“Damned old trout,” Ryder gritted. “The woman should spy for the king.”
Hunt inclined his head and grasped the hilt of his rapier, walking back along the dueling strip. Ryder followed him, his own rapier in hand. The soft leather surface of the strip was dull compared to the highly polished wood floor.
Ryder eyed Hunt. With his towering stance, black hair and icy eyes, the Duke of Hunt could stop a man at a hundred paces with one hard stare. Yet, it never surprised Ryder to hear the man had a good gossip with the ladies of the town. “So, where did you hear about it?”
“Mm. I heard it over tea with Mrs. Barton. Lovely woman, that.”
Ryder laughed dryly. The sound echoed through the hall, bouncing off the plain white walls. “Tea, my arse. I had no idea you paid such polite social calls to the dear lady.”
Stretching out his arms wide in innocence, Hunt said, “Come now man, a gentleman such as myself would never besmirch a lady’s honor by referring to it so early in the day as anything other than tea.”
“And did she serve sweets?” Leaning back slightly and bending his knees, Ryder took his stance. He needed a good fight. He was tense from lack of sleep, and dreams. Dreams of soft blonde hair, pale skin and a guileless face. A face untouched by the hardness of this world.
“Let us say I shall be fasting for days. . .” Hunt flourished his rapier then propped his left hand on his hip. “Or at least a few hours.”
“You are a glutton.”
“I do believe you partake in a number of feasts yourself.”
Yes, he could eat night and day if that someone was a certain pale-haired young woman in a pale grey dress. Bloody hell, but he would love to feast on her. He’d start with her breasts, work his way down to her bottom and then, he’d spread her thighs and lick—
Blowing out a breath, Ryder advanced ready to let out his pent up frustration.
Thrusting forward, their blades clashed. Instantly, Hunt drove hard, his blade slicing through the air like lightning. Answering each strike, Ryder moved light upon his feet, controlling every parry then twisting right to riposte.
Hunt smiled as he retreated. “So, who is the bit of muslin?”
At the thought of the young woman, whose name he had intentionally not asked, Ryder hesitated, and Hunt’s blade sang forward, stopping an inch from his heart.
“A bit off, are we?”
Ryder backed off, tugged his linen shirt away from his throat then adjusted Jane’s ribbon about his wrist. “Certainly not.”
“Then what exactly do you call that?” Hunt’s dark brow arched skeptically.
Ryder shoved his hair from his face and resumed his stance. “Carelessness.”
“Not like you, old boy.”
Wordlessly, Ryder moved back in. He wasn’t about to admit than an hour in the presence of a country girl had shaken him. Especially not to Hunt. The man would never let up on the subject, and Ryder wanted this out of his head as quickly as possible. The only thing to do was change the subject and quickly. “How’s your brother?”
Hunt rolled his eyes. “We are talking about your woman.”
“I don’t have a woman,” he said tightly.
“Fine then. Charles is splendid. He’s off in India, no doubt risking his life, stealing into some harem.”
The Duke of Hunt’s twin brother Charles was one of their drinking companions and constantly required his brother’s motivational persuasion to keep him from drowning in gin and women. At least Ryder and Jack came up for air on occasion. The slightly younger man also owned the fencing club they were in at this very moment, proving that he wasn’t entirely frivolous. Still, the Eversleigh twins were the best bet in town for a very good outing.
Apparently, refusing to be distracted, Hunt struck fast.
Ryder snapped to attention, grabbing the upper hand, driving Hunt down the dueling strip. They moved back and forth seamlessly. The blades flashed and clanged as each tested the other. Few men matched Ryder’s skill with a blade, but Hunt was one of them. And he needed someone right now who could challenge him, make him work and get that damned woman out of his thoughts.
“So, the chit didn’t drain you dry?” Hunt spun in and raked his blade towards Ryder’s middle.
Ryder stumbled and dropped to one knee as the blade zinged past him. Why couldn’t Hunt drop the infuriating subject?
