“Not coming?” the duke thundered. “Balderdash. Of course she’s coming. She’s getting married. Here. To you. Today.” He yanked his watch fob from his waistcoat pocket and snapped it opened. “Five minutes ago.”

“I’m afraid not.” Philip handed the single sheet of vellum to the duke, who snatched the paper from his fingers. Seconds after scanning the words, the duke’s fierce scowl darkened further.

“What the devil is this ‘curse’ she refers to?” he asked, passing the paper to Philip’s father. Philip noted that a wide-eyed Miss Chilton-Grizedale, whose complexion had taken on a faintly greenish hue, had sidled closer to his father to peer at the letter.

Before Philip could reply, his father looked up from the note and their eyes met. The icy anger and disappointment in his father’s gaze hit Philip hard. Harder than it should have. Certainly harder than he wanted to admit. Damn it, he was no longer a green lad who sought his father’s approval.

Father, instead of directing his ire where he clearly wanted to, turned the full force of his frigidly calm fury upon Lord Hedington. “This is an outrage. What sort of addlepated, beef-witted chit is your daughter, Hedington? How dare she write that she will not marry my son. And you.” He swung his attention toward Miss Chilton-Grizedale, pointing at her in an accusatory fashion. “I engaged you to find my son a suitable wife, not some daft flibbertigibbet who babbles about curses and would cry off on her wedding day.”

Anger flashed in Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s eyes, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Lord Hedington’s outraged voice cut off whatever she was about to say.

“Addlepated? Beef-witted?” the duke fumed. “Daft? How dare you refer to my daughter in such terms, especially when it is clear from this note”-he snatched it from Philip’s father’s hand and waved it about like flag- “that something your nincompoop son said to her set her on this disastrous course.” He swung his attention to Miss Chilton-Grizedale.