He removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It had been his father’s. Originally, it went to his father’s bastard son, but Jack had given it to Lovingdon on the day he turned one and twenty. Inside the cover of the watch, his father had kept a miniature of a young woman, a servant girl whom he claimed was the love of his life. A girl who gave birth to Jack. Now there was a miniature of Juliette inside the watch. “Father loved only once. Perhaps I’m like him.”
“He never tried to love again. Guilt held him back.”
Lovingdon understood guilt. Don’t let us die.
They never should have gotten sick. If only he’d stayed away from the slums like Juliette had asked, if only he hadn’t felt the need to be a good Samaritan. If only he’d been content to provide the funds for clearing out some of the slums, if only he’d not felt a need to oversee the work. If only he’d sent his family away when he became ill. If only he’d died instead of them.
His mother set aside her teacup. “I’m not saying that you must love again, but I do think it would do you a world of good to immerse yourself back into Society.”
“I immerse myself plenty,” he said dryly.
“Yes, in women, I’m sure.”
His jaw dropped and he almost had to nudge it to get it back into position.
She quirked a brow. “I’m married to a gambling house owner who shares everything with me. I have long since lost my innocence when it comes to wickedness.”
He had to make his mind a blank slate so he didn’t conjure images of his mother engaging in wicked activities. But then he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. It was Jack who had given him his first taste of liquor and tobacco. Jack who had taught him to curse and introduced him to cards.
She reached across and squeezed his hand. “Henry, I want you to be happy.”
He shook his head. “Not yet, Mother. It’s obscene to even contemplate it.”
“Take a small step. The Countess of Westcliffe is having her annual garden party this afternoon. You should go.”
“I can think of nothing more boring than swinging a mallet.”
She furrowed her delicate brow. “I think you’ve forgotten how much you enjoy croquet. If you won’t go for yourself, go for me. I shall sleep so much better if I know you’re at least engaging with others.”
“I engage—”
“Yes, I’m sure you do engage yourself with less reputable women, but that’s not what I had in mind. Do something proper for a change.”
“I’ll think about it . . . for you.”
“I suppose I can’t ask for more.”
“You could.”
She smiled. “But I won’t.” She rose to her feet and he stood. “I need to be off making arrangements for Minerva’s birthday party next week. You will come, won’t you? It’s only a small, intimate gathering. She’ll be so disappointed if you’re not there again.”
He couldn’t even recall how many he’d missed: one or two. Guilt pricked his conscience. He wasn’t ashamed of his behavior but he had taken great pains not to flaunt his bad habits around his younger siblings. They’d always looked up to him. He recognized now that it was wrong of him to avoid them. He felt as though he’d been wandering through a fog and sunshine was beginning to burn it away. Although he didn’t have a clue regarding what had caused the sun to appear.
“I shall try to be there.”
She patted his cheek. “Do more than try for goodness’ sakes. I don’t ask for much.”
No, she didn’t. He walked with her into the entryway.
“By the by, have you seen Lady Grace this Season?” his mother asked. “I hear she’s considering Lord Bentley.”
“For what?”
“Why marriage, of course.”
The Countess of Westcliffe was known for her garden parties, and Grace didn’t think the lady could have asked for a lovelier afternoon. The sun was bright and joyful. It warmed the air and brought forth the fragrance of freshly cut grass. Most of the Marlborough House Set was in attendance. Some guests took refuge in the shade provided by canopies. Others played badminton or croquet. Many sipped champagne and nibbled on delicious pastries.
Grace sat on a stool beneath the wide full-leafed bough of an elm. Circling her, half a dozen gentlemen vied for her attention, and she was most grateful to see that Lord Ambrose was not among them. She was as charming as one could be under the circumstances, but she was not inspired to passion by any of the gents circling her. They all looked remarkably alike, desperate for her attention. She wanted someone who wasn’t quite so needy, and yet she understood that the generosity of her dowry called to those in need. She did not hold their unfavorable circumstance against them. God knew she had been brought up to fully understand that not everyone was as well off as her family, but she preferred a man who was at least striving to make a go of it on his own.
Still, she smiled at Lord Winslow, laughed at Lord Canby’s atrocious jokes, which held no humor at all, and listened with rapt attention to Lord Carlton’s description of a babbling brook and how he had moved the stones around in order to make it sound different. She refrained from commenting that perhaps if he had assisted in moving stones from his land, the fields might have produced more grain and he wouldn’t now be dashing off to fetch her more champagne in order to impress her.
It was a curse to have inherited her mother’s knack for numbers, along with her penchant toward the sensible.
Lord Renken was a terrible stutterer and he said not a word. Grace didn’t mind his affliction. She wasn’t looking for perfection. She wanted love. Her mother had not held her father’s approaching blindness against him. She could not have loved him more if his eyesight were perfect. But it was difficult to get to know a man if he never spoke.
Although, Lord Vexley was mute as well. He exchanged glances with her from time to time, secretive little looks that seemed to indicate he felt none of these gentlemen were competition for her affections. She couldn’t deny that Vexley was handsome, intelligent, and easy to speak with while they danced. He seemed to appreciate her more than her fortune, but how was one to know for sure?
