Soon after she’d married the viscount, Mathias came to appreciate he’d escaped a dreadful life sentence. His infatuation with Victoria gradually faded into disdain and, to a degree, pity for her husband, who had seemed to genuinely care for the fickle chit.
She was rumored to have had one affair after another since becoming a viscountess. Apparently, her aging husband couldn’t satisfy her needs.
Fate most definitely had a wickedly perverse sense of humor.
For now, Mathias was the well-respected and popular Duke of Westfall, and Viscountess Victoria Calbraith was a widow living on society’s fringes. If chitchat was accurate, her pockets were to let, as well, and she urgently sought a wealthy husband to remedy that condition.
Evidently, once she’d settled her quest for a title, she’d decided money was rather a necessity, after all. Calbraith might’ve had a respected centuries’ old title, but he’d been living on credit for years and was reputed to have been a pinch-penny.
Recently, Victoria had approached Mathias at a rout and had shamelessly offered to renew their relationship. “We can take right up where we left off, Mathias, darling,” she suggested while skimming her hand across his groin with a practiced touch. He sincerely doubted she’d come by her expertise with her doddering, decrepitude of a husband.
Even now, Mathias’s mouth filled with distaste at the notion of bedding her.
Not, by God, if bloody hell freezes over.
In point of fact, she offered herself to him right there, had even proposed they find a library or another vacant room for an intimate dalliance. She’d very explicitly suggested one similar to that which he’d stumbled upon involving her and Calbraith. It seemed she had a penchant for being taken over the back of sofas, divans, settees…
He’d succinctly declined her offer, turned on his heel and left Victoria standing alone, a piqued pout upon her mouth, and vexation sparkling in her eyes.
Even more ironic was the truth surrounding Mathias’s birth. A dirty little family secret—the proverbial skeleton in the closet.
Another grin pulled his mouth up on one side.
There was a strong probability that he shouldn’t hold the ducal title at all.
However, no one besides his mother knew the truth behind that most carefully guarded secret. And as exposure would destroy his mother and sister, Mathias would take that ugliness to his grave. He’d not even tell his wife when the day came that he wed, lest such a secret might slip out.
It was good his mother couldn’t identify the hell’s spawn who’d violated her three decades ago, else Mathias would’ve done everything within his power to ruin the fiend. For all of his genial outward appearance, he possessed a dark temper. Though seldom stirred, when aroused, his wrath was an ominous, unforgiving entity that demanded revenge.
His father and mother had been in love and planning to wed. Upon learning what had happened to his beloved, Matthew Pembroke promptly married her. Mathias had been born eight-and one-half months later, and Father had claimed him as his own without hesitation.
Neither his mother or father knew for sure whether Matthew or the rapist was Mathias’s sire. To his credit, Matthew Pembroke had raised Mathias as if he were his progeny because Father had loved unconditionally.
The world had lost an exceptionally good and decent man when he’d died a decade ago.
Assuredly, as a distant cousin to the previous duke, Father had never conceived Mathias would inherit the duchy. Mathias wasn’t about to terminate his ventures in spice, coffee, tea, silk, and cotton trade merely because he’d inherited an unwanted title.
So, what if he smelled of the shop?
He enjoyed working, and he was proud of his accomplishments and of the people his enterprises employed. Far better to dirty his hands with honest work than to lounge about all day, a useless coxcomb.
Mathias foresaw a future where the peerage no longer wielded power and control as it did today, and if le beau monde didn’t adapt, many noble families could conceivably find themselves impoverished.
As he raised his hand to knock again, the door ever-so-slowly swung open.
Before him stood an austere, entirely bald butler possessing the most remarkable pair of eyebrows Mathias had ever observed. The pillow-like pouches beneath the majordomo’s jaundiced gaze valiantly competed for attention. Nonetheless, the grizzled brows, which appeared very much like wrestling gray caterpillars, won the contest, hands down.
“May I be of assistance?” the butler asked in a dirge-like tone.
Generally, when one knocks upon a door, that is the case.
Mathias checked his glib response.
“Indeed, you may.” Deciding agreeableness would get him further, he procured a crisp calling card with gold and royal blue script and extended it toward the ram-rod stiff butler. “The Duke of Westfall to see Miss Twistleton.”
Those impressive eyebrows rose a quarter-inch and jousted with one another.
Mathias tried not to stare, but honestly, they were the most extraordinary things. It was as if each row of wiry hair possessed a life of its own.
“Is Miss Twistleton expecting you?” How did he manage to speak without an iota of inflection in his voice?
The servant quite obviously wasn’t impressed by Mathias’s title, nor did he believe Nicolette awaited his visit.
“No—”
“Reeves?” a woman inquired, her tone curious rather than critical. “Who is at the door?”
A distinctly aggrieved expression flitted across Reeves’s face as he turned toward the entry while intentionally blocking the doorway with his body.
What? Did he think Mathias would force his way inside?
“His Grace, the Duke of Westfall, Mrs. Twistleton.”
“Well, do not leave the man standing on the stoop, for heaven’s sake. Whatever can you be thinking?” she said, her voice growing more distinct as she moved closer. “His grace did us a tremendous service yesterday, Reeves, seeing our darling Nicolette home after she’d been injured in the park.”
“Indeed,” Reeves droned, stepping aside and permitting Mathias entrance with the enthusiasm of a man allowing a convicted serial killer into his bedchamber. “Your Grace.”
It occurred to Mathias the old gent only protected his young mistress, and respect for the servant encompassed him. He produced his most appreciative smile.
“Thank you, Reeves. Your diligence is commendable.”
Reeves’s brows settled into their usual place upon his noble forehead, and a degree of frostiness dissipated, increasing his welcome from frigid arctic to icy condescension. His features once more a banal mask of indifference, he inclined his head and accepted Mathias’s hat.
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Twistleton, a handsome woman, greatly resembling her daughter, except her eyes were brown instead of flower blue and time had etched fine lines across her forehead, the corner of her eyes, and around her mouth, glided forth, her hands outstretched. “What a delightful surprise. With all of the commotion yesterday, I didn’t have an opportunity to properly thank you for assisting Nicolette.”
“I was glad to be of service.” Mathias bowed over her hand. As he straightened, he said, “Please forgive me for calling unannounced, but I feel responsible for her condition. It was a dog in my care that caused the incident.”
A duke could call at any hour, day or night, and no host would openly object. He, however, didn’t abuse his privilege and power as many in his position were wont to do.