Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

“Come now, Your Grace,” Lord Rutland murmured as the last of the scandal-hungry crowd filed back into the ballroom. “We’ve all had our adventures. Though perhaps next time choose a more discrete location than my wife’s prized balcony?”

The small group of men who remained exchanged knowing looks.

Arthur stood rigid, his shoulders tight with barely contained fury as the whispers and gasps from the retreating crowd echoed down the corridor.

“There was no adventure,” he said coldly. “Lady Isolde and I were merely taking the air.”

“Of course, of course.” Lord Aberdeen’s smile was all masculine understanding. “Taking the air. Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Though one must admire your taste,” Lord Ashworth drawled. “The runaway bride does have a certain appeal. All that propriety just begging to be⁠—”

“Choose your next words with extreme care.” Arthur’s quiet voice cut through their amusement.

The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop several degrees.

The men shifted uncomfortably, finally noticing the dangerous glint in their Duke’s eyes. They’d forgotten, perhaps, that while Arthur might run in their circles, he did not share their casual disregard for a lady’s reputation.

“Your Grace,” Rutland said in an attempt to salvage the situation, “no offense was meant. We merely⁠—”

“You merely decided to take Lady Lillian’s word as gospel?” Arthur’s lip curled. “How fascinating, given the rather… compromising position we found her in.”

“I say—” Aberdeen straightened. “Lady Lillian is engaged. She is a woman of impeccable⁠—”

“Is she?” Arthur’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then perhaps we should summon her betrothed, the Marquess of Wexford. I’m certain he’d be most interested in her version of events.”

A tense silence fell over the group. The men suddenly found the pattern on the carpet absolutely fascinating.

“Now,” Arthur continued, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of aristocratic authority, “I trust we can put this unfortunate misunderstanding to rest?”

Muttered agreements and hasty nods followed. Even Rutland, despite being the host, seemed eager to escape the Duke’s arctic displeasure.

“Excellent.” Arthur’s tone could have frozen the Thames. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a rather urgent matter to attend to.”

As he strode away from the chastened group, Arthur’s carefully maintained control threatened to snap. Somewhere in this house, Isolde was undoubtedly facing far worse than mere masculine insinuations.

And he had a sinking feeling that this night’s disasters were far from over.

“Library. Now.” Lord Winthorpe’s clipped command stopped him in his tracks.

The old Earl’s face was creased with fury, though Arthur noticed his hand trembling slightly on his walking stick.

Despite his own frustration with the evening’s events, Arthur inclined his head respectfully. “Of course, my lord.”

The Rutland library felt oppressive in the candlelight, centuries’ worth of leather-bound books standing as silent witnesses to what was about to unfold. Lord Winthorpe’s walking stick struck the floor with each step as he paced, his shadow looming larger than his diminutive frame against the book-lined walls.

“Do you know, Your Grace,” he began quietly, “what it costs a father to see his only child suffer? To watch as every door closes, as every friend turns away?” He paused, his grip on his stick white-knuckled. “To hear the whispers that follow her, knowing there is nothing—nothing—you can do to protect her?”

“Of all the rakes in London,” he continued, his voice shaking with suppressed rage, “of all the libertines and scoundrels who might have compromised my daughter’s reputation, it had to be you.”

“My lord, I assure you, nothing untoward⁠—”

“Silence!” Lord Winthorpe’s walking stick struck the floor. “Do you think I’m unaware of your history? Lady Helena Blackthorne’s reputation is still in tatters after that incident in the conservatory⁠—”

“A youthful indiscretion, greatly exaggerated. I was fresh out of Cambridge⁠—”

“The Countess of Ravenscar?”

“A widow who knew precisely what she was doing.” Arthur’s jaw tightened. “And that was years ago.”

“Oh yes, and let us not forget Lady Beatrice’s unfortunate tumble into the fountain at Vauxhall Gardens—with you.”

“We slipped on wet marble. Nothing more.”

“Three ruined reputations in as many years.” Lord Winthorpe’s voice dripped with disdain. “And now my daughter? A lady whose standing in Society is already precarious? Have you no heart at all, Your Grace?”

“My reputation is not the issue here.” Arthur kept his voice level, though every muscle in his body was taut with tension. “What happened on that balcony⁠—”

“Was precisely what everyone expected of you!” Lord Winthorpe’s walking stick crashed against a side table, sending a decorative box clattering to the floor. “The infamous Duke of Meadowell, adding another conquest to his list. Did you even consider for a moment what this would do to her? Or was she just another beautiful face to you, another reputation to ruin?”

The accusation struck too close to Arthur’s earlier thoughts about Isolde’s beauty in the candlelight. “You do me an injustice, my lord.”

“Do I?” Lord Winthorpe’s laugh was as cold as the winter wind. “Tell me then, what justice is there for a ruined woman in our society? What doors remain open once the ton has made its judgment?”

“The situation is not what it looks like,” Arthur insisted. “Lady Lillian deliberately twisted⁠—”

“Twisted?” Lord Winthorpe hissed. “The entire ton saw you alone with my daughter on that balcony! After everything she’s been through, how could you let things spiral so completely out of control?”

“I would never intentionally compromise Lady Isolde’s honor.”

“No?” The Earl advanced on Arthur, seemingly forgetting their difference in size. “Just as you never intended any of your other mishaps? Your list of unintentional incidents is rather extensive, Your Grace.” He spat the title like a curse.

