Chapter 2

2

T his could not be happening.

Ian Summerlin, The Duke of Carver, stared down at the young lady in horror. She was supposed to say no .

He watched the joy fade from her pretty eyes and he wanted to shout it at the top of his lungs. You were supposed to say no!

Oh, he'd thought he'd been so clever. With his aunt pestering him mercilessly to dance with a young lady— any young lady—he'd spotted Miss Taylor and had found his loophole.

Pegleg Meg, they called her. A horrid nickname, to be sure, but it had come along with the knowledge that she did not dance . She never danced. This was common knowledge.

It seemed that despite her powerful father, no one even asked her anymore because everyone knew what her answer would be. And really, who wished to court rejection?

She'd never once said yes, and watching her walk through a crowd with that stiff, awkward limp, it was clear to see why.

Pretty as she might be, and with a dowry fit for a princess, she was best known as the young lady who did not dance .

And so she'd seemed the perfect choice then for a gentleman who wished for nothing more than an excuse not to dance.

But now it seemed the entire ballroom was watching them and she…

She had said yes.

His mind was still trying to catch up with the unexpected change of events. And the charm, wit, and eloquence he'd worked so hard to be known for was nowhere to be found just now as he stared down at the delicate brunette before him.

"Your Grace," she said softly, a pink tinge climbing up her neck and into her cheeks. "Is something the matter?"

With her head tilted back like this, and standing so close, he found himself looking down at a remarkably beautiful young lady.

He'd known she was pretty, of course, but this close he could see the vivid blue of her eyes, the elegant angles of her cheekbones and pointed jaw. He could see just how wide her eyes were in that fair face of hers, and her blush stained her cheeks the same soft pink as her lips.

Her light brown hair shone in the candlelight as she tilted her head to the side, her brows knitting together in concern at whatever she'd glimpsed in his expression. "Your Grace?"

His heart gave a sharp kick at the concern he saw there.

She was worried about him ? Blast. He would surely rot in hell for this. To think, he'd thought himself so clever.

He could feel the eyes on him. He knew his aunt was staring with pursed lips somewhere in this crowd. He had no doubt his cousin Kal was watching as well. Probably sighing in exasperation that he'd gotten himself into such a quandary.

"Miss Taylor," he said quietly, turning to her so only she could hear. "Are you certain you are up for dancing at the moment?"

As if to make his point for him, the musicians started up a lively reel and the dancers moved into action—without him and his partner.

The concern in her eyes cleared and morphed into…something else.

He watched in horror as she fought for composure. His insides plummeted at the sight of pain in those lovely blue eyes.

He'd done that.

Oh, he would never forgive himself for this.

Her lips trembled before she pressed them together into a thin line. The pink in her cheeks grew mottled, but her chin stayed lifted, her gaze never faltered. Removing her gloved hand from his arm, she clasped her hands together before her and…

She smiled.

The girl's smile was bright and cheerful. But the smile did not reach her eyes, and the effect made his heart ache.

"I believe your concerns are warranted, Your Grace. I'm not sure I am able to dance at this time." She executed a clumsy curtsey and his heart stopped when she wobbled. But she caught herself before he could reach out to steady her, and she drew herself upright with more pride and grace than he'd ever witnessed in his life. "If you'll excuse me, Your Grace. I believe my friends are waiting for me."

He opened his mouth to stop her, but nothing came out. What could he say with all of these gossips watching? I'm sorry?

Yes, that would likely be a good start.

But she was already walking away, and the middle of this crowd was no place to speak plainly.

And how to explain that he'd only sought her out because he'd expected her to reject him?

He didn't need his etiquette-loving aunt to point out that this was hardly a compliment.

And so, he watched her walk away with a wince. Even with that awkward gait, she held her head up with pride.

Then the whispers around him seemed to grow louder. Pegleg Meg , he kept hearing. The Duke's never found any lady good enough to dance with…she actually thought he'd choose her, can you imagine?

He inwardly cringed, his gut clenching painfully as he realized that everyone believed he'd done this on purpose. That he'd set out to humiliate the poor girl.

He ran a hand over his hair, no doubt mussing the locks his servant had taken such great pains to manage.

"What was that about?" His cousin Kal's low voice was a growl beside him.

Carver fought the urge to wince again. The Marquess of Kalvin might have been a second cousin, but he was also his best friend. Kal knew him better than anyone—well enough to know that he was not a cruel man. Not in the slightest.

Not normally, at least.

But try telling Miss Taylor that.

"Did you mean to humiliate the girl?" Kal asked, confusion clear in his eyes, alongside censure.

Carver turned to glare at him. "Of course not."

Kal's dark visage grew darker. "Then what were you thinking by singling that poor girl out? Asking her to dance like that?"

Carver opened his mouth and then closed it. His reasoning was already starting to sound absurd in his head. He could only imagine how feeble it would sound coming out of his mouth. "I blame your mother."

Kal let out a huff of amusement. "I too enjoy blaming my mother for most things that go awry. But how was she to blame for this?"

