Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"Y our Grace, how wonderful to see you!" Lady Evelyn exclaimed, her voice carrying above the din of the rowdy crowd. He could do without it. He'd seriously considered it. But as much as he wanted to, he couldn't sit out Lady Grenville's invitation.

Oh no, too late, Duncan Elkins, Duke of Northwick thought as he forced a polite smile though inwardly he groaned. He'd made the mistake of locking eyes with her, and she'd intercepted him with a graceful sweep of her skirts. Seeing her eyes alight with excitement, he knew it would take a while before he could make a clean escape.

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Evelyn," he replied with practiced courtesy though his mind was already searching for an escape.

"Good to know, Your Grace," she purred with a feline smile that she surely practiced for hours in the mirror. On another man, it might have worked. But Duncan was no other man. He saw through antics like this as often as he breathed.

The likes of Lady Evelyn only wanted the glamour and wealth that came with being a duchess. Unfortunately, he was in the pool for a bride. And for some reason, numerous ladies and their mothers deemed him a more-than-eligible bachelor, including his mother.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here, Your Grace. Perhaps, we could have a twirl. The music is perfect for it." Duncan's smile froze on his lips as Lady Evelyn's fingers brushed against his arm, sending shivers of discomfort down his spine.

Struggling to contain his breath, he glanced at her with a cocked brow. For some reason, she took it as an invitation and leaned in closer as she prattled away.

Of course, she's obnoxious, talks too much, and clearly doesn't understand boundaries. What exactly does Mother see in her?

"I heard you are undergoing some repairs at your estate. How is that going?"

"Very well." Hopefully, she would take a hint and leave him be, but no such luck. Lady Evelyn launched into a breathless account of her latest society conquests while he wondered if she ever stopped to breathe. Duncan took a little step back, avoiding her animated hands. He wanted no part of her touching him.

"Your Grace?" Her sugary sweet voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"Yes, Lady Evelyn."

"Am I boring you?"

Yes, you are.

"No, you are not. But I do have to speak to Lord Tivington right away. It is a matter of urgent importance."

Her eyes widened, and he felt a momentary trill of satisfaction. Lady Evelyn's incessant chatter grated on his nerves. He could already feel the beginnings of a headache forming in his temple. He could do without hearing any more of her voice.

"But Duncan?—"

"That's Your Grace to you." His patience had worn out.

"Your Grace…" Evelyn reached out to touch his arm again, her fingers grazing his sleeve. Duncan recoiled instinctively.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Duncan said stiffly, prying her fingers off with a firmness that bordered on rudeness. The Lady's smile faltered, but she persisted, undeterred by Duncan's lack of interest.

"Your Grace, did I do something wrong? Am I not woman enough to be of interest to you?" Lady Evelyn trailed her dainty fingers lightly across his arm. Duncan's skin crawled at the contact, a primal instinct urging him to flee. This was it. He had reached his limit. His patience had worn thin.

"I fear I must beg your pardon, Lady Evelyn," he murmured, his voice strained with polite regret as he extricated himself from her vise-like grip. Her smile finally slipped from her lips, her eyes flashing with wounded pride.

"Your Grace?"

"I apologize, but I must attend to some pressing matters at the moment. Do enjoy the rest of your night." Duncan tipped his hat before turning on his heel and striding away, leaving her flustered in his wake.

He knew his abrupt departure might be deemed rude, but he couldn't bring himself to endure any further discomfort. His chest and arm burned fiercely. Would it ever end? And when?

Stealing away into the cool embrace of the night, Duncan sought solace amidst the shadows of the estate's balcony. Moonlight spilled like liquid silver across the marble floor. The scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air, its heady perfume mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil. The silence enveloped him like a comforting embrace, offering much-needed respite from his tumultuous thoughts.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the cool night air washed over him, the distant strains of music fading into the background. His moment of solitude, however, was short-lived as soft footfalls approached, shattering the tranquility of the night. He sighed, wondering who must have spied on him.

"Duncan, there you are!" Modesty Elkins, the Dowager Duchess of Northwick exclaimed as she swept toward him, her skirts rustling with each step.

"Of course, it is you, Mother."

"Of course. Where have you been?" Her voice tinged with reproach as she reached out to straighten his cravat. "I've been looking all over for you."

"I needed some air, Mother," Duncan replied, his tone clipped as he struggled to mask his frustrations. He knew his mother had put Lady Evelyn up to whatever it was she tried to do.

"You have your gloves on again?" Duncan said nothing, only scorching her with a withering gaze that made her shift uncomfortably. "Why did you leave Lady Evelyn unattended?"

His patience wore thin under his mother's watchful gaze. "Lady Evelyn's company proved…rather taxing," Duncan concluded for lack of a better word.

"What do you mean rather taxing?"

"I do not appreciate the questioning, Mother. However, she was overwhelming." The atmosphere was as tense as it was silent.

"I still don't get you, Duncan. Aren't we here because you decided it was time to find a wife?"

"I know what I said, but Lady Evelyn and I don't see eye to eye." His mother sighed, visibly weary.

"Duncan, this is the fifth match we've found for you now, and she's still not enough for you?"

