“I have no desire to take a lover,” she ground out.
Astrid looked politely skeptical.
“I don’t,” Katherine repeated. She turned her attention to rearranging her skirts around her. “I have no appetite for that sort of thing.”
“Pish,” Astrid said with a dismissive sniff. “You’ve just not found the right man, that’s all. And if you don’t mind my being frank, spending the last seven years married to a man twice your age who was clearly . . . er, lacking in the realm of the physical . . . has simply warped your perceptions. If you let yourself consider taking a cicisbeo, you’ll soon discover I am right. Men have their uses.” This was said with a smug smile and a pat to her rounded middle.
“A cicisbeo, is it now?” Katherine asked with a cynical twist of her lips. She avoided looking too closely at her friend’s pregnant belly. It wasn’t that she was jealous of Astrid’s burgeoning nursery, but the sight of small children and pregnant women in general was, at times, unbearable. They struck upon the hollow center of her heart and made it ache, made her reexamine the two painful truths of her life: she could never have a real marriage, and she could never have a child of her own. All because of a fifteen-year-old girl’s idiocy.
No, she had her dogs, thank you very much, and they were all the company she needed.
“Speaking of cicisbei,” Astrid continued, waving away their fruitless discussion of Katherine’s nonexistent love life, “did you know your nephew has returned to London?”
Katherine counted to ten before she replied, hoping her voice sounded suitably uninterested. “I had heard something to that effect.”
“And you have heard, of course, of the scandal with Rosamund Blanchard.”
Katherine’s heart did not ache as she replied, “Of course. One would have to either be dead or incredibly hard of hearing not to have heard.”
Astrid leaned forward, with excitement painting her features. Katherine sighed in exasperation and clenched her jaw. Clearly, Astrid had been saving up some very prime gossip the entire morning. Katherine fought the urge to take her friend by the shoulders and shake her until every last detail of the new marquess’s homecoming fell free.
“You didn’t hear it from me, you understand?” Astrid began.
Katherine rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
“Sebastian returned several days ago, and according to my husband, he hadn’t a clue as to Miss Blanchard’s condition. Last night, Sir Oliver Blanchard found him at the faro tables at White’s and demanded satisfaction.”
“As well he should,” Katherine said, rather glumly.
“Sebastian refused to acknowledge the child. In front of everyone at White’s. He said, and this is a direct quote, as Montford was there—‘Marry your daughter? I’d sooner marry my pianoforte, sirrah.’ Isn’t that brilliant?”
Astrid was ever amused by Sebastian’s exploits.
“It’s something,” she acknowledged dubiously.
“Then, of course, Sir Oliver called him out.”
Katherine’s heart sank through the floor of the barouche. She’d not heard this. “What?”
“A duel. This morning. It’s all very seventeenth century. Marlowe is acting as his second. And like a fool, Sebastian has chosen pistols! One would think that one of the top swordsmen in the country would choose to defend himself with the saber when faced with an irate father.”
Katherine clutched her skirts in her hands and tried to keep her expression composed.
Astrid, having imparted her information, sat back against the seat with a dramatic sigh. “Montford didn’t sleep a wink last night. He’s afraid Sebastian shall get his head blown off this time.”
Katherine’s stomach started to churn.
“I suppose it is all over by now,” Astrid observed, glancing out the window. “I hope, for my husband’s sake, that Sebastian hasn’t cocked up his toes. For some reason, Montford cares a great deal for the scoundrel.”
Katherine made a noise that resembled the grunt of Petunia—the pig she had adopted from Astrid during her trip to Yorkshire—in acknowledgement of Astrid’s speech.
Astrid studied her closely for a moment, her brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”
Katherine managed to nod.
“And Montford is convinced—absolutely convinced, I say—that Sebastian is telling the truth,” Astrid continued, looking suddenly thoughtful.
“The truth about?”
“About Miss Blanchard. Sebastian says he did not seduce her.”
“Oh,” Katherine said, for what else was there to say? “Ah . . . do you believe it?”
Astrid shrugged. “I don’t know Sebastian well. But Montford does, and he insists upon defending him. I don’t know whether he is merely being loyal to his oldest friend, and willfully turning a blind eye to the truth. Sebastian’s reputation is as black as they come, and Miss Blanchard was in Italy—and in Sebastian’s company—a convenient eight months ago. And it does not help that their meeting took place at the most indiscreet, disreputable address in Venice.”
Katherine murmured her assent. Unfortunately, she was well versed on all the alleged events leading to Miss Blanchard’s fall from grace. Among the salacious details was the house party given by Melissande de Beauvilliers, Europe’s most infamous coquette, at which the new Marquess of Manwaring was said to have debauched Miss Blanchard.
Katherine swallowed the lump in her throat. She did not care. It was none of her affair who Sebastian Sherbrook bedded, or if he got his head blown off in a duel.
She couldn’t lie to herself for long, however. “Where was the duel to take place?”
Astrid gave her a sly grin. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You are practically champing at the bit to see your nephew.”