“Tripped, did you?” Hunt said brightly.
Ryder stood and wiped his linen sleeve over his sweating forehead. He planted the tip of his rapier into the leather strip and paused. “I sent her on her way, if you must know.”
Hunt blinked, as if he was absolutely mad. “I beg your pardon?”
“Have you gone deaf or do you enjoy hearing me repeat myself?” Ryder looked away for a moment then returned his gaze. “I sent her off.”
Hunt smirked. “Ugly was she?”
Ryder lifted his blade and pointed it at Hunt. “She was beautiful, actually. In a way I simply cannot—” He shrugged, not knowing how to put her attractions into words. She’d been captivating.
Hunt threw back his head and laughed. “Good god, man. You’re besotted. Who’d have thought it possible?”
Ryder lowered his rapier and paced to the bench lined against the wall. Sheathing the blade he made quick work of toweling himself with a piece of linen. He was not about to head down this line of conversation with Hunt. The man would be relentless, and Ryder was in no mood to convince him the woman just intrigued him and nothing more. “Don’t be absurd,” he barked over his shoulder.
Sauntering slowly towards him, Hunt’s eyes sparkled with an annoying self-assurance. “A woman is the very font of absurdity, old man, and you seem to be knee deep. Now, no secrets. Why didn’t you bed the little dear?”
Ryder was not going to let Hunt push him into a heated comment, even if the temptation to belt his friend in the face was building at an accelerating rate. Tugging his cravat around his neck a little too tightly, Ryder turned and said as calmly as he could, “She was too innocent for my tastes.”
The mocking glint cooled a little from Hunt. “Oh. I see.”
Though they had a number of differences, they had one main thing in common. Neither of them bedded overly innocents or virgins. It wasn’t worth the risk of pregnancy or ruin of the girl, all over miscommunication. Inexperienced woman often believed sex meant something more than a good romp. And a good romp was all Ryder or Hunt were worth. Both, for their own reasons, had long sworn off marriage.
“But who was she?” Hunt tugged on his plain, but superbly cut emerald green waistcoat and jacket.
Ryder ran a hand through his long hair, pulling it back into a queue. If she hadn’t been so interesting or so candid, if she hadn’t made him want to spill his secrets and have a chance at happiness, he might have asked her name, but since she evoked such dangerous thoughts, he hoped never to have need of her name. “I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask her name?”
“No.” Part of him was damn glad that he hadn’t. There were enough people in London he might never see her again, and it was unlikely she could get an introduction into his set. “My butler claimed she was a Mr. Braithwait.”
Hunt stared blankly.
Ryder shrugged. “I have no idea what that was about.”
“So it’s a mystery?”
Ryder nodded tightly.
“That’s terrible, old man. Terrible,” Hunt intoned with great seriousness. He shook his head.
“Why?”
Clasping Ryder’s shoulder, Hunt looked him squarely in the eye. “Because you love a good mystery.”
“Sod off.” It wasn’t a mystery if he deliberately didn’t want to know her name. Indeed, it wasn’t.
“My, she has put you in twist.”
“Go to the devil,” he said flatly, hoping to put a firm lid on the topic.
“I’d rather go to the House of Lords. You are coming to vote?”
“Certainly.” Ryder was glad to change the s
ubject. Once he got Hunt on the topic of reform, the man would never cease talking. Perhaps, it was his father’s murder which had given him such a sharp edge and passion for politics. “It’s the Catholic vote today, isn’t it?”
Hunt nodded his face grim. “I love my country, you know I do, but I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by while an entire group is kept from their rights.”
Ryder picked up his black over coat and quickly slung it over his shoulders. It seemed they each had their causes. Hunt wanted to change the world while Ryder simply wanted to get through it.
* * *
“You’ll never guess what I have!”
Kate looked up from The Pickering Press trying not to dwell on the fact she should probably be reading one of the more serious papers considering the shape of things in France. But really, she loved reading Snodgrass. The man was too amusing.
