The Duke’s Sinful Bride (Vows of Sin #5)

Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

T he soft knock at the study door interrupted Killian mid-sentence as he scanned a stack of letters on his desk. He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his leather chair as the middle-aged butler stepped inside.

“My lord, Lachlan has arrived,” the butler announced with a slight bow.

Killian’s lips twitched, though he didn’t quite smile. “Show him in, Reid.”

Moments later, the door swung open without ceremony, and Lachlan strode in, his tall frame clad in his usual unassuming attire.

He paused dramatically, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Well, if it isn’t His Grace, the great Duke of Braemore, back in London where he belongs! Did ye miss me?”

Killian barely looked up. “What I miss is peace and quiet. Something I never get when ye’re around.”

Lachlan laughed, the sound echoing through the study.

“Still as prickly as ever, eh? Ye’ve been spending too much time in the countryside. Has the fresh air ruined yer sense of humor?”

Killian set his papers aside with a sigh. “What do ye want, Lachlan?”

Lachlan grinned, unbothered by the lack of enthusiasm.

“What do I want? Nay, my dear friend, the question is, what do ye need? I’ve been running all over London for ye, sniffing out leads like a hound on a scent. A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”

Killian finally gave him his full attention, his expression softening slightly. “Fine. Consider my thanks given. Now, sit down and tell me what ye’ve found.”

Lachlan settled into the chair opposite Killian, crossing one leg over the other in a casual manner. “I’ll tell ye this much. I’ve not found anything more from what I reported the last time. The bastard who started the rumors about Fiona is a slippery one. I’ve asked discreetly, poked around, but whoever it is has a knack for covering their tracks. No one’s talking.”

A deep frown etched itself into Killian’s brow. He clenched his jaw, his fingers drumming against the polished wood of the desk.

“I thought by the time I returned from Braemore, we’d have the culprit. I want their name, Lachlan.”

“I know ye do,” Lachlan said, his tone unusually serious. “But these things take time. I’ll keep at it, but I’ll need yer patience. Though I know that’s not exactly yer strong suit.”

Killian’s gaze darkened. “Patience won’t help my sister, Lachlan.”

“Aye, and neither will reckless anger,” Lachlan countered, meeting Killian’s glare with an easy calm.

“But don’t ye worry. I’ll find the bastard, and when I do, ye can have yer way with him.”

Though Lachlan’s words were meant to reassure, Killian made a silent decision in that moment. He wouldn’t leave this task entirely in Lachlan’s hands. Whoever had dared to tarnish Fiona’s name would pay, and he intended to ensure it personally.

As the tension settled, the butler returned, this time holding a silver tray with an envelope atop it.

“An invitation for you, Your Grace. It arrived a week ago.”

Killian took the envelope and broke the wax seal. His brow arched slightly as he read the details—a ball scheduled for the following week. His lips quirked into a rare, faint smile, though it disappeared as quickly as it came. “Thank ye, Reid.”

Once the butler had gone, Lachlan stood, stretching lazily. “Well, I’ve done my duty for today. Try not to miss me too much, my friend.”

“Leave before I change my mind about tolerating ye,” Killian replied dryly, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

When Lachlan departed, Killian leaned back in his chair, his thoughts drifting to Yvette. He rang the bell to summon a maid, who informed him that his wife was in one of the drawing rooms with Fiona and Maisie.

He made his way there, the echo of his boots against the polished floors the only sound accompanying him. Opening the door, he found Fiona and Yvette deep in conversation, while Maisie dozed on a nearby settee.

Killian cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “Yvette, I need a word with ye.”

Fiona’s gaze lingered on him, curious and expectant, but he didn’t acknowledge her. Yvette hesitated for a moment, then rose gracefully, smoothing her gown. “Of course.”

She followed him to the adjacent drawing room, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. Once they were alone, Killian turned to face her.

“We have a ball to attend in a week,” he announced without preamble.

Yvette blinked, her surprise evident. “A ball?”

“Aye.”

Her lips parted, and for a moment, she seemed lost for words. “I—I’ll do my best to prepare, but a week is hardly enough time. I’ve been away from London for so long…”

Killian studied her, sensing her unease. He knew how overwhelming the transition back to London society must be for her, especially after her time in the nunnery. Still, he admired her resolve.

“Ye’ll manage,” he said simply.

Yvette pressed her lips together, then nodded. “I suppose I have no choice.”

“No,” Killian agreed, a trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Ye don’t.”

As she turned to leave, he caught her hand, his grip firm but not unkind. Yvette glanced back at him, her brows raised in question.

“Ye’ll do fine,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unexpected note of reassurance.

Yvette’s expression softened, and she gave him a small, grateful smile before slipping out of the room.

Killian watched her go, his thoughts tangled. The days ahead would be challenging for both of them, but he couldn’t deny a certain anticipation at the thought of seeing his wife step into her role as duchess in the heart of London society.

One week was indeed not enough time to prepare for a ball, and Yvette felt the rush from the moment the invitation was opened. Fiona worked tirelessly alongside her, both pulling strings and paying exorbitant amounts to secure dresses in time. Every seamstress they spoke to groaned at the deadline, but a little extra coin was always persuasive.