"She was not to my liking, Mother. We just have to find another match," he said tersely.

"Duncan, but?—"

"I asked for your advice, not your meddling. And please, do not meddle in my affairs again. When I find the right match, you will be the first to know," Duncan said, his voice unmistakably tight and controlled.

Modesty shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable under the piercing gaze of her son. "I know, Duncan, but you are not getting any younger. You are twenty and nine already. Other noblemen your age are married and raising their first child already."

"I am not other noblemen now, am I?" he asked pointedly. Modesty let out a long sigh.

"That you are not, Son. But what if something happens?" There was terror in her eyes.

"Something like what?"

"Like—"

"Like nothing, Mother." She'd never gotten over it. Nor had he. In fact, he was still petrified, but he'd learned to live with it. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I see you're still wearing your gloves," Modesty observed softly. Duncan stilled, loath to have been caught unawares.

"A precautionary measure, Mother." His face darkened as his mother's brows furrowed with concern. She reached out to smooth a stray lock of hair from his brow, but he stepped away, evading her touch. Modesty's face fell.

"My dear boy, whatever is the worry?" Duncan tensed, the memory of Lady Evelyn's unwelcome touch still fresh in his mind.

"It's nothing, Mother," he replied dismissively.

"Talk to me, Duncan. What really is the matter? You know you can talk to me. I am your mother," Modesty probed gently. "Besides, you know they only serve to draw more attention to you."

Duncan stiffened, his jaw tightening. "They serve their purpose." His heart clenched at the memories he tried desperately to keep locked away. He would never admit the reason why he wore them to a soul, not even his mother. It was his secret to keep, his shame to bear.

"What purpose do they serve you, Duncan? Please, talk to me."

"It is of no consequence, Mother. Now drop it," he said tersely, unwilling to confront the ghosts that still haunted him. He hid his trembling hands behind him, away from his mother's hawk-like eyes.

How would she understand that he couldn't stand Lady Evelyn or any other lady touching him? How could he explain that her hand on his arm burned through layers of fabric and seared him like a branding iron? How could he explain that anyone touching him made him swirl and go numb? How could he explain that it was a result of those years ago?

If only—No. He wouldn't go down that road.

It made no sense. Not to anyone else but him, and he would take it to the grave.

"Duncan," the Dowager Duchess stepped forward, "you are my son, my only…" Her voice caught in her throat, but she continued, "I know I was not the best mother, and I regret it sorely. Maybe if I had been, it would not have happened."

Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and Duncan looked away. He was not one for emotions and felt at odds with himself in situations like this.

"But I am here now. I am here for you. You are all I have, and I will do whatever it takes to?—"

"I appreciate your concern, Mother. However, you don't have to do what it is you want to do. I can handle things myself. I have been handling my affairs since I was naught but a boy. I don't need you handling my affairs now."

His mother staggered like a huge blow had landed on her, but he didn't mean it to be cutting at all. He was only stating the fact.

"How can you say that to me, Duncan?"

"I was only stating the truth. I don't need you or anyone handling my affairs."

"You say you don't need me handling your affairs, yet you are unable to find a bride. It is not right for a fully grown man like yourself to be all alone. Why, tongues are already starting to wag. Do you know what they are saying? That you are a rake! Can you imagine? My son, the Duke of Northwick, a rogue? Oh, the horror!"

Duncan's blood ran hot, but his voice was as carefully cool as ice. "I do not care for wagging tongues, and I decide what is right or wrong for myself."

"You are about to hit the thirty years mark, and you have no child or bride to show for?—"

"Enough, Mother!" he all but snarled. "That is enough. I want to be left alone." He turned his back, effectively dismissing her.

"Duncan."

"I said I want to be left alone. Go back in before you catch a cold out here."

Before Modesty could press further, they heard a ruckus coming from the grand hall. The sound of ripping fabric and raised voices echoed through the night air. Duncan and his mother exchanged a glance, their curiosity piqued.

"What could that be?" Modesty craned her neck as she looked behind her, but it was futile.

"I don't know, but I do not think you'll find out from here."

"I'll go take a look. Don't stay out here too long, all right?"

"I will do as I please." Out of words, Modesty all but sighed, her eyes downcast as she turned to leave. Duncan watched her, a pang of guilt almost winding in his gut, but relief flooded him. Conversations with his mother tired him. And all he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts.

Alone once more, Duncan removed his gloves with trembling hands, his fingers tracing the jagged lines that crisscrossed his skin. The memories flooded back with a vengeance, threatening to overwhelm him in a tide of despair. It was a relentless pain that refused to be banished. Yet, he drew strength from within.

He did need to get serious about finding a match. At least, it would keep his mother from shoving different ladies down his throat, and ambitious mothers would stop throwing their daughters at him. He was fed up as it was.

Maybe, it was finally time to pick a bride. And maybe, just maybe it would work out.

What do I have to lose?

Except at that moment, a sudden sound shattered the silence—a loud, unmistakable tearing of cloth and a loud thud, followed by a muffled gasp, all in that order. He saw the small figure buried under fabric, and panic seized him immediately as his eyes darted around.

And he realized with a start that maybe, he did have a lot to lose.