Carrow dragged them both to a halt. “No, he doesn’t know you like I do. You’re good. A good man.” Reaching up, he patted Lawrence’s chest.
“Only on occasion, but I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
Carrow looked into his eyes, staring deep. “You’ll always have my vote, though I’m not allowed to do that either.”
Lawrence decided not to pursue that odd non sequitur. “Come along, let’s get you to the phaeton.”
“Yes, your glorious phaeton. But aren’t you coming too?”
Lawrence repressed a laugh. “Of course I am. Who else do you think will do the driving?”
“Certainly not me, that’s for sure.” Carrow snickered.
Somehow the pair of them made it down the stairs and outside into the stable yard, where Lawrence signaled for his carriage to be brought around.
Carrow swayed, humming softly to himself as they waited.
When the phaeton arrived, Lawrence helped the other man up into the seat, half pushing as Carrow stumbled his way upward. As he did, Lawrence’s eyes fell on Carrow’s rounded buttocks, their shape dramatically outlined by the snug cloth of his trousers. As far as buttocks went, they were far more shapely than most men’s—not that he had ever spent a great deal of time looking at other men’s rear ends, but with Carrow’s literally in his face, it was hard not to notice.
Oddly discomfited nonetheless, he gave Carrow a harder push than he might have otherwise and sent the other man sprawling onto the far side of the seat. Suddenly concerned that Carrow might tumble out the other side and do himself injury, Lawrence leaned across to straighten him up.
After he got him settled, he looked over to find Carrow studying him. “You’re rather gorgeous—did you know that, my lord?”
“Gorgeous, am I?” Lawrence said, half-amused.
“Hmm, far more so than me. Really, it isn’t fair, all things considered.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You’re not so bad.”
Without his meaning to, Lawrence’s gaze moved across Carrow’s face, taking in the lithe curve of cheekbones, the straight sweep of a nose and the lips that were lush and gently parted, as rosy as any woman’s.
He wondered how they’d feel, those lips. Were they really as soft as they looked?
Abruptly Lawrence came back to himself and jerked away, putting as much room between him and Carrow as the seat would allow. His heart thudded in his chest, his breath quickened far more than normal.
Hell and damnation, what was that?
Never in all his years had he experienced even the slightest hint of attraction for another man. Not that he condemned men who had that proclivity—what consenting adults did in their own private lives was strictly up to them and nobody else’s business, whatever the law might say on the subject.
But he was a man who liked women.
Only women.
So what in the hell had that been?
Up to this instant, he’d never even imagined he could feel something of an amorous nature for a member of his own sex. To him, it was impossible. Yet there it was.
He darted another glance at Carrow, relieved to see that the other man had sunk into a doze in the opposite corner. God, he hoped Carrow hadn’t noticed anything untoward when Lawrence was looking at him.
It would be mortifying to say the least.
He looked back toward the inn, thinking suddenly about the serving wench and the ample breasts she’d so brazenly displayed during their meal. She’d be happy to accommodate him, he was sure. Briefly he considered leaving Carrow here in the phaeton and going back inside. Twenty minutes. Ten, if they were especially quick and he could get this . . . whatever this was out of his system.
But in Carrow’s current condition, Christ knew what might befall him if he were left alone. Besides, it was nothing. Just an aberration likely brought on by too much drink. Trouble was, he hadn’t had all that much to drink today, not for him anyway.
With a sharp tug to his driving gloves, he leaned over and took up the reins. Ahead of him, the horses perked up their ears, stamping against the ground with an eagerness to be on their way. After another quick glance at Carrow to make sure he was still asleep, Lawrence flicked the reins and set the phaeton in motion.
He drove fast, even faster than his usual hell-for-leather speed, determined to reach London as quickly as possible. As for Carrow, he didn’t look at him again.
• • •
Rosamund startled awake as the phaeton came to an abrupt halt.
“We’re here,” Lawrence said.