She cursed Lovingdon for not taking her problem seriously, but then she supposed it wasn’t truly a serious problem. No one would go hungry, be without shelter, or die because of her choice. And if she didn’t choose, her parents weren’t likely to disown her. She supposed she could live very happily without a husband, but it was the absence of love that was troubling. As far as she knew, no one had ever been madly, deeply, passionately in love with her. She believed that a woman should experience the mad rush of unbridled passion at least once in her lifetime. Was she being greedy to want it permanently?
Lord Canby was beginning to recite another joke when Grace rose and shook out her skirts. He stopped mid-word, the expression on his face nearly making her laugh. Instead, she adjusted her hat to more effectively shade her eyes and said, “Gentlemen, if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me—”
“I’ll accompany you,” Lord Vexley said, hopping to his feet.
She smiled warmly. “Where I need to go, ladies prefer to go alone. I shan’t be long.”
He bowed his head slightly. “As you wish.”
His voice carried an undercurrent she couldn’t quite identify. Disappointment? Impatience? She supposed it was much less frustrating being the pursued rather than the pursuer. She wasn’t in danger of being rebuffed, while all these gentlemen were striving to impress. Perhaps she would assuage her guilt by trying to lead them toward ladies more likely to embrace their courtship with enthusiasm. It seemed to have worked for Lady Cornelia and Lord Ambrose.
Walking toward the residence, she was well aware of a prickling sensation along her neck, no doubt Lord Vexley’s gaze on her back. She was so aware of his presence, his attentions . . . that had to count for something, didn’t it?
As she neared the residence, out of the corner of her eye she spied Lord Fitzsimmons speaking to her dear friend Lady Sybil. They were standing at t
he far edge of the terrace, where several trees and bushes provided thick shade and coverage. She could not hear the words, but she could tell by Sybil’s paling features that her husband was once again deriding her for something. It was no doubt some trivial matter that in the grand scheme of things held no consequence. The man was a toad. A prince who had turned into a frog instead of a frog who had turned into a prince. She knew it was none of her concern, that she should march on, but Sybil deserved far better.
Before she knew what she was about, she was striding toward the couple. Lord Fitzsimmons’s nose was less than an inch from his wife’s. His eyes were narrowed in anger, while she was cringing.
“My lord?” Grace called out. “My lord Fitzsimmons?”
Jerking his head around, he glared at her, the force of it nearly causing her to stumble back. If she were wise, she would walk right past. Unfortunately, a cowardly streak did not run through her veins and she tended to become stubborn when faced with bullies. It had to do with having older brothers and growing up playing with boys more than girls. She could hold her own in a pillow fight or when it came to playing pranks.
“I’m certain you didn’t mean to embarrass your wife here,” she stated succinctly, striving to edge her way in front of Sybil.
“Grace—” Sybil began.
“Lady Grace, this does not concern you,” Fitzsimmons declared.
“I’m afraid it does. Lady Sybil is a dear friend.”
He leaned toward her, his face a hard mask, his finger darting toward her nose. “Be on your—”
He yelped, and Grace was suddenly aware of a large hand holding that offending finger in such a way that it was nearly doubled back. Lord Fitzsimmons’s eyes bulged. She had only to turn her head slightly to see Lovingdon standing there, his expression a barely contained murderous rage.
“If you ever point your finger in her face again, I shall snap it in two,” he ground out.
“Your Grace, she was interfering—”
“Be grateful she did before I got here. I’d have used my fist rather than my words. You make a spectacle of yourself, man, when you treat your wife with such disrespect. I won’t have it.”
“You don’t rule me—Ah!”
Grace realized that Lovingdon had yet to release his hold. It took only a bit of maneuvering for him to have Fitzsimmons bending his knees as though he would fall to the ground in agony.
“You will treat your wife better or you will answer to me. Have I made myself clear?”
“All marriages have discord.”
“This isn’t you, Fitz.”
He jerked up his chin. “You don’t know me, Lovingdon. Not anymore. We all change. You’re certainly not the lad I knew in school.”
“I’m not the one acting a fool here. Now apologize to your wife for not behaving as a gentleman.”
Fitzsimmons hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry, m’dear. Won’t happen again.”
Lovingdon released his hold. “I suggest you take a brisk walk to cool off that temper.”
“You don’t control me.”
Lovingdon arched a brow.
“But I can see the wisdom in your suggestion.” With that he strode off.
Sybil looked first at Grace and then at Lovingdon. “Thank you, thank you both. I don’t know what comes over him. As you say, Your Grace, it’s absolutely unlike him to be so disagreeable.”
“When did these bouts of foul temper begin?”
She lifted a delicate shoulder. “I’m not sure. Three or four months ago, I suppose. But no matter. I’m sure all will be well now.”
Oh, Sybil, Grace thought, you are too much an optimist.
“If he should ever hurt you,” Lovingdon said, “do not hesitate to send word ’round to me.”
Apparently, he, too, had doubts regarding Sybil’s optimism.
“He’s a lamb at home. It’s only when we’re out in public. I don’t understand it, but we’ll be fine.” Her cheeks flushing, she walked away.