“I am not!” Then, “Don’t call him my nephew.” That was just . . . wrong.
“You are. Look at you, practically ripping your skirts you’re gripping them so hard.”
“I am not—” she began, but then she glanced down at her hands, which were wringing the dove-gray fabric of her skirts like a dishrag. She pried her fingers loose and forced her hands down against the seat where they could do no more damage. She sighed in frustration. “I confess, I am a little concerned. I should not like it if Sebastian were to die.”
“I knew it!” Astrid exclaimed again, bobbing in her seat.
Katherine gave her the coolest glare she could manage. “It would be inconvenient. He is the new marquess. My husband’s estate can finally be settled. If he were to die, it would take months, if not years, to find the next in line, and I shall be forced to deal with matters pertaining to the marquisate far longer than I desire. I wish to be totally free of my husband’s affairs.”
Astrid looked visibly disappointed by Katherine’s prosaic response.
Katherine could not let the subject go, however. “I can’t believe you would suggest such a thing, Astrid.”
Astrid shrugged. “He is quite handsome. And judging from his reputation, quite willing.” She waggled her eyebrows.
“I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me. Besides which, we could never marry.”
Astrid wrinkled her nose. “Marry him? Who said anything about marrying him?”
“Well, we couldn’t,” Katherine persisted, though she did not know why. “It is against canonical law for a man to marry his uncle’s widow.” A technicality rarely enforced, a traitorous voice in her head whispered.
At least her words had finally rendered the duchess speechless. Astrid gazed at her for a long moment, as if trying to puzzle out something in her mind. Katherine grew so uncomfortable she finally had to shift her whole body on the seat toward the window. She wished she’d never opened her mouth.
At length, Astrid let out a long, weary sigh. “Well, the issue is probably a moot one, as Si
r Oliver Blanchard is known as a dead shot out on the hunt.”
Katherine formed the mental image of Sebastian’s lovely head exploded, his brains leeching out onto some not-so-distant lawn, and regretted eating a heavy breakfast.
Thankfully, they arrived at Montford House a few minutes later, and the walk up the front steps cleared her head and settled her stomach somewhat.
“We shall focus our efforts on Dr. Lucas, then,” Astrid said, more to herself than Katherine, as she handed her bonnet and pelisse to Stallings.
“Astrid!” Katherine hissed. She had just begun to relax. “There shall be no efforts in that direction, do you hear?”
Astrid shrugged blithely. “I’m famished. And parched. Care to stay for tea?”
Katherine felt slightly dizzy at Astrid’s change of subject. She didn’t trust it for a second. She murmured her assent, however, and Astrid led her down the absurdly long, grand corridor to the drawing room. As they approached, the sound of the pianoforte reached her ears. Someone was playing a rather intricate, raucous waltz on the other side of the door. Astrid’s smirk came back full force, as if she’d recognized the tune, and pushed through the doors.
And there he was, seated behind the gorgeous Broadwood that had appeared at Montford House one day, placed in a sunny alcove on the far side of the room. He was grinning broadly and murmuring something to the duke, who stood beside him, laughing.
Katherine’s breath caught in her throat, as it always did at the sight of Sebastian. She forced herself to breathe, and then reminded herself she was immune to him. She tried to study him dispassionately. Two years had wrought some changes in him. He looked less painfully thin than she remembered, and his inky, luxurious curls were longer, nearly to his shoulders, brushed casually back from his forehead. His skin was sun-kissed, as if he had spent the entire two years away from England in the sunshine. The usual dark circles beneath his eyes were still there, but they weren’t as marked as she remembered them. He looked . . . almost healthy. And different in another fundamental way she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Lighter, perhaps.
Astrid stepped across the room, hands on her hips, as Sebastian rose to his feet in greeting.
“What the devil have you done to her?” the duchess demanded, her smirk completely gone.
Katherine blinked back to the present moment. Sebastian held Amy in his hands. A completely naked Amy. And for the first time in Katherine’s experience, Amy was not shrieking. She was gazing up at the marquess with a besotted expression.
He, on the other hand, looked decidedly ill at ease. In fact, he was staring straight at her. Her.
She felt the air around her thicken and her skin break out into a sweat. When had it become so hot? When she attempted to breathe, she felt the weight of her gown sticking to her ribs, pressing down on her.
He was alive.
And Amy was urinating on the carpet. And his boots.
He tore his glance away from her and glanced down with a pained expression. Even that was irritatingly beautiful.
“Bloody hell,” the duke muttered, snatching the baby from Sebastian’s hands and flinging urine everywhere.
Amy began to wail immediately, reaching out toward Sebastian, who’d stepped back from the area of impact. The duchess intervened and scooped the screaming infant into her embrace. Amy’s wails only increased in volume.
“She’s naked,” the duchess said. As if this were the most pressing issue at hand, not the dark stain on the carpet.
The Duke of Montford, infamous for his stoic manner, actually blushed and looked at his wife with a sheepish expression. “Couldn’t figure out how to attach the . . . er, garment.”
