"Give me one moment," he pressed, his understanding smile disappearing the moment she fell from view. Then he faced Felicia. "Why did I let her talk me into this silly notion that we'd achieve instant family harmony if I asked Simon to be my best man?"
Because Mason tried to please his mother, and no one could fault him for it.
Down to his core, he was good and decent. Over the years, he'd comforted her during some of her lowest moments. Felicia could almost believe they could salvage their future together. Almost. Why couldn't he be content to remain her friend?
Mason cursed. "Simon must stop shagging his tarts long enough to get presentable and greet our guests."
Felicia had read the tabloid accounts of His Grace's very active dating life, the lewd suggestions. No proof, but there were always pictures of him with beauties at this function or that. Of course he had no trouble finding women willing to have sex with him. His Grace had even made her belly flip when she'd first met him. Their handshake had given her a jolt--literally. One touch, and her skin had heated, her heart stuttered.
Sophisticated, gorgeous, insanely masculine--everything about the man sent up her danger signals.
"Tart s, plural?"
"Indeed. He once shagged four women to exhaustion in less than thirty-six hours."
The tabloids had never mentioned that.
"His thirtieth birthday present to himself," Mason sneered. "In the middle of the party, he sneaked upstairs with his girlfriend. As the party went on, they were rutting away. My poor mother tried to make excuses. He never did blow out his candles. And a few hours later, he--"
"Hours?"
"Indeed. His supermodel of the moment, Cara, actually passed out, and Simon lurched down the back stairs into the kitchen, half-mad. He grabbed another woman--my French tutor, of all people! They disappeared for more than a few ticks of the clock. At the end of the party, a few women still loitered, I think hoping to be nearby when the very eligible Simon Northam appeared again. And they were. And still he kept rutting, even through an odd sort of earthquake that brought the upstairs roof down. He barely even noticed!"
Since there was no stench or nausea, Felicia knew what Mason said was true.
Many women were bubble-headed enough to care only about His Grace's pretty title, face, and bank balance. On one level, she understood. Something about him was ...
compelling. But Simon Northam clearly took advantage of his appeal. What sort of man treated women so disrespectfully? A selfish wanker who led a life of privilege and assumed no one was as important as he. A practiced seducer accustomed to having his every whim fulfilled, with little care whose heart he broke. The type of cad who had been Deirdre's death knell.
By contrast, Mason was a good man. He'd never use and discard women like toothpicks. Even so ... could she marry him, knowing he had vastly different expectations for their union? She did care for him. Was it fair to walk way without trying to love him?
If she married him, he would do his utmost to treat her well. If she left now, eventually she would have to date. The singles scene would be filled with sharks like Hurstgrove.
What the devil was she going to do?
"Felicia, darling." He grabbed her hands. "Stop worrying. I know your concerns.
I've no doubt your mind and heart are racing madly--"
The door behind her fiance opened, and Mason whirled around at the intrusion.
The Duke of Hurstgrove lurched into the hall, looking utterly disheveled.
Felicia gasped. Her heart jumped in her chest.
Dark hair fell into his unshaven face, which looked as if it had been used as a punching bag. One eye was blackening. A cut rent his lip. His bow tie sat askew, and his shirt gaped open, exposing flashes of a bronzed chest. He swayed on his feet, gripping the door frame for support, his knuckles bleeding. Every muscle in his torso rippled. Distress and heat washed over Felicia.
He and Mason had the same glossy brown hair, chocolate eyes, and strong jaw.
Despite the dozen years between them, they looked the same age. But the resemblance ended there. Rather than Mason's boxer's nose, a strong, aristocratic one bisected Hurstgrove's face. A cleft dimpled the duke's square chin. High cheekbones slashed each side of his face. When he wasn't arguing a case, Mason exuded an affable charm. His Grace put off something darkly riveting, an air of mystery. And charisma. The man oozed sex. Just looking at him caused electricity to sizzle across Felicia's skin.
Damn it, she refused to be attracted to him, even in passing. He was the sort of man she detested--lascivious, selfish, completely unaware of the pain he left in his wake.
Her odd, visceral reaction to him made little sense.
"You're late," Mason spat to his brother. "You've been ... fighting? Bloody hell!
Shave and get dressed so we can carry on."
Hurstgrove grabbed Mason by the lapels and shoved him against the wall. "I need a list of every guest attending and every person working this wedding."
Mason pushed him away. "What you need is to piss off and get dressed. You can't go anywhere like this. You look like a ruffian."
His Grace's fists tightened in Mason's lapels. "I need that list. Now!"
Felicia frowned. What the devil was wrong with the man?
"I'm getting married and spending the rest of my life being happy," Mason growled back. "You might try doing the same before you disgrace all of us."
"I'm not letting go until you get me the damn list!"
"I have it," Felicia hissed at Hurstgrove. "I'll give it to you, if you'll take your hands off him."
In an instant, he released Mason and turned all his formidable attention on her, his gaze heavy, hot, burning. Fury and impatience and something she couldn't identify hit her. She swallowed and stiffened her spine, resisting the urge to step back.
"Get it," he snapped. Then, to her surprise, he added more gently, "Please."
Felicia cast a glance at Mason, who nodded. Rattled by fury and a dark thrill she couldn't explain, she stepped past the men and entered the bedroom she'd used to dress.
Inside her tote she found her master lists. Why would His Grace want them? To make certain she hadn't invited the paparazzi? Lord knew they hounded the man. Whatever the reason, if surrendering the list kept him from strangling Mason, she'd do it. Then she'd give him a piece of her mind.
As soon as she figured out whether she should continue with the wedding.
When she returned to the hall, another man had crowded into the little landing area, this one tall and blond, wearing muddy jeans and boots. His authoritative air and razor-sharp gaze gave her pause.