Grace watched her go, wondering if she should go with her, yet reluctant to leave Lovingdon. She turned back to him. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“You could have handled him easily enough I suspect.”
That didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate the steps he had taken to spare Lady Sybil any more embarrassment. Others around had noticed, yet no one else had bothered to step in.
“I didn’t realize you were here,” Grace said.
“Obviously.”
“You’re angry.”
“I came very close to introducing him to my fist.”
She smiled. “I was about to introduce him to mine.”
She saw the barest hint of a grin before he brought it back into submission. “You’re no longer a child. You can’t get into tumbles.”
She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of that conclusion. “Nothing wrong with a lady who isn’t afraid to defend herself. You taught me how to beat up my brothers. It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten, and one that I see no reason to delegate to childhood.”
He shook his head, and she could see the anger dissipating, perhaps in light of happier memories. Thanks to him, she knew how to hold her fist to minimize damage to herself while maximizing it to others. She knew how to hit hard and quick, how to fight dirty in order to win. Perhaps she should give Sybil a lesson or two. She sobered. “Do you think Fitzsimmons will take your threat to heart, that he’ll treat her better? I fear she’s being overly optimistic.”
He glanced in the direction that Fitzsimmons had gone. “I’ll have another word with him. Don’t worry yourself over it.”
“Difficult to accomplish when I love Sybil so.” She studied him for a moment. “I would not have expected to see you at this garden party.”
He shrugged. “I had nothing pressing this afternoon, so I thought I would stop by. I noticed you holding court.”
She groaned at the censure in his voice. “I have little choice when so many come ’round. The alternative is to queue them up so they each have a few moments of my time, and I think that far worse.”
His gaze slid past her, and she could see he was deep in thought. His brow furrowed slightly, and it was all she could do not to reach up and flatten the shallow creases with her thumb. She wanted to comb the locks off his forehead with her fingers. Silly things to want.
“None of those who were gathered at your feet will provide what you are seeking.” His gaze came back to her, and in the amber depths, she saw the conviction of his words.
“How do you know?”
“A man who would love you would not have been content to keep his distance.” He wrapped his hand around hers, and she was immediately aware of the largeness of his. While hers was slender and long, his was broader, stronger, more powerful. Gently, he tugged her nearer until they were both enveloped in the cool shade and his musky male scent won out over the sweet fading fragrance of the distant roses.
“He would want you near enough,” he said, his voice low and raspy, “that when he gazed into your eyes he could see the darker blue that circles the sapphires everyone notices, the darker ring known to only a few. He would want to inhale your fragrance of rose and lavender, feel the warmth radiating off your skin. He would not be content to share you.”
For the first time, she noticed the black ring that encircled the amber depths of his eyes. The discovery pleased her because everything else about him was so very familiar: the sharp lines, the acute definitions. When he angled his head just so, he appeared haughty, but at that moment he appeared enthralled, as though he had only just noticed every aspect of her, as though he were mesmerized to discover that she had grown to womanhood.
She was aware of their shallow breathing, of each forceful pump of her heart, the way his smoldering gaze roamed over her face until it settled on her mouth, her lips slightly parted, her tongue darting out in invitation—
Invitation for what, she wasn’t sure, but she found it difficult to think, to analyze, to decipher all that
was happening. The sun was making her far too warm. Or was it him, his nearness, his attention?
“He would stare at me?” she whispered, swaying toward him.
“He would touch you in ways he could not touch you with his hands—not in public. But images would be filling his mind. He would be unable to tear his gaze away.” Clearing his throat, he broke the connection that was joining them and looked up into the trees. “He will look at you, Little Rose, as though you are everything, because to him you will be.”
He lowered his gaze. The heat had been doused and she wondered if it had ever been there or whether she simply imagined it. Embarrassed, hoping beyond hope that he had not been aware of the extent to which she’d been enthralled, she swallowed hard and turned her attention to the flowers. They paled in comparison to Lovingdon. She would much prefer watching him.
“It takes a while for love that intense to develop, doesn’t it?” she asked.
Slowly he shook his head. “I fell in love with Juliette the moment I set eyes on her.”
He stepped back as though he needed to distance himself from the memory.
“She wouldn’t want you to be alone,” she said.
He grinned, the cocky yet sad smile that had become such a part of him. “I’m hardly alone.”
“Love, then. She wouldn’t want you to go without love.”
“Love is rare. There are those who never know it, but having known it”—he shook his head—“I have no desire to know it again. I could never love anyone as I loved her.”
“I find that sad, and such a waste. You must have an heir.”
“I can have an heir without loving the woman. My father did.” His taut expression revealed that he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. “I’ve told you what you need to know to find the man who loves you.”
Abruptly, he turned on his heel—
“Wait! One more question,” she called after him.
He turned to her, his face without curiosity. He didn’t truly care about her troubles or woes. Why had he come? Did it matter?
Biting on her lower lip, she took a step nearer. “If a gentleman is bedding a lady and has not asked for her hand in marriage, is it likely that he fancies her?”
When the Duke Was Wicked Page 6