Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s lips curled. “This, my dear, is business.” She turned and waved a hand to the servant by the door. “Bring in the duke.”
Christiana’s mind blanked. A duke? The gentleman to whom she was being served on a platter was aduke?
She had assumed it would be someone on the very edge of society. A disgraced son. A rich merchant unable to get a bride the traditional way.
But a duke? Surely, he could have any lady he chose?
Before she could give that thought too much space in her mind, the door opened and a gentleman strode through. He moved the way she had always imagined a duke might, as though the world itself might shift around him. Long, confident, almost impatient strides. His clothes were stern, perhaps even austere, his cravat tied in a simple fashion very different from some of the more elaborate styles Christiana had seen inside the club alone. Yet for all that, he had an air of fashion.
Perhaps it was merely confidence. Unlike her, he had been born to believe he belonged anywhere and everywhere.
Yet his face was covered, a white, wooden mask concealing the right side of his face. The other, she noted with some detachment, was handsome in that aristocratic way some gentlemen had. A strong nose and hard jaw.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” he rumbled, bowing. He then turned to Christiana. “I presume this is she.”
Christiana’s chest heaved in outrage, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, “This is Miss Christiana Nightingale. Her father is the Viscount Barnsley. She attended St. Mary’s finishing school and is in possession of a kind mind. She has also not been aspiring toward a titled husband.”
The duke’s gaze passed across her veiled face several times. “Her temperament?”
“Strong.”
Her blood pounding in her ears, Christiana rose, tossing back her veil so she might get a better look at him. The gesture revealed little; although she could now see the deep brown of his eyes, she learned nothing else. “You should know I am here against my will,” she hissed. “And I will not consent to marrying you.”
“Oh?” The duke glanced at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “You did not tell me she was unwilling.”
“She’ll be willing enough once she knows the options that await her.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon remained utterly unmoved. “Her father has made it plain that if she rejects the match, she will not have a home to go back to. Nor,” she added, “will there be a home for much longer. If she refuses to pay the debt, I will have her father’s seat repossessed. It is within my power.” She gave a thin smile. “Now, my dear. Would you like to reconsider?”
Christiana would have liked to do a great many things. First and foremost, she would have liked to throw something at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. That achieved, she would like to return to her father so she might throw something at him.
The fury in her chest threatened to make its way to her eyes.
But she would not cry over him or this. He didn’t deserve her tears—though there were plenty of things hediddeserve.
The duke leaned against the desk, arms folded. “I have no desire to marry an unwilling bride.”
Christiana turned on him. “Then why undergo this farce at all? Surely, you must know that any bought lady must be unwilling.”
He raised his brows. “I assumed you were here because you also had a need to marry and were reluctant to do so the ordinary way.”
“I’m here because of my father’s debt, but I would like to repay it in another way.” She matched his folded arms, lookinghim over. Handsome, despite the mask, and broad. A duke. “Why are you here?”
“Because I, too, am reluctant to find a wife in the ordinary way.” He glanced at Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who was watching with the appearance of interest, though her eyes could not be seen from behind her veil. “I will not drag anyone to the altar, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
She clucked her tongue. “I understand your reticence, Your Grace, but I found you the best candidate.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured at his mask, and to Christiana’s surprise, he untied the leather cord holding the mask in place, slowly drawing it down.
Candlelight danced across the mottled, sagging skin of the right side of his face. Christiana didn’t gasp, but it was a near thing. The burns made his skin look as though it hadmelted, the disfigurement stopping mid-forehead.
How painful must such a thing have been?
His eyes were hard, as though he had already anticipated her reaction and had guarded against it. “This is why I’m here,” he said. “I am the Duke of Somerset. You may have heard of me.”
She bit back her surprise. Every woman in London had heard of the Beast of Somerset. Since the fire that had destroyed his family home, rumors had abounded, growing in magnitude over the years until he had become a figure of near-myth, prowling the night in search of young women whose blood he could drink to sustain his deformity.
“I see,” she said eventually, once she had regained her self-control. “I had thought you were older.”
His large hands landed on either side of his hips, closing around the lip of the desk he leaned against. The only sign of his surprise was the way they flexed. “Am I to be flattered?”
“Well,” she returned, “I don’t recommend being offended.”