Florence blinked, and her eyes narrowed. “I continue to add reasons to my strong dislike of that man.”
“I don’t wish to speak of Edgar.” He picked in a desultory fashion at the fabric on the arm of the wing chair. He wished to carry Florence up the stairs to her bedroom, remove her pretty blue dress and the little she wore underneath it, and spend the rest of the day between her thighs enjoying her. He raised his eyes to hold hers. Hers were the color of a bright summer’s sky. How had he never noticed? They exchanged a steady gaze. He had no idea what she read in his but thought it could not be much. He was practiced at presenting a blank face to the world.
Her eyebrows arched and her lips tipped in a smile delicious for its wickedness. “I recognize your malaise. I suffer from it myself,” she murmured.
Perhaps not as practiced as I thought. He gave her a dirty look. She taunted him at every turn, and yet he could not force himself to withdraw to a safer distance—say, across the channel.
“You are bored.” She smiled with the innocence of a child still on the breast and offered, “You merely want for a distraction.”
Oh, he knew exactly the distraction he thirsted for, and if she offered, he doubted he possessed the strength of will to resist. His hand gripped the arm of the sofa as if to anchor himself, but the rest of him poised at the alert in anticipation of her next words.
“Come,” she chirped as she rose.
He stood with alacrity.
“We are going driving in the park. I have a new curricle. I know you will love it as it is all the crack. I have just taken delivery, and I will even let you drive my hackneys so you may see for yourself how steady of temperament and light in the mouth they are.”
Driving? He stood deflated, hung between disappointment and relief. She wanted to go driving. Ahem. Yes. He straightened and gave the front of his coat a tug. What was a gentleman to do but bow to the lady’s wishes and take her for a drive in the park?
Chapter Nine
If anything, Florence had understated the quality of her pair. The hackneys moved as one, and he no more thought of a direction or change of gait, but they accomplished it. Even more commendable, as he’d lost count of the number of times he’d stopped the curricle so Florence could greet an acquaintance, they stood patiently on the verge as pedestrians strolled by twirling bright parasols and riders and carriages swirled past adding to the congestion. If his life depended upon remembering all the names of the men and women Florence introduced him to, they would carry his dying body off Rotten Row. Two men he did remark, however, the darkly handsome Lord Seville and his counterpart, the golden-haired Baron Anthony who currently sat prime examples of horseflesh and carried on polite conversation with Florence. He chafed at what he considered their overly familiar address and their subtle comments that reinforced how very well they knew Lady Lloyd-Smith. Though he didn’t usually notice such things, he found both gentlemen far too well put together both in their physical person and their immaculate attire for his comfort.
“I understand you are to be congratulated, Captain, though properly I suppose I should say Your Grace,” said Lord Seville.
“Yes, it seems so, though it is a bit premature to be pouring the champagne and throwing around the ‘Your Graces’.”
The man smiled with what seemed genuine goodwill. “I have little doubt the process will be expedited. England needs all her dukes. Where are you staying while in town?”
“My half-brother, Lord Miles, has a townhome in Mayfair. I have been residing there for the moment.”
“Ah, yes. Lord Miles. Is he not newly married to the daughter of the Earl of Rutledge?” Lord Seville frowned in thought. “I remember her come out. She has improved greatly with time.” A wicked expression appeared and fled Lord Seville’s features at odds with the pleasant blandness of his voice. “Ah, the wailing and gnashing of teeth at that marriage. Half the matrons in London went into mourning. Lord Miles’ ‘companionship’ was highly sought after.”
Duncan stiffened at the veiled slight to his half-brother and took the slack from the reins. He knew precisely what Seville implied, that it was true made it all the worse. He did not condemn Miles. He laid the blame squarely in front of Edgar for putting his half-brother in such straitened circumstances he was forced to resort to what some viewed as infamous methods to support himself. His horses lifted their heads and straightened in their harness, ready to walk forward at his order.
Baron Anthony coughed into his fist and shot Lord Seville a warning glance.