She ran a hand over her face and sat up, a shot of pain twinging her back muscles from being slumped in the seat for so long. She barely remembered climbing into the vehicle, her memory hazy about a great many of the things that had happened after she and Lawrence left the grounds of the boxing mill and headed for the inn.
There’d been a meal and a serving girl who’d needed to tighten up the loose bodice on her dress. And wine. More wine than Rosamund generally permitted herself to drink. Good heavens, but she’d gotten tipsy. Actually, a lot more than tipsy, if she was being strictly honest.
Luckily the long nap she’d enjoyed seemed to have cleared the worst of the cobwebs from her head. She only hoped Bertram didn’t notice her muzzy-headed state when she went inside.
“Can you make it down on your own?”
She glanced up at Lawrence and saw the dark glower on his face. He looked . . . angry. Why was he angry? Had she done something wrong? Or worse, said something wrong?
Rather than answer, she levered herself into a standing position, still a bit unsteady on her feet as she calculated the distance to the pavement. Normally she wouldn’t have had any difficulty climbing down, not even if she’d been wearing a dress. But with her balance less than optimal, she hesitated, one hand gripped along the edge of the vehicle.
She must have made some sound of distress, since Lawrence suddenly huffed out an impatient breath, tied off the reins and leapt to the ground with an athletic ease that put most men to shame.
He looked up—or rather glared up—at her. “Go on. If you stumble, I’ll make sure you don’t hit the pavement and crack your head in two.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, taking offense at his tone. “I can see to myself.”
Without giving herself more time to consider, she began her descent, aiming for the narrow metal step set along the side of the phaeton. Her boot heel landed correctly at first, but she misjudged the angle on her opposite leg as she came down. She teetered and would surely have sprained an ankle, or worse, if not for the hard hand that wrapped around her upper arm to steady her. Lord Lawrence let go seconds later.
Heart racing, she turned, intending to thank him despite his inexplicably foul humor, but he had already leapt back up into the carriage.
“I trust you can see yourself inside?” he asked coldly.
“I can.”
“Then good day to you, Carrow.” With a flick of the reins, he set the horses in motion.
She stared after him, her chest frozen by a sensation as icy as his parting words.
Behind her, the front door of the town house opened. “You all right, miss—I mean Mr. Ross,” the footman corrected, casting a worried look around to make sure no one else had heard.
But they were safe; the street was empty.
With a sigh, she turned, and went up the steps into the town house. Her head was still swimming, a dull ache beginning to form behind her eyes. “Tell my brother I’m back and have gone to my room.”
“You can tell me yourself.” Bertram emerged from the hallway that led to his study in the rear of the house. He must have been listening for her to return, she realized. “You look pale. What’s happened?”
“Nothing has happened. I have a touch of the headache, that’s all. I’m going to take a hot bath and lie down for a whil
e.”
He frowned. “You’re sure nothing untoward has occurred?”
“Quite sure.”
He gave a sniff. “You smell like alcohol and tobacco smoke.”
“I was at a mill with more than a hundred men. Of course I smell like alcohol and tobacco smoke.”
Bertram crossed his arms. “So? What did you think?”
“About the mill? It was brutal and bloody. I didn’t like it.”
He looked somewhat mollified at her pronouncement. “So you won’t be accompanying Byron on anymore jaunts, then?”
She thought again about Lawrence and how he’d acted before he’d driven away. She still had no idea what she could have done wrong. Perhaps she’d annoyed him at nuncheon? Maybe he hadn’t liked having a friend who turned into a stumbling drunk on barely a thimbleful of spirits—assuming they were still friends. She wasn’t so certain anymore.
“I can safely say I’ve seen my first and last boxing match,” she said. “As for anything else, I don’t know. Now, I really would like to go upstairs. I’m feeling rather unwell.”
Bertram’s expression changed to one of concern. “I’m sorry. I’ll send the maid up to you. Shall I have Cook send d-dinner up as well?”
“I’m not hungry. I think I’ll just go to bed if it’s all the same to you.”
