A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,105

It was unthinkable that the duke might miss his uncle’s birthday meal.

But if Knightly Snow had managed to sweep Lusk away, perhaps he would not bother. Perhaps missed celebrations would become a matter of course. Helena honestly could not say what she hoped for most: Lusk arriving to the dinner to demonstrate new independence, or Lusk giving Girdleston the cut and not showing up at all.

What actually happened was so far superior to both. Better than her wildest dreams.

Lusk arrived to the family dinner with Miss Knightly Snow on his arm.

The happy couple turned up late, after the soup but before the quail, strolling into the dining room as if everyone else had arrived early. In order to reach his place at the head of the table, Lusk and Miss Snow traversed the long length of the room, quieting conversations and eliciting stares.

The duke did not escort Knightly Snow so much as promenade her. Miss Snow, invoking a feat of balance previously unknown to Helena, managed to cling to Lusk while also preening beside him. She was a curved, sauntering, electric-blue-and-yellow-and-red pennant in the wind. She had the look of a woman who had been born for this very moment.

And the duke?

The duke appeared cogent for the first time in his life. His face was lit with satisfied pride. His head was high. His eyes fixed on each face along the table, alert and almost inviting for some challenge. His gloves creased where he held her hand tightly to his arm. He didn’t shamble, he coasted.

As his betrothed, Helena was seated to the left of his chair. When she saw their long, stupefying entrance, she slid from her seat and drifted down the table to evict Camille. Her sister cooperated immediately and slipped from the room.

With Helena’s seat vacant, Lusk easily settled Miss Snow beside him and dropped into his own seat. A footman stepped up to fill their wineglasses, and Lusk leaned forward to touch noses with Knightly Snow.

The captivated room delved more deeply into disbelieving silence. No one breathed. The only sound was Knightly Snow’s giggle. Even the hovering footman was unsettled—he could not reach Miss Snow’s goblet because she’d angled her ample bosom to Lusk. Meanwhile, Helena’s heart exploded with hope.

Finally, when Helena thought the deep curiosity and red-faced shock in the room might actually combust, Titus Girdleston cleared his throat.

In a warning tone he reserved only for his nephew, he cautioned, “Your Grace?”

The duke snapped his head up so fast his uncle flinched. Lusk stared at Girdleston as if a peasant had crept into the room and called him by his given name.

Titus paused, considered, and foolishly continued in a wheedling tone, “I was not aware that Your Grace had invited a guest. This is my birthday dinner.”

“I am not obligated to make you aware of my dinner guests,” Lusk shot back, his voice casual but with the bite of authority. “I am the duke. You celebrate your birthday in this house at my pleasure. At the moment, it is my pleasure to have a guest. Happy birthday, Uncle.”

Without appearing to think, Girdleston stood up. In the firm tone of a schoolmaster, he said, “Your Grace!”

The dinner guests swiveled their heads to the duke. Lusk had turned away to nuzzle Miss Snow, and now he went very, very still. Helena held her breath, watching his profile. For the first time ever, Lusk appeared to be formed of muscle and bone rather than flesh and air. She watched anger tighten every limb.

After a beat, the duke slowly turned back to his uncle. His eyes pinioned Girdleston’s, clear and focused and waiting.

Girdleston, seemingly unaware of his loss of control, said, “Surely you do not mean to insult your betrothed, Lady Helena?” He extended a hand to the table.

Helena sat still and upright, trying to look innocent and contrite and not beam with glee. Underlying it all was the thudding fear that the duke would falter, or lose heart, or bend to the pressure of his uncle. Girdleston patronized, working to remain civil. Red-hot anger veritably radiated from his face. Helena had never been afraid of Titus Girdleston, but she’d never seen him like this.

When the duke spoke, his voice was not afraid. He sounded relaxed but final. Authority rang in his lazy words.

“The betrothal is off, Titus,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He took up his wineglass and swirled the burgundy liquid. “Lady Helena and I do not suit. We have tortured her long enough, don’t