“Lord Miles has such excellent manners and address, you see,” Seville drawled. “Whatever else did you think I meant?” His gaze shifted to Florence. “The bride is your particular friend if I recall.”
“Eleanor and I are very close. I won’t hear any criticism of her or her husband.”
“Shouldn’t dream of it, darling. My apologies if I have overstepped, but there is such a delicious mystery surrounding them. Even you must agree they are an unlikely pairing, what? The virgin spinster rusticating on her vast estate and the penniless but handsome cavalier beloved by the ton. I’m cursed with an unquenchable curiosity, and notwithstanding your close association with Lady Miles, you have been of no help, Florence.”
“Don’t pay any heed to Lord Seville’s unconscionable prying, Captain Everleigh. He knows no shame and is an inveterate gossip,” soothed Baron Anthony. “While he oversteps…nay, leaps…the bounds of appropriate behavior, he means no harm. I recommend you do as I do and ignore him. He will eventually tire and go away.”
Lord Seville’s lips thinned as he smiled at the baron but said mildly. “I do not gossip. I acquire information. Please note the distinction. A gossip broadcasts his gatherings as a farmer does manure. I am not so inclined. I rarely, if ever, share my gleanings.” He turned to regard Duncan once again. “I have a purpose for my original query as to your residence in town. I mean to offer you an introduction for membership at Bentley’s, my club, which I am sure Baron Anthony will support. Every man needs a place unsullied by the presence of the feminine gender.” Lord Seville tipped his hat to Florence. “Nor do I intend to slight your sex, my dear. It is well established you females like to flock together, shunning the presence of males. If Lord Miles and his wife are in residence at the townhome, Captain Everleigh might like to take up rooms at the club—for the kind of quiet solitude missing from the house of a newly married couple.” A wide smile broadened Lord Seville’s handsome features and his attention returned to Duncan. “Alternate lodgings will prove useful if the townhouse is shuttered when Lord and Lady Miles are not in residence. I truly meant no offense, Captain, and my offer is made as a sincere gesture of assistance.”
Duncan believed the man, and he had a point. Lodgings independent of his half-brother appealed. Besides, yea or nay, Florence held Lord Seville in the highest of esteem. He was loath to be on bad terms with the man. “I will take you up on your kind offer.” Duncan tipped his hat to Lord Seville. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good. Very good. Shall we meet outside Bentley’s tomorrow afternoon? Say Five-thirty? I’ll make you known to those who have influence. It is not a guarantee of acceptance, mind you, but will go a fair way toward appeasing the old guard. If you are of a mind, we will have a good dinner and indulge in a bit of gaming.”
“I will look forward to it.”
“How are you getting on with the hackneys, Captain?” Baron Anthony asked.
Glad of the change of subject, he responded with alacrity. “The mares are sweet goers and of the mildest of temperaments. I am much relieved Florence no longer risks her existence on this physical plane behind the bays. Speaking of the hackneys, I do believe I have kept my horses standing long enough.” He gazed at Florence. “Shall we continue?” At her nod, he gave the mares the office to walk on and bid the two mounted gentlemen a good day.
“You were inordinately quiet until Lord Seville and Baron Anthony greeted us,” Florence remarked.
“Apologies. I am hav
ing dinner with my direct superior at the Ministry of Defense. I plan to resign my commission. I wish to sell out.” He cleared his throat. “I am trying to negotiate heavy ground the lightest way possible so am considering what I will say with the utmost care. My resignation will be viewed as akin to desertion, I fear.”
“Surely they will understand your new obligation, and with the peace treaty signed with the French, it would seem an auspicious time.”
“Oh… the ministers will understand it. That does not mean they will like or approve of an officer withdrawing his service in the midst of an uncertain peace with France.”
Florence drew back to regard him with a searching gaze. “An uncertain peace? With Napoleon imprisoned on Elba and France restored to its rightful king? How is that uncertain? What do you know that the rest of us are not privy to?”
Duncan cast her a sideways glance and continued to drive.
