Lord Ruin by Carolyn Jewel Page A

from Mary a sort of grim acceptance when the parson pronounced their sister a duchess.
    Silent, Emily looked stunned, but not, Ruan thought, heartbroken to have lost him to her sister. Miss Cooke laughed nervously, and her mother shushed her too loudly. Clearly Miss Truitt understood too much and her brother too little. For some reason, Lady Prescott, whose single word had dashed the aspirations of many a social hopeful, appeared to have taken a liking to Anne. He assumed this was his mother’s doing, for she would know that without Lady Prescott’s approval, Anne had few prospects for success in London.
    Wearing green satin that did not suit her coloring, the new duchess of Cynssyr stood to one side of the room, pinched and tired as she accepted congratulations. Someone had fashioned a bouquet of tea roses and pansies from Devon’s greenhouse. She clutched them and said what was required of her. Nothing more. Pale as death, she smiled only when someone, usually his mother, reminded her she ought. At least her response to Lady Prescott was more than a nod.
    He stood at her side feeling curiously protective of her. She had not wanted to marry him. Not by any means. But she had, and so saved him from the loss of the only occupation he had ever wanted for himself.
    A celebratory luncheon was served afterward. The pile of cucumber sandwiches and a génoise Ruan was sure Cook had meant to serve for dessert but had hastily dressed up to look like a wedding cake went pretty much untouched. Ruan kept as much to himself as he could but Anne, surrounded by Fairchild cousins demanding to know how long she had been secretly in love, had no reputation to protect her from inquiries she could answer only with evasions or outright lies. Her eyes were mirrors of panic at bay. He saw her father take her aside, letting her hobble painfully to the far corner of the room. Well, at least he’d got her away from those women. Sinclair spoke to her urgently, but he could not tell from her expression what he might be saying to her. Perhaps congratulating her on her conquest, reminding his daughter of her success where every other woman had failed.
    He went outside, taking a route that avoided any guests, and thought about his wife who did not like him. Oughtn’t he feel as trapped as she looked? He didn’t. He stood in the garden wondering why not and smoked three cheroots, one after the other until he felt vaguely sick, then headed inside for a few cucumber sandwiches to settle his stomach. Hoping to find the repast not yet cleared, he went into the drawing room. Devon, the only occupant, stood by the fireplace staring at something, the merest veneer of civility covering his black frown. The cucumber sandwiches remained. He made straight for them. He took a sandwich and ate it.
    Devon turned as Ruan dispatched a second sandwich and took another. “Well, Dev, old man?” he said, throwing down the remainder of a third sandwich.
    “I cannot fault you for being yourself.”
    “The answer to a different question.”
    “It’s the best I can do.” Silence stretched between them. Devon let out a breath. “Do not make her unhappy.” His eyes reflected rare emotion. Anguish. “Swear it, and I’ll forgive you anything. Even this. Swear. On whatever soul is left to you, swear you won’t treat her like all the others.”
    There wasn’t any question of his obligations in the matter. “I swear it,” he said without hesitation. He’d have promised anything to salvage his friendship with Devon.
    “You made a vow before God and now me,” Devon said. “That ought to mean something. Even to you.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    A footman appeared in the doorway holding a salver on which there lay a single envelope. “Your grace.”
    “From Katie?” Devon asked as Ruan took the letter.
    He ignored the provoking tone. The seal broke with a soft crack. Not from Katie, which he’d already surmised from the unscented paper. His secretary’s precise hand