward in his seat. “We, together, have come up with twenty,” seventeen, “names of prospective suitors.”

“None of the gentlemen would make her an adequate match,” he said, annoyance making his tone sharp. “I’ve no names,” he said when the viscount continued to look upon him in a recriminating silence.

“We owe it to Lionel to see her wed.” Wessex was tireless. He propped his elbows upon the table. “If it had been one of us…” He swallowed loudly. “If it had been one of us,” he repeated, “who’d left behind a younger sister to care for, he undoubtedly would have seen at least one decent gentleman was brought up to scratch.” With each of the words tumbling from Wessex’s lips, his guilt doubled.

For Lionel had been that sort of devoted, loyal person. Always more adult than child, he’d had a unique ability to laugh while studying the world through a lens belonging to a much older, mature soul.

Auric set his coffee down hard and surged to his feet. “He would not however have seen Daisy wed to just anyone.” And certainly he’d not have approved of the roguish Danport or the Earl of Astor.

Wessex sank back in his seat. The lines of his face settled into an angry mask. “I’d hardly say I’ve tried to wed her to merely anyone. What fault do you find with Astor?”

Astor, who’d caressed her waist and guided her about the steps of the waltz. “There is everything wrong with him.” The protestation exploded from him. He began to pace. “He…and…” With a black curse, he increased his frantic back and forth movement. Bloody hell he detested when he was in the wrong, and yet… Auric came to an abrupt stop. “He stomped all over her feet two nights ago.” Even as the flimsy excuse slipped from his lips, he recognized how pathetic that sounded.

The ghost of a smile hovered on Wessex’s lips and then quickly faded.

Balling his hands into tight fists, Auric reclaimed his seat feeling exposed before the other man in ways he did not understand, nor cared to explore just then. Mayhap ever. He reached for his now tepid coffee and took a sip of the horrid stuff. All the while his skin pricked under the viscount’s scrutiny.

Wessex cleared his throat. He set down his glass and then fished around the front of his jacket. “I have one final name,” the viscount murmured. “There is but one gentleman we’ve not considered; a man who is worthy of her.” He placed his list on the table.

Auric downed the remaining contents of his coffee. He placed the cup upon the table and cast an annoyed glance over another one of his friend’s masterful lists. He didn’t want to see another damned name of a potential husband for Daisy. In fact, he wanted to set it to the lit candelabras upon the table. Which only served to remind him of eleven-year-old Daisy and the laughter he’d known with her, before he’d gone and stolen all traces of true happiness from her. He swiped the folded sheet off the table and unfolded it.

The Duke of Crawford.

He stared unblinking down at the lone name marked upon the page. His fingers shook ever so slightly and he jerked his head upright. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his tone harsh. Auric waved the page. “Is this some manner of jest? For if it is, I assure you, it is not in the least funny.” His pulse pounded so loudly in his ears, the steady staccato rhythm threatened to drown out Wessex’s response.

The viscount shook his head and when he spoke, did so in solemn tones. “This is no game.” Wessex leaned back in his seat and rested his arms upon the sides of his armchair. “Two evenings ago, after I’d taken my leave of Lady Ellis’ ball, I reflected on Daisy’s magnificent transformation. I spent the better part of that night contemplating who might be worthy of Lionel’s sister. Who would he have trusted with her happiness?” Don’t. “Who would he have trusted with her heart?”