“Of course. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
With a nod, she made her way upstairs and into her room. After stripping off her coat, she sprawled wearily across the bed. Two minutes later, she was asleep.
Chapter 10
“Shh, do be quiet. They’ll be here any minute.” Mallory, Lady Gresham, flapped her hands in an effort to hush the nearly thirty family members and close friends gathered in the drawing room of her and her husband, Adam’s, London residence. Among their number were all but one of Lawrence and Mallory’s siblings, who included Edward, Duke of Clybourne; lords Cade, Jack, Drake and Leo; and the youngest sister, Esme, Lady Northcote. All the siblings’ respective spouses were in attendance as well. As for their growing multitude of offspring, the children had been left safely at their various homes this evening while the adults gathered to celebrate the tenth wedding anniversary of the family patriarch, Edward—or Ned, as he was more familiarly known—and his duchess, Claire.
Bottles of fine French champagne waited on ice, presents were stacked on a large table in an adjoining room, while downstairs the kitchen staff was laboring to prepare the lavish meal Mallory had planned for the special occasion with the help of the Greshams’ excellent chef.
Lawrence leaned back in his chair and sipped his glass of whiskey, doing his best to pay attention despite his preoccupied frame of mind. He’d been like that for nearly a week, ever since he returned from the boxing mill he’d attended with Carrow.
He scowled and took another drink.
“Ned and Claire think they’re arriving for a quiet family dinner,” Mallory continued, “so everyone needs to hide except for the people I told them I’d invited. Which includes Drake and Sebastianne, Leo and Thalia, Adam, Lawrence and Mama, of course. Mama, you’re fine exactly where you are.”
“Well, that’s a relief, my love.” Ava, Dowager Duchess of Clybourne, smiled, amusement dancing in her gentle green eyes. “I’d just gotten comfortable in this chair. I would hate to have had to leave it again so soon.”
Lawrence was grateful he didn’t have to move out of his spot either. Despite the festive occasion, he wasn’t in the mood to indulge in silly games.
“What about the rest of us?” Cade said, standing behind his wife, Meg, where she sat on the sofa, one hand cradled over her shoulder. “Where is it exactly we’re supposed to hide? I, for one, am not squatting behind the sofa, and Meg most certainly is not, considering her delicate state.”
Mallory rolled her eyes at her older brother while Meg smiled and reached up to give Cade’s hand a reassuring pat. Ever since he found out she was pregnant again after a nearly nine-year gap, he’d been hovering over her like a mother hen. He’d nearly refused to make the long trip south from their estate, but Meg—and her doctor—had convinced him that she was in excellent health, and in no appreciable danger, considering she was only four months along.
“No one is expecting either of you to squat anywhere,” Mallory said.
“Thank God for that,” quipped Jack. “Last time I squatted somewhere it was to—”
“Jack, don’t,” his wife, Grace, warned in a quiet voice.
“Don’t what?” Jack asked. “I was only going to say that the last time I squatted it was to help make mud pies with the girls.” He paused, a devilish twinkle in his eyes. “Why? What did you think I was going to say?”
“With you, one is never entirely certain.” A tiny smile hovered on Grace’s lips, softening her words.
He leaned toward her and whispered in a voice that was still loud enough to carry, “Worried it was going to be something naughty? I’m saving that for later tonight when we’re alone.”
His mother sent him a stern look while Esme’s husband, Gabriel, Lord Northcote, and her cousin India’s husband, Quentin, Duke of Weybridge, laughed aloud. Esme, India, Claire’s sisters and their husbands and several of the others chuckled under their breath. India’s youngest sister, Poppy, who was in Town enjoying her first Season, giggled nervously, looking slightly scandalized. As for Grace, a still-youthful-looking mother of five, she blushed like a schoolgirl; Jack laughed merrily and dropped a quick kiss on her lips. Even after all their years together, it was clear that he still had the power to make her weak in the knees.
Lawrence smiled briefly and took another drink.