She laid the paper down beside her half-finished plate of bangers and toast. “What is it you have?”
Imogen bustled into the bright breakfast room, her pink skirts rustling. “An invitation to the Countess of Carmine’s private party.”
Kate paused. Try as she might, she couldn’t think why this should be so exciting. “And?”
Imogen let out a sigh and hurried over to Kate’s end of the breakfast table. “I know you read Snodgrass, and the man has mentioned the countess half a dozen times.”
The reality was when she read The Pickering Press the only name she sought out was Darkwell’s. “You can’t expect me to recall every scandal-ridden lady and lord in London. It would take me the rest of my life to commit them to memory.”
Imogen threw her hands up into the air. “She is only one of the most exclusive hostesses in London.”
Kate grinned. My, exclusive was quite nice. She whipped her napkin off her lap, plopped it on the table then pushed her chair back. “However did we get an invitation?”
Wiggling her brows, Imogen clapped her hands together as she closed the distance between them. “The countess and I have an understanding.”
After only a week in London, Kate already understood the nuances of ton life. Anyone could do anything as long as everything appeared to be proper. And she was certainly ready to begin doing everything. Kate leaned in as if they were sharing a dangerous secret.
Imogen placed a bejeweled hand on the linen covered table and leaned forward. “She invites me to her parties, and I don’t speak of the ménage a tois I came across last spring with the countess, her riding instructor. . . and her lady’s maid!”
Kate gasped. “Her what?” An image of three naked people in a straw and leather filled stable flashed through her head. She couldn’t help but wonder who’d done the riding and who had been ridden.
The famous countess riding her instructor brandishing her whip and shouting tally ho! came to Kate’s mind, and she had to bite back a laugh.
“Too scandalous for words, isn’t it? To look at the countess you’d think God himself had touch her with piety.”
“When is the party?”
“Tonight. So, we must find you a scrumptious frock. It’s no good having you look like a pigeon. Fine feathers are what you need, my friend.”
Pigeon, indeed. That was certainly not the impression Kate wished to give London. It was truly time to indulge in the most beautiful and perhaps scandalous frocks her money could buy. After all, there was no one to shout at her that she was dressed immodestly now. Kate grabbed hold of Imogen’s hand. “How am I to have a gown made so soon?”
Following her lead, Imogen rustled after her. “I suppose we could have one of my gowns made over, or perhaps Madame Sophie could produce something. She is the goddess of fabric.”
Kate smiled at her cousin as the onslaught of potential washed over her. She’d never owned anything grander than the gowns of her youth and then the modest and proper gowns Percy insisted upon. And she’d certainly never been to such a party. Deeming them to be preposterous displays of wealth, her father never even gave her a coming out. Now nothing was going to stop her from having more gowns than she could ever know what to do with.
But. . . There was something odd about this whole circumstance. Even she knew it was strange to be invited on the day of the event. “Isn’t this short notice?”
“The countess’ parties are very hush hush, you see? Hence she only sends out notice a few hours before.”
Kate laughed. “So, what occurs at the countess’ parties—”
Imogen waggled her brows. “Doesn’t ever leave them.”
Not long after, they were secure in an open carriage racing down to Bond Street. Kate leaned back against the blue velvet squabs and drank in the sunlight. Turning her head to the passersby, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. In fact, her cheeks hurt with her happiness. A little over six months ago, she’d been trapped in a loveless marriage, and Percy, that dratted man, had been drinking his fill of London. Oh, but she was being cruel. He had bought her gifts. Books, in fact. Books on how to be an obedient wife, one who never questioned her husband’s authority.
Though it really had been too bad for Percy that he had died in a duel over another man’s wife, it meant she could now ride merrily through the park, on the way to spend a substantial portion of her own fortune.
This new world was a wonder to her, and she leaned forward, pulling the glass window down. A white carriage drove by. The women inside were dressed in peach and yellow silk, their hair curled and powdered. Two men in scarlet red coats rode just behind on great horses, swords glinting at their sides.
