A Duchess in the Dark by Kate McKinley

connections. He was a fool for no one, and most certainly not for a woman. But Daphne…Lord, she was different. He’d sacrifice anything, even his foolish pride, to posses her.
    Thirty minutes later, the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies in the salon. Ashton watched idly—and with growing irritation—as Wallingford leaned toward Daphne and imparted something amusing. She tipped her head back and laughed, heartily and without reservation. No delicate smiles or false bubbling laughter. She was real and genuine and gave all of herself—something quite rare in a woman of Daphne’s education and breeding. Somehow, against all odds, she remained untainted by the stale politeness of society.
    Ashton’s attention was drawn away when James called him over to the pianoforte to sing a duet with Miss Wallingford. He obliged grudgingly, not wanting to offend her.
    Once the song was over, his gaze darted around the room. Daphne and Wallingford were gone. Only her lace shawl remained, draped over the back of her chair, forgotten. He swept his gaze around the room. Somehow they’d managed to escape. Abruptly, he excused himself from Miss Wallingford, snatched up Daphne’s shawl, and cut through the crowd, straight for the French doors that led out into the garden.
    The air was warm with a crisp edge to it, the grounds remarkably well lit. Hundreds of lanterns dangled from the trees, glowing in the darkness. Several couples strolled leisurely down the pebbled garden paths, enjoying the warm, fragrant air.
    And there she was. Sitting on a stone bench with that bastard beside her. They were deep in conversation. A sense of dread washed over him. Wallingford had her hand in his and he was making some sort of declaration.
    With each step he drew closer, his dread increased tenfold. As he approached, still some distance away, he caught the two horrid words, “my wife.”
    He was proposing and, damn her, she wasn’t pulling way. It felt like a punch to the gut. After everything they’d shared, he was losing her…Hell if he was going to let that happen.
    She replied, her tone too low for him to make out her words.
    “Miss Hayward, there you are,” Ashton said. Her eyes snapped to his face and her cheeks flushed.
    “Your Grace.” She stood abruptly, like a child caught doing something mischievous. “We were just—”
    “Talking,” Wallingford finished, standing as well.
    “I see.” Ashton turned a sharp gaze on Daphne. “May I speak with you privately for a moment?”
    “Well, I…” She cut Edward a nervous glance. “I…”
    “My apologies, Miss Hayward; I’ve been monopolizing your evening.” He kissed her hand—far too languidly—then straightened. “Of course you may speak with her, Your Grace. Excuse me.”
    With a bow, he turned and headed back to the house. As soon as he was out of earshot, she glanced at Ashton, one eyebrow quirked. “Well?”
    He draped the shawl over her shoulders, grabbed her elbow, and hauled her to a partially concealed spot in the garden—not concealed enough to arouse suspicion, but far enough off the path to afford some degree of privacy.
    “Tell me you didn’t accept his offer.”
    She pulled the shawl tight around her shoulders and looked down at her slippers. “I said I would consider it.”
    A degree of relief washed over him at her words. She hadn’t said yes. Still, she was considering it, and that thought made his gut clench painfully.
    “And he was forgiving of your indiscretions, I imagine.” He severely doubted that was the case. Men like Wallingford didn’t forgive such transgressions easily.
    She shifted on her feet and looked away. Ah, there it was. “Not exactly,” she said quietly. “I haven’t told him yet, but I will , if it comes to that.”
    Ashton raked a hand through his hair. He needed another cigar. “Has it occurred to you, Daphne, that you could be carrying my child?” His heart swelled with pride at the thought, but if he had any hope of giving