“You are the most provoking man,” she complained.
“What is the secret surrounding Miles’ marriage to Eleanor? How did they come to marry? Lord Seville is entirely correct that they are an unlikely match. I remarked upon it myself months ago.” He turned his head to regard her, a half smile forming when she huffed and stared straight ahead, her mouth pressed closed. “I thought so.”
“That is not mine to tell.”
“Indeed, and I respect that.” He returned his attention to his team, but not before he caught the smile playing at the corners of her mouth. He smiled to himself and clucked to the horses to trot.
“It is not that I do not trust you,” she blurted. “It’s just...” With a groan of resignation she muttered, “It is not my secret to tell.”
“I understand. I, too, hold secrets that are not mine to tell.”
She crossed her arms with a huff. “A most provoking man,” she grumbled. “Will you ever share your furtive, secretive and most exhilarating adventures in service to our country with me? The ones not involving a Spanish cow?”
He chuckled. His “adventures” as she called them weren’t half so exhilarating as the company of a certain Lady Lloyd-Smith. “I shouldn’t hold my breath.”
Chapter Ten
After their drive in the park, Duncan returned Florence home and accepted when she invited him in for a light refreshment. They had no more walked into the drawing room than her steward knocked on the open door and paused in the doorway. Florence looked up. “Yes, Greyson?”
“This came for you in the post, my lady. I thought it best to bring it to your attention immediately.” He handed her a fat packet.
“Thank you.”
Duncan watched as she slipped her fingers under the wax seals to open the packet and removed a thick sheaf of papers. As her eyes scanned the top page, a frown began to develop.
She looked up from the papers and gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, but I must renege on my invitation. This is a letter from my business partner in Bengal that requires I read and act as soon as possible. I’m afraid I must attend to this without delay.”
“Of course.” He bowed. “I’ll take my leave and hope to see you tomorrow.”
She smiled. “Yes, I hope so, too. I had a lovely time today. Thank you for your company.”
That was the last he had seen of her in six days. She had closeted herself in her study, allowing no interruptions, going so far as to take meals at her desk. He knew as he had called upon her each day for the first three days, and each day, with a polite apology, her steward had turned him away. Since then, he had dispensed with the disappointment and remained at home.
His dinner wherein he tendered his resignation provided another source of discontent. As he feared, his immediate superior, Sir Herald Cummings, proved less than accommodating.
“While I understand your pressing need to attend to family business, I dislike your timing. No one expects this lull with Napoleon to last. However, were mine the final decision, I suppose there would be nothing for it but to allow you to sell out. Unfortunately, as you wish for a timely pronouncement, I do not have the final say. As I explained to Major Abernathy earlier this week, the unique position occupied by the two of you—the manner of the assignments you undertook and for whom they were undertaken—dictates you must wait until your resignation is put before General Wellington. It is he who will make the final determination.”
As much as he wanted to slam his hands down on the dining table and scatter the silver to hell and beyond, all Duncan could do was murmur polite acceptance and turn the talk to other matters.
Having nothing to do but wait upon decisions that were out of his hands, Duncan found himself growing restless in the extreme. He wasn’t suited to an indolent lifestyle. He had no hobbies. His life had been the military. He didn’t gamble, or box, or frequent the pleasure houses as other gentlemen did to pass the time. He had no clubs to which he could retreat and be amongst his peers—which made Lord Seville’s offer uniquely appealing—but there again, he waited upon a decision from the members as to his acceptance.
He hated the inactivity. He cursed his powerlessness. He grew short of temper and became an unpleasant companion to all those around him. As he owed those same someones all manner of thanks, he set about curing his ailment the best way he knew how. He drank. He drank to pass the time. He drank to relax himself. He drank quite a lot one way or another. He functioned very well in the altitudes, and the alcoholic fugue tempered his ill disposition into one of indolent geniality. In short, he became, and stayed, pleasantly disguised.