"The bride, Miss Safford," Hurstgrove said to the newcomer.
She waited, but His Grace didn't bother to introduce his friend to her. Not that it mattered. But did the man think her beneath him and his chum? Felicia gritted her teeth, shoving the thought away. Reconsidering her pending marriage to Mason was far more important.
"She has the list," he told the blond man as he grabbed it from her and began to scan.
"Stop." Mason's demand was low, cold. "It's one thing for you to be rude to me.
We're hardly best mates anymore. But you will not behave so badly to my wife."
"My deepest apologies, Miss Safford." He looked directly at her with those dark eyes that made her shiver. Then he turned to Mason. "She's your fiancee. "
"A quarter-hour will change that." Mason's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare think differently. I know you too well."
Hurstgrove raised a haughty brow.
"Leave Felicia alone, or I swear I will never speak to you again, Mother be damned," Mason threatened.
Was Mason implying that his half brother wanted her? Hurstgrove met her stare, his expression carefully blank. That's exactly what Mason meant. Felicia's stomach flipped again.
Foolish. Why should she care if she was one of many who inspired his erection?
"Don't you have guests to greet?" Hurstgrove suggested, his tone silky, lethal.
"Indeed. Clean up and get to the sanctuary. We'll discuss your abominable behavior later," Mason vowed, then offered her his arm.
Felicia took it, dragging her gaze away from His Grace and chastising herself. She had more than enough problems without her thoughts lingering on the unsettling duke.
Gaze firmly forward, she walked down the stairs with Mason. True, they shouldn't be seen together before the wedding, but finding someplace quiet to discuss their future was more imperative than convention, especially with so little time left to decide what to do.
As they reached the corridor at the bottom of the stairs, a half-dozen women, all dressed to kill, screeched at the sight of the Simon Northam. They sprinted up the stairs, tearing past her and Mason, their short skirts and long curls swishing.
As she rounded the corner, Felicia glanced over her shoulder. Lace, giggles, and feminine fawning surrounded His Grace. And he didn't look as if he was trying terribly hard to escape. In fact, he wrapped an arm around the nearest girl, put his lips against her ear, and spoke.
Would he have sex with one--or all of them--tonight? At the thought, something ugly and painful jabbed her. Did the man simply roll about the sheets with anyone possessing estrogen?
That answer wasn't much of a mystery, unlike his demand for the guest list.
Regardless of why he wanted it, Felicia knew that having Hurstgrove here would be trouble.
After Bram arranged a distraction, enabling Duke to lose the gaggle of ever-present "ladies" looking for a trophy husband, the Doomsday Brethren leader yanked him back into his bedroom and slammed the door. Beside him stood Marrok and Ice, whose expressions ranged from disinterest to mild puzzlement. Finally, Ice shrugged and turned his attention to magically repairing their clothes--or trying to.
"Bugger!" Ice cursed as the tear in his shirt widened to reveal one enormous shoulder. "Where is my mate when I need her?"
"Aye," Marrok concurred with a laugh. "Sabelle can mend my trousers. You, I trust not."
"Sod it." Ice shrugged. "I'm not here to impress the humans."
"You'll scare them, more like," Bram drawled, then turned to Duke. "We need to work around Mason's enmity for you and deal with the crisis at hand."
"Indeed." Duke paced his large room, moonlight glowing through the balcony's French doors. He tamped down the urge to chase after the bride and press his lips to hers.
"I have Felicia's lists. Let's hope they're complete."
Duke strode across the hardwood floors and their thick decorative rugs. When he reached his massive desk, he yanked open a heavy drawer and rummaged around for a pen. Hearing the tick-tock of time slipping away and knowing that Mathias was likely hot on their heels, he stared hard at the guest list, checking off the names of all new human acquaintances over the past week.
He thrust it at Bram. "We'll split into pairs. One will shake hands while the other observes. In theory, the moment we come into contact with the Untouchable, our signatures should reflect that, yes? And Marrok's mating to Olivia should give him enough of a signature to be impacted, despite the fact he's human."
"Absolutely. You take Ice, and I'll go with Marrok. You obviously know your way around the house better, so you and Ice head to the kitchens and anywhere else the wedding staff might be. Marrok and I can follow the path of guests to the wedding and shake hands with those attending, including the bride--"
"Don't touch her." Duke tried to swallow down a seething rage at the thought of any male experimenting on Felicia. Based on the other wizards' surprise, he failed miserably.
Bram swore, then exchanged a glance with Ice. "You're possessive of your brother's fiancee."
God, he hated being so transparent. "Protective. I won't touch her, either."
"Someone must, in order to rule her out." Bram pointed out. "Mating ensures that Marrok has no designs on any woman other than Olivia. Besides, she would string him up by the balls if he did. Same with Ice, only in this case, I'd help Sabelle since she's my sister."
"Never happen," Ice assured Bram. "Sabelle is my world."
Ice could be a right scary bastard, but no one could deny how much he loved his mate.
"Though I've no idea where Emma is, I am still mated."
And like every other mated wizard, Bram had no desire nor the ability to bed another female. Duke often felt sorry for the poor sod. His woman had answered his Call in order to steal the Doomsday Diary, the most powerful book in their realm. Then she'd abandoned him after a single night, sneaking away with the book while he slept. In the nearly two months since, they'd recovered the book but found not one clue to her whereabouts.
Bram smiled grimly. "So you see, Felicia is safe from any lascivious intent on our part. I'm not certain that's the case with you. Besides, she's already touched you. Your signature is already altered. What if another touch doesn't show?"
In his head, Duke knew that. It didn't make looking at another man being close to or touching Felicia any easier. Even watching her walk away on Mason's arm had been torture. "Let me be the one. Let me try. Please."