“Enough,” Mallory said with an impatient clap of her hands. “I need all of you to wait behind the Chinese screens that I’ve set up at the end of the room or behind the draperies for those who are game.”
“We are,” some of the younger cousins volunteered, practically dancing with excitement.
Before anyone else had time to react, a footman appeared at the door. “My lady, you asked me to inform you of the duke and duchess’s arrival. Their carriage just pulled up.”
“Did you hear that!” Mallory pointed toward the adjoining room. “Go! All of you, now. And hurry.”
A great commotion ensued while everyone who was supposed to hide rushed to do so.
A strange quiet fell over the drawing room, with the remaining Byrons doing their best to act as if nothing extraordinary was going on. Mallory hastily took a seat next to her husband and smoothed the skirts of her elegant purple silk gown. Adam reached over and squeezed her hand, waggling his dark brows in a way that made her smile.
“Someone say something,” Mallory whispered when the silence continued. “They’ll know something is afoot if we’re all sitting here quiet as a gathering of Benedictine monks.”
“I don’t believe anyone would ever accuse us Byrons of being monks, silent or otherwise,” her elder brother Drake remarked smoothly.
“Most particularly the otherwise.” Gabriel caught Esme’s hand and brought it to his lips as light laughter spread around the room.
Lawrence swirled the last of the alcohol inside his glass and wondered whether he might have time for a refill before dinner began.
Just then the butler appeared at the door to announce the Duke and Duchess of Clybourne before standing aside to admit them.
“Ned, Claire.” Mallory rose to her feet and gave her brother and sister-in-law hugs of welcome. All of the others stood as well to offer greetings. Edward gave his mother a kiss on her cheek; then Claire warmly did the same.
“You sound like a merry party,” Claire said, looking around at them. “Have you all started without us? You did say eight?”
“I did,” Mallory confirmed. “And of course we haven’t started without you. But before you sit, there’s something I have to show you.”
Edward gave his sister a curious look. “Oh? And what might that be?”
“This! Everyone,” Mallory called.
“Surprise! Happy anniversary!”
The whole room erupted into a roar of noise and movement as all the assembled guests burst from their hiding places. Claire visibly startled while even Edward looked momentarily astonished.
Then he laughed and moved to wrap an arm around his wife’s waist. “See? I told you they hadn’t forgotten us.”
Claire flushed with obvious pleasure and a little embarrassment.
And despite Edward’s usual reluctance to display affection in public, he kissed her. “Happy anniversary, my love. Here’s to ten years of truly wedded bliss and many more to come.”
“Yes. Many, many more to come,” Claire murmured before kissing him back.
• • •
The rest of the evening progressed splendidly, in part because of the spirited company, but mainly because of Mallory’s exceptional skills at planning parties.
Lawrence did his best to join in the festivities, pushing aside his own brooding thoughts in order to celebrate the enduring union of his eldest brother, Edward, and his beloved wife, Claire. Lawrence was genuinely happy for them both.
Wine flowed during dinner as course after sumptuous course was served by an attentive staff. From caviar to lobster patties, cream of leek soup, tender lettuce salad, fresh green peas with tiny onions, butter-poached turbot and crispy roasted quail, veal medallions with tiny mushrooms and a never-ending array of side dishes, no one could do anything but rave. The pièce de résistance of the evening, however, was a towering cake made of almonds, fruit and whipped cream that had everyone exclaiming with delight.
Lawrence thoroughly enjoyed the meal, yet as the evening wore on, his earlier preoccupation crept back upon him. Like a ghost intent on haunting him, his last encounter with Carrow refused to go away. More than once, he’d told himself that he must have imagined his reaction to the other man. He was attracted to women—and only women—so whatever he’d felt, it could not have been real.
To prove that to himself, he’d paid a call on one of his old lovers, a beautiful, voluptuous widow who had been more than delighted to welcome him back to her bed. They’d engaged in a mutually satisfying all-night marathon that left him in no doubt of his sexuality. He’d assumed that would be the end of it.
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