Carver was too busy trying to keep an eye on the young lady who'd walked away. Limped, actually. Egads, he was the worst human on earth. "Your mother was on me to dance," he muttered.

Kal groaned. "She is not your mother, you know. You don't have to let her needle you so."

He huffed. Kal was right, of course. But without a mother of his own, and with his father and older brother now gone, his aunt and his cousin were all he had. "She was haranguing me about my good reputation."

" What good reputation?" Kal mocked.

Carver shot him a sidelong glare. "Exactly."

In his defense, Carver was hardly some ne'er-do-well rake. But no one in good society was eager to believe that. Not when it was so much more entertaining to believe all the gossip about him.

And not when his father and brother had left such a legacy behind when they'd died.

But Kal couldn't understand the pressure that came with having to single handedly save a title's reputation.

Kal had barely known Carver's father and brother. They'd died when both he and Kal were children. His aunt hadn't been well-acquainted either. She'd been related on his mother's side, and whether she realized it or not, her nose still crinkled a bit at any mention of the former Duke or his rightful heir.

No, his family was known for their wealth and power…but most assuredly not for their kindness. Nor their regard for common courtesy, for that matter.

The stories he'd heard were bad enough, but Carver was old enough to remember tales even worse. He'd seen for himself how cruel their humor could be, and how callously they abused their power.

He swallowed hard as Miss Taylor disappeared from view, swallowed up by this crowd of gleefully mocking bystanders.

And all because of him.

"I have to get out of here." Carver felt the room shifting around him, the curious glances growing more frequent now that Miss Taylor had gone from view.

They were watching to see what he'd do next.

They were waiting to see if he'd laugh. Because they were laughing. Not all. Some were eyeing him with disappointment—and could he blame them?

But he caught a crowd of young ladies with bright eyes and coy smiles, still giggling at Miss Taylor's expense.

Anger rose up, swift and…misdirected.

They weren't the ones who'd humiliated the poor girl. That had been all him.

"Was this your idea of a joke?" His aunt's hiss had his spine straightening and Kal grimaced in sympathy before they both turned to face Aunt Evie.

Kal's mother was a force to be reckoned with. Which, most of the time, Carver was grateful for, honestly. She'd come into his life when he'd been desperately in need of a parent. With his mother long gone, and then losing his father and older brother in one dreadful accident, he'd been lost. A child surrounded by servants who'd been kind, but distant. Ingratiating, but impersonal.

And then along came Aunt Evie, and she'd swept Ian into her home, where she'd raised him and Kal, and Kal's two young sisters, with the same sort of brisk efficiency she used to run multiple households.

"I wasn't—" he started.

"It was cruel." Her tone was hard and crisp, and Carver was fairly certain those words made his insides wither and die.

Cruel.

No. That wasn't him…

His father, undoubtedly. His brother, perhaps. But not him. Aunt Evie had raised him better than that.

"I raised you better than that, Ian." The words so perfectly echoed what he'd been thinking, he blinked in surprise. But it was the use of his given name that made his heart stutter.

Ian. No one called him that anymore. Or very rarely, at least. Almost everyone, even Kal, had taken to referring to him by his title.

To hear her use it now made him feel like a lost child all over again.

He straightened when he saw her starting to launch into a lecture. Because he wasn't a child. And he hadn't been for far too long. He forced his voice to be even and cool. "Aunt Evie, it was a mistake. It was not my intention to embarrass the girl?—"

"Well, intention or not, you made her a laughingstock just now."

Carver opened his mouth to protest but clamped his lips shut just as quickly. Much as he wished he could deny it, he couldn't. He'd been thoughtless. So worried about his own image, he hadn't imagined how this might go wrong.

How Miss Taylor might get hurt.

He looked to Kal, whose brooding expression was uncharacteristically regretful. He still bore the hint of a wince as he met Carver's gaze.

"You know what you need to do," Kal said.

"Of course." Carver exhaled sharply with a nod. "I'll apologize."

Aunt Evie huffed, seemingly put out that she'd worked herself into a state and wasn't allowed a good lecture.

But just then a friend of hers called out and she was all smiles as she returned the other woman's wave. To Carver, she added, "Be sure to make this right. Her father is not a man you want to quarrel with, not if you expect to have any allies in the House of Lords."

She walked away before he could respond that he'd make this right—of course he would. And not because he wanted to win favor with her father.

"I despise feeling sorry for people." Kal's tone was edged with annoyance as he gazed in the direction where Miss Taylor had disappeared. "Pity is a wretched emotion. Useless and cloying."

"Mmm. Beautiful sentiment as always, Kal."

Kal's lips twitched at the corners as he let out an exasperated sigh. "Do make amends before I have to pity that girl much longer."

"I'd hate for you to suffer, dear cousin."

They shared a small smile at the wry jest.

"I really did not mean for that to unfold the way it did," Carver added after they'd stood there in companionable silence.

"I know, Carver." Kal nudged him. Hard. "Now go. And try not to make this mess even worse."