Yvette found herself more exhausted than she had anticipated. She’d hoped for more time—not just for her gown, but to steel herself mentally. Life in London was a whirlwind, a stark contrast to the slow serenity of Braemore.

In London, there was no waiting for anyone.

The night of the ball arrived with dizzying speed.

As they stepped into the grand ballroom, Killian, Yvette, and Fiona were met by a wall of whispers. Every flicker of a fan, every glance cast in their direction, carried a murmur.

“Is that the new duchess?”

“Isn’t that Lady Yvette Holby?”

“So it is true that those two got married?”

“I am amazed that half-breed can show herself in society.”

“Such a scandalous family… but look at him, always so stoic.”

Killian’s hand tightened around Yvette’s arm as they descended the staircase. She felt the tension radiating from him, but he maintained his usual composed facade. Beside her, Fiona kept her chin high, though Yvette caught the briefest flicker of discomfort in her eyes.

“Come,” Killian said through clenched teeth. “Let us greet the hosts.”

They approached the Viscount and Viscountess Montrose, an elegant pair with years of experience navigating London’s social circles.

The viscountess, a tall, thin woman with silver streaks in her hair offered a polite smile as her husband—a portly man with a ruddy complexion—stepped forward.

“Your Grace,” he said to Killian with a bow. “And the duchess, I presume. Welcome to our home. A pleasure to have you both.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Yvette replied graciously.

The Viscountess’s gaze lingered on Yvette. “Your Grace, I hope London sees more of you.” Her tone was pleasant, but there was an undercurrent of something else—pity, perhaps.

Yvette offered a tight smile. “Perhaps.”

And to Fiona, the viscountess said, “and I hope London is kinder to you this Season.”

“Thank you.”

After exchanging pleasantries, the trio moved on, but the whispers continued to follow them like an unwelcome shadow.

Killian’s patience snapped as they reached the edge of the ballroom. He turned to a group of nearby onlookers, his voice low and sharp.

“I will not tolerate insults toward my wife or my sister. Let this be yer only warning.”

The group froze, fear and shock clear on their faces. For a moment, the ballroom went quiet, save for the rustling of skirts and the clink of glasses. Then the orchestra struck up a lively waltz, the music filling the tense silence.

Yvette placed a hand on Killian’s arm. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “They’ll always talk.”

“They won’t talk long if I have anything to say about it,” Killian muttered, his jaw tight.

Before Yvette could respond, a man stepped into their line of sight. He was tall, with dark hair slicked back and a roguish smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His tailored coat and polished boots screamed wealth and influence, but there was an unsettling sharpness in his gaze.

The man wasn’t looking at them directly but speaking to a small group nearby. His voice carried just enough to be heard.

“Quite the spectacle this evening, isn’t it? A duchess who prefers the countryside, a duke who rushes into marriage, and a sister whose reputation hangs by a thread. Such a scandalous family.”

Yvette stiffened glancing at Killian. His entire body was taut with restrained fury, and she knew it wouldn’t take much to set him off.

Before Killian could take a step, they were interrupted by two familiar faces. Edward and Georgiana.

“Yvette!” Edward’s voice boomed as he approached, his smile wide and genuine. “Sister, it’s been far too long.”

“Edward!” Yvette’s face lit up as she embraced her brother. “It has indeed.”

Georgiana curtsied gracefully before giving Yvette a warm smile.

“Yvette, you look lovely. It’s good to have you back.”

“Thank you, Georgiana, though I can’t say it’s good to be back,” Yvette replied, her voice soft with humor.

Edward’s gaze shifted to Killian, and his smile faltered slightly.

“Killian, old friend. How is married life treating you?”

Killian inclined his head. “Well enough.”

Edward’s brow lifted, and he sighed. “I see the two of you still have that delightful air of tension.”

Yvette opened her mouth to retort, but Georgiana cut in with a teasing grin.

“Oh, Edward, do hush. You’ve never had an ounce of tact, have you?”

Edward feigned offense. “Tact is overrated. Besides, what’s family for if not to point out each other’s flaws?”

Yvette laughed despite herself, and the tension eased slightly.

As the conversation waned, Yvette turned to Killian. “Shall we dance?”

Killian’s brow arched. “Dance?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “It’s expected of us, isn’t it?”

Killian’s lips curved into the faintest smirk.

“Very well, Duchess.”

He offered his hand, and she took it, her heart racing as he led her to the dance floor.

The moment his hand settled on her waist and their fingers intertwined, the world around them seemed to fade. The music swelled, and they began to move.

Yvette had never been so acutely aware of her husband’s presence. Every step, every turn, brought them closer together, their bodies brushing in ways that sent shivers down her spine.

Killian’s gaze never left hers, his dark eyes smoldering with something she couldn’t quite name.

“You’re staring, Your Grace,” she whispered, a hint of teasing in her voice.

“And you’re trembling,” he replied, his voice low and intimate.