Now, in the airy front room of the Mayfair townhome at mid-afternoon, Miles and Eleanor sat side-by-side on the white satin, striped, double sofa. He lolled in a plush upholstered chair, one leg extended, the other bent, with two ‘marines’ aligned precisely on the oriental carpet beside his booted foot and two full bottles of the same Spanish red on a chair table next to him. Eleanor had remarked in passing that the table was mahogany with an exotic ebony inlay created for her by Thomas Sheraton, a popular designer. Duncan suspected that was her way of politely telling him to be careful of the furniture, so he was. While it had been decades since he’d frequented polite society, he wasn’t a thorough savage. They awaited the arrival of Major Abernathy and the Dowager Duchess—though he should become used to referring to her as simply the Duchess now. Julia had declared she wanted to come to London, and the major had gone to Fairwood to escort her back.
“Maman writes she wants to congratulate you in person on your assumption of the title and the estates, but I suspect that is not her real agenda.” Miles rose, crossed to the bow window overlooking the street and lounged there with his hands held behind his back.
“No. She wishes to influence us in favor of her betrothal to Major Abernathy.” Duncan finished his wine and raised the open bottle to refill his glass. A mere trickle emerged. He squinted in accusation at the empty bottle, set it neatly on the floor beside its fellows and opened another. He felt quite trouble free—a state that he’d come to appreciate for its scarcity, what with the nebulous announcement from the House of Lords as to his official rank among his peers and the lack of decision from the War Ministry about his requested resignation from same. He could not even avail himself of the company of the delightful Lady Lloyd-Smith nor attend that bastion of all gentlemen, his club. He sniffed. She was too busy, and they had only made a decision late this morning.
“Is there some defect in Major Abernathy’s character that is not readily apparent?” asked Eleanor. “I should think him a perfectly acceptable suitor, though perhaps not as well-born as Her Grace. If she does not mind, and it seems she does not, how can we?” She wore a pensive expression. “He is certainly smitten. I cannot ever remember a man lapsing into such effusive raptures over a woman. Quite charming, really. Is Major Abernathy much given to heated emotions, Duncan?”
His response was a snort of derision. “Only after excessive pints of ale and an available wench to tup.”
Miles forcefully cleared his throat and shot him a lo
ok of disapproval.
He blinked at the reproach. What had he…? Ah. “I beg your pardon, Eleanor. That was excessively vulgar of me. I have been a soldier far longer than a duke and have only a veneer of respectability.”
“Which apparently disappears into the wine.” Eleanor laughed softly and held up a hand to forestall his further apologies. “You are forgiven, sir.” Her eyes rose to her husband’s. “I have experienced how wine can alter one’s previously impeachable behavior, though you seem to suffer no physical ill effects from your overconsumption of yesterday, or the day before. I had a far different result from the one time I overindulged and have sworn to never again touch Spanish red. You are welcome to every bottle in the pantry.”
Lord Miles cast Eleanor an intimate look over his shoulder—one with an arched eyebrow and an unsuccessfully stifled smile while Eleanor laughed silently and flushed with becoming color.
“I’ve much practice and a deuced hard head, my lady…” his voice trailed off as he doubted either she or Miles heard him. Duncan felt like a voyeur, illicitly peeping through a window on two lovers, as the looks they bestowed upon each other excluded the outside world and turned intimate in the extreme, whispering of clandestine wickedness shared and remembered. He looked away. That. That is what he wanted with Florence. He wanted the woman to look at him as Eleanor looked at Miles. To that end, he had plotted a strategic plan of attack, but this pestilent, endless, limbo—was he in or out of the military, was he the Duke of Chelsony or not—spiked his cannons and mired his cavalry hock deep in muck. His forces were compelled to a standstill until circumstances changed.
As he wallowed in indulgent self-pity, Eleanor’s unshakably sedate butler announced his maman and his best friend. The next he knew he was suffocated in white lace and sheer linen perfumed with yellow sandalwood, cinnamon, and orange blossom.
“Mon chou… you stink of the grape.” A soft kiss pressed his cheek.
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