“Those incidents occurred when I was hardly more than a boy.” Arthur’s control began to slip. “I am not that same foolish youth.”

“No, now you’re a duke who should know better! A peer of the realm who still acts like a randy schoolboy when it suits him!”

“You go too far, my lord.”

“Do I?” Lord Winthorpe jabbed a finger in Arthur’s chest. “My daughter fled one scandal only to have you drag her into another! God knows what liberties you took with her on that balcony⁠—”

“None!” Arthur barked, his voice echoing through the library. He took a deep, steadying breath. “I took no liberties with her. We were merely speaking when Lady Lillian and Lord Blackwood⁠—”

“Ah yes, blame Lady Lillian. How convenient.”

“It is the truth,” Arthur ground out. “I respect your family, my lord. Octavia⁠—”

“Do not speak my niece’s name!” Lord Winthorpe’s face turned purple. “You dare mention her when you’ve just destroyed her cousin’s last chance at a respectable match?”

“I have destroyed nothing!” Arthur’s patience finally snapped. “If you would listen instead of hurling accusations⁠—”

“Listen? To more of your excuses?” Lord Winthorpe drew himself up. “No, Your Grace. This ends now. I should call you out!” His hand moved to where a sword would have hung in his younger days. He glanced up at Arthur’s broad shoulders and impressive height, visibly swallowed, and then lifted his chin. “Yes! I demand satisfaction!”

“My lord,” Arthur said dryly, “while I admire your protective instincts, perhaps we should discuss this rationally.”

“Rational? You want rational?” Lord Winthorpe began to pace, his walking stick tapping an agitated rhythm. “Very well. Let us be rational. My daughter’s reputation, already damaged by her broken engagement, is now completely ruined. The ton will believe the worst, regardless of the truth. No respectable gentleman will offer for her. Our family name will be dragged through the mud. Is that rational enough for you?”

“There must be a way⁠—”

“A way? What way? Will you announce to all of London that Lady Lillian was the one behaving inappropriately? Ruin another woman’s reputation to save my daughter’s? No, Meadowell. The damage is done.”

Arthur watched the elderly man’s shoulders sag, saw the fear and helpless rage in his eyes. This wasn’t just about reputation or scandal—this was a father desperate to protect his child, fighting a battle he knew he couldn’t win.

Something in Arthur’s chest tightened painfully, remembering how no one had fought for his mother’s happiness.

“Unless…” The word was out before he could consider its implications.

Winthorpe turned around sharply, hope and suspicion warring in his expression. “Unless what?”

Arthur drew a deep breath, the weight of generations of duty pressing down on him. “Unless I marry her.”

The words hung in the air just as the library door swung open. Isolde stood frozen in the doorway, Lady Langhall at her shoulder, both women’s eyes wide with shock.

“You’ll what?” Isolde’s voice barely carried across the library.

Arthur turned to face her, struck by how the candlelight caught the unshed tears in her hazel eyes. Even in her distress, she was magnificent—chin jutted in defiance, golden hair gleaming.

“I will obtain a special license tomorrow,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “We can be married within days.”

“No.” Isolde stepped fully into the library, her skirts rustling with agitation. “Absolutely not.”

“My dear—” Lady Langhall began.

“This is madness!” Isolde’s voice rose. “We did nothing wrong. Nothing! Lady Lillian is spreading malicious lies to cover her own indiscretions, and now I’m to be forced into marriage with this scoundrel because of it?”

Arthur watched her pace, reminded suddenly of a caged lioness he’d once seen at a menagerie. Just as magnificent, just as desperate for freedom.

“Papa.” She turned to her father, her voice cracking. “Do you truly think I would allow myself to get compromised after what happened last year?”

The fight seemed to drain from Lord Winthorpe’s face. He reached for his daughter’s hand. “No, my dear girl. I believe you.”

“Then why⁠—”

“Because it’s too late.” His voice was gentle now, all his earlier fury replaced with resignation. “We have no evidence to counter Lady Lillian’s claims, and even if we did…” He sighed heavily. “You know how Society works, Isolde. The mere suggestion of impropriety is enough. If you do not marry His Grace, our family will be ruined.”

Arthur watched Isolde’s shoulders slump, saw the precise moment when her dreams of romance crumbled. Her lower lip trembled, and he felt an inexplicable urge to gather her in his arms, to promise her that perhaps this wouldn’t be the prison she imagined.

Instead, he remained still, maintaining his aristocratic mask as she nodded once, sharply.

“Very well,” she whispered, though she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Lord Winthorpe cleared his throat. “The arrangements then⁠—”

“I will handle everything,” Arthur cut in smoothly. “The special license, the settlement papers… I will have my solicitor contact you with the details.”

“Yes, well…” Lord Winthorpe seemed uncertain, now that his rage had cooled. “The wedding ceremony must take place soon.”

“Within the week,” Arthur agreed. He bowed formally to the group, his eyes lingering on Isolde. “My lord, my ladies, I bid you good evening.”

No one spoke as he strode to the door.

Just before he left, he heard a small sound—perhaps a stifled sob—behind him. His hand tightened on the doorknob until his knuckles turned white.

At that moment, he made a silent vow. He might not be the love match Isolde had dreamed of, but he would make damn sure she never regretted accepting his offer. He would give her everything he could—titles, jewels, protection.

Everything except his heart.

That, he’d locked away years ago, and no golden-haired angel with teary eyes would change that.