Yvette swallowed hard, her cheeks heating. “Perhaps it’s the exertion.”

“Perhaps,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise.

As the dance continued, Yvette felt the tension between them build, electric and undeniable. When the final note played and they came to a stop, she realized her breathing was uneven.

Killian’s hand lingered on her waist for a moment longer than was necessary before he finally released her.

“Thank you for the dance, wife ,” he said, his voice thick with something unspoken.

Yvette nodded, unable to find her voice.

As they left the dance floor, the whispers started anew, but for the first time, Yvette didn’t care.

Instead, she made her way back across the ballroom, her heart still beating erratically from the intensity of her dance with Killian.

The whispers that had followed her all night still lingered in the air, but she forced herself to keep her head high and her steps steady. She spotted Fiona and Edward speaking in hushed tones near the refreshments table, their expressions animated, and she quickened her pace, seeking the comfort of their company.

But before she could reach them, a figure stepped into her path.

“Lady Yvette,” a smooth, mocking voice said, halting her in her tracks. Her breath hitched as she raised her gaze to meet none other than Lord Dunwick.

The sight of him made her stomach churn. His polished appearance—a perfectly tied cravat, gleaming shoes, and a smug smirk plastered on his face—was exactly as she remembered. He bowed with exaggerated courtesy, but the gleam in his eyes was anything but polite.

“Lord Dunwick, I believe you are to refer to me as Your Grace now,” she replied stiffly, inclining her head. She had known this moment would come eventually, but she had hoped for more time to prepare—or to avoid it altogether.

“Your Grace.” He said it as though he was testing the word on his lips, “I must say, I was surprised to see you here tonight,” he drawled, his tone laced with feigned concern. “After all, I thought your time in the nunnery might have left you… indisposed.” His smirk widened, and Yvette’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

“Not at all,” she replied evenly, refusing to rise to his bait. “I came out of it just fine, as you can see.”

Dunwick’s gaze swept over her, his scrutiny invasive and unsettling. “So it seems,” he mused. “Though I must admit, I was rather surprised to hear of your marriage to the half-born duke, no less.” He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. “Surely you could have done better, my dear?”

Yvette’s jaw tightened, but she maintained her composure. “My husband is an honorable man,” she said sharply, “which is more than I can say for some.”

Dunwick laughed, a rich, mocking sound that sent a shiver of anger down her spine.

“Always had the sharp tongue, didn’t ye, Yvette? I do miss that about ye.” He reached out as if to touch her arm, and she instinctively stepped back. His smirk deepened. “Come now, don’t be so shy. We were once very close, were we not?”

“I believe you are mistaken,” Yvette said coldly, her voice trembling only slightly. She glanced toward Fiona and Edward, silently willing one of them to notice her distress and intervene, but they were too engrossed in their conversation.

Dunwick, emboldened by her discomfort, took another step closer. “You wound me, Your Grace,” he said, his tone turning mockingly mournful. “I have always had a fondness for you, even when you cruelly abandoned me to the wolves of society.”

Her breath quickened, and her chest tightened as memories of that dark time flooded her mind. She felt trapped, overwhelmed by his proximity and the memories he evoked. How dare he talk about their time together when he ruined her.

She parted her lips to respond, but before she could summon a response, a familiar voice broke through the haze.

“Is there a problem here?”

Yvette turned sharply to see Killian standing a few steps away, his expression dark and his presence commanding. He was no longer the composed duke she had danced with moments ago. His gaze flicked between Yvette and Dunwick, and when it settled on the latter, it was sharp enough to cut.

Dunwick straightened but didn’t back down.

“Ah, Your Grace,” he said with a mocking smile. “We were just reminiscing. Her Grace and I have a bit of history, you see.”

Killian’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward, his arm sliding around Yvette’s waist in a possessive gesture that made her heart skip a beat.

“I am well aware of yer… history,” he said, his voice low and cold. “And I trust you’ll keep your distance from my wife.”

Dunwick raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by Killian’s protective stance. “No offense meant, Your Grace. I was merely offering my regards.”

“They are neither required nor welcome,” Killian replied bluntly, his grip on Yvette tightening. “I suggest ye find someone else to torment with yer so-called regards.”

The tension between the two men was palpable, and for a moment, Yvette feared it might escalate further. But then Dunwick froze and raised his hands in surrender.

“Very well, Your Grace,” he said smoothly. “I meant no harm. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He turned to Yvette and inclined his head. “Your Grace.”

With that, he strolled away, his smirk still firmly in place.

As soon as he was gone, Yvette let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Killian turned to her, his expression softening slightly as he looked at her. “You shouldn’t have to deal with the likes of him,” he said, his voice still tinged with anger. “If he bothers ye again, ye must tell me immediately.”

Yvette nodded, her heart still racing. “I will.”

Killian studied her for a moment longer before nodding.

“Good.” He hesitated, then added, “Are ye all right?”

“I am now,” she admitted, managing a small smile.

He didn’t return it, but the way his arm remained firmly around her waist as he led her back toward Fiona and Edward spoke volumes.