And the noise! Wheels clattered over the cobblestones. Children shrieked with laughter, their iron faced governesses calling after them. The side streets were packed with people, buying and selling. The cries of hawkers punctuated the air like some wild orchestra. In London, surely one could never be too sad.
Their carriage struggled through Bond Street and stopped in front of an elegant store with the words Madame Sophie embossed in gold letters above the glass and mahogany double doors.
The footman bounded down, unfolded the carriage step and held out his gloved hand. Imogen descended, her skirts in hand and lifted high above the strangely brownish yellow muck lining the London street. Kate followed catching sight of a shoe that someone had apparently abandoned in the quicksand-like substance.
Stepping onto the slightly smoother ground just before the shop, Kate gawked at the storefront. The glass windows shone, and the outer walls were pristine stone. Finally, she’d arrived.
“Now, my dear, don’t let your mouth hang open like that.”
Kate snapped her lips closed. Oh dear, she’d been gawking like a country mouse. But the windows! Gowns of pink and blue stood in the casings. Lace dripped from them like sugared frosting, and the embroidery! Why it was as if the dresses were alive with flowers.
Regardless of their wealth, her father never encouraged extravagance in women, and Percy. . . well, he used as much as possible on himself. She’d dreamt of wearing gorgeous gowns, and now she was going to buy every blasted thing in the shop if she wished.
They entered the shop and were ensconced in elegant silence. The scent of roses and lavender wafted around them. Soft chairs of ivory and gold were positioned artfully about the room as were tables of white marble with gold legs.
A lovely young girl bustled towards them, her violet silk gown plain yet perfect on her slender frame. The girl smiled brightly, clearly anticipating a very worthwhile customer. “Bonjour, Lady Cavendish. A delight,” she purred in a soft French accent. “As always.”
“Bonjour,” Imogen replied. Gesturing towards Kate, she said, “I have come for several gowns for my friend.”
The young assistant turned from Imogen to Kate.
Much to Kate’s surprise the shop girl’s pale face lit with interest as she looked her up and down. After a moment, a smiled tilted the girl’s pink lips. “Oui, madame!” She gestured towards Kate’s middle. “May I?”
She nodded, curious as to what exactly ha
d caused the young woman such gratification.
The girl’s slender hands circled Kate’s middle, and then she looked into Kate’s face with fascinated dark eyes. “But madame, why have you hidden your beauty?”
Kate sputtered, unsure if she should feel flattered or insulted. “Men,” she said flatly.
The girl tsked. “Mais oui. Men are so much trouble, yes?” She stepped back and clapped her hands. “We shall make your beauty shine. I assume you wish many gowns?”
Kate nodded, caught up by the fact the shop girl thought her pretty. Most of her life, she’d been led to believe she was rather plain. It was tremendously exciting to hear otherwise, even if the girl was being polite. “I do need one for this evening.”
The girl’s eyebrows shot up, and her pink mouth pursed. “This evening?”
Kate’s elation dimmed a little. Apparently, she was too blunt. But the duke, he’d been blunt. It had been marvelous, his candor. Kate had a suspicion that to survive in London she was going to have to flower her speech. “It is terribly important. Couldn’t a young woman of your talents help me?” she coaxed.
“Expense is not a question,” Imogen added quickly, her voice honeyed with compliment.
The smile beamed right back into place on the girl’s face. “I am certain I can find something. Now,” she said, gesturing to the door festooned with pale, grey silk curtains. “Let us have you fitted.”
* * *
Hunt was in a foul mood, and Ryder was glad to be shuck of his company. There’d be no dealing with him until they could both drown themselves in drink and women.
The bill had died the slow, torturous death of one drowning in sludge.
The conservatives were terrified of giving rein to the people. They kept citing France and the present rebellion taking place. But in Ryder’s opinion it was the very strictness of the French nobility that had led to its downfall. If England wasn’t careful, they’d find themselves only a few steps behind.
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 160