The Compromised Duchess

Chapter 2

Lord Thomas Grayson St. Cyre, ninth Duke of Roxborough, read the invitation one more time, then slowly leaned back in his high backed leather chair, closed his eyes and sighed. His sister, Lady Worthington, countess of Sherbrook, had included a threat to come fetch him herself if he failed to show up for her masquerade.

He hated parties, especially masquerades. They were nothing but an excuse for normally respectable members of the aristocracy to prance about playing dress-up like school children. He shuddered at the thought of the amount of debauchery that would take place. Damnation, he had no desire to be pursued by eager mama's trying to place their equally eager female offspring in his path. He cursed again and leaped from his seat, to pace across his study, the plush crimson Indian carpet muffling the thud of his boots. The fire burned brightly, casting his shadow across the heavy, dark gold velvet drapes that were drawn tightly against the night.

He absently used his fingers to rake back the shock of thick dark hair that fell over his forehead. Damn Christy and her tenacity. It was not enough that she constantly bullied her besotted husband into doing her bidding, she had to meddle in his private affairs. Couldn't she turn her attention to breeding and preserving the family title like all good wives were supposed to? He wondered what the Earl was waiting for to get her pregnant. After all, they had been married for close to eight months.

The door to his study opened and his Everton, his butler peered in.

"Your horse has been saddled Your Grace; shall I bring your coat?" Everton asked his tone low and well trained.

"Yes, and fetch me the wrapped package on my dressing table." He replied, still pacing furiously.

"Very good Your Grace" Everton withdrew as discreetly as he entered, shutting the door softly behind him.

Lord Thomas crossed back to his desk and took a piece of writing paper from the top drawer, dipped the quill into the ink pot and wrote:

I shall be delighted to attend your ball, Christina, if you would do me one favour in return; NEVER ask me to attend another, even on the pain of death, or I shall be forced to disown you as my sister.

He signed his initials, slowly folded up the paper, and slid it into an envelope. He placed the letter on the silver platter that usually bore his outgoing mail.

The door opened again and Everton reappeared carrying his great coat and the little box that held his latest gift for his mistress, an exquisitely crafted diamond brooch that was bound to make Cecil swoon in delight.

He smiled in anticipation of the pleasures that he would soon indulge in the arms of his mistress. Donning the coat and pocketing the box, he strode out the study, down the long corridor that was lined with portraits of his ancestors, down the grand staircase and out the front door. His thoroughbred Hunter was waiting by the entrance, his reins held by a liveried footman. He mounted the horse and the footman handed him the reins. With a well-practiced flick of the reins, he urged the horse to a gallop down the extensive driveway.