“Nappy, you mean?” the duchess asked with an arched brow. “And where was her nurse?”
The duke scowled at his wife. “I dismissed her. She made Amy cry.”
“Everyone makes Amy cry,” the duchess returned in a voice loud enough to carry over the baby’s shrieks.
The duke swung an accusing hand in Sebastian’s direction. “Not him.” He paused. “There was a blanket.”
“Your daughter’s virtue was safe with me, I assure you,” Sebastian said drolly. He made an exaggerated show of extracting a handkerchief from his pocket, bending down, and wiping his boots. Then he crossed the room with his handkerchief pinched between his fingers, stopped by the hearth, and pitched the offending article into the unlit grate.
The child was still shrieking. Katherine grit her teeth.
There were times that some secret part of her craved a child—her child, shrieks and all.
This was not one of those times.
The duke covered his ears. Katherine resisted the impulse to do the same.
“God in heaven, give her back,” the duke cried.
“What?” Astrid cried.
He gestured toward Sebastian, whose eyes widened and hands went out in protest.
“Trust me,” the duke told his wife.
“Oh, I don’t think so . . .” Sebastian began, but then the duchess shoved Amy into his arms.
The child quieted instantly, looked up at Sebastian, and batted her eyelashes.
“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Astrid.
“It is wet,” Sebastian said through gritted teeth. “Crick shall murder me for ruining my waistcoat.”
“Do not call my daughter an it,” Astrid said. She spun around to her husband. “I can’t believe you sacked Bessie!”
The duke scowled at his wife even more furiously. “If you weren’t off gallivanting across London, maybe I wouldn’t have needed to. Where have you been, anyway?”
“You know full well where I’ve been, idiot,” Astrid said fondly. “At Dr. Lucas’s, discussing the hospital.”
No one else in the entire world would dare to address the fearsome Duke of Montford in such a way. Katherine marveled at Astrid’s pluck.
“In fact,” the duchess continued, with a mischievous glint in her eye that did not bode well, “we have found the perfect building for our purposes. Haven’t we, Katherine?”
Katherine took a step backward. Self-preservation seemed to be in order at the moment, as the duchess was preparing to bait her husband. For some unfathomable reason, Astrid enjoyed enraging Montford in mixed company. Katherine hated it when she was part of that mixed company.
“In Aldwych,” the duchess continued.
The duke’s expression was inscrutable, but a muscle ticked in his jaw. A bad sign. “Aldwych,” he repeated. Then, “Over my dead body.”
Astrid rolled her eyes. “Really, Cyril.”
“Over my cold, dead body,” he amended.
“One can’t very well help the poor and impoverished if we were to locate the hospital in Mayfair, can one?” the duchess returned.
“You shall not set foot in Aldwych,” the duke said in a calm voice.
“Oh, I shall,” Astrid said sweetly. Too sweetly. She turned to Katherine after giving Sebastian one long, thoughtful look. The alarm bells began to go off in Katherine’s mind. Her friend was up to something. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to dry off my daughter and rehire her nurse. I shall return presently. I’ll have Stallings send for tea.”
With that, she snatched up her daughter, who began to wail anew, and waddled toward the door.
The duke watched her go, his jaw ticking.
After an uncomfortable silence, he turned to Katherine and gave her a stiff nod. “Excuse me. I must speak to my wife.”
Katherine opened her mouth to say something, but the duke was gone before any sound emerged.
Leaving her alone.
With Sebastian Sherbrook.
She suspected that was just what Astrid had intended.
Chapter Four
Variations on a Theme by Beethoven
KATHERINE WOULD NEVER forget the first time she saw Sebasti
an Sherbrook. It was shortly after her marriage, and she was enjoying her first Season in London, though perhaps “enjoying” was not quite the appropriate word to describe her experience. The endless parade of balls, routs, and morning calls was hardly her idea of having fun. Nevertheless, she was still in that phase where the novelty had yet to wear off, and if she was not precisely enjoying herself, she was definitely happy enough to be amused by the petty intrigues and social maneuverings of the haute-ton. At the time, anything—even her arranged marriage—had been better than remaining under her father’s roof.
She had heard quite a lot about her husband’s erstwhile nephew from London’s most avid gossips, but she had yet to encounter him. Being estranged from Lord Manwaring, Sherbrook had not attended their wedding or made any attempt to communicate with his uncle since Katherine had become the marchioness. The origins of the falling-out were unknown, though an object of much speculation among the ton. Sherbrook in general was an object of much speculation, she soon discovered upon arriving in London. The fact that her acquaintances whispered about him behind their fans to her, knowing as they did the estrangement between the marquess and his heir, attested to his infamy. Wagging tongues did not stop wagging if the subject was Sebastian Sherbrook, no matter the audience.
She was at the annual musicale thrown by the Duchess of Delacourt, one of the crowning social events of the Season, happily sipping from a flute of champagne and talking to an acquaintance (no one really listened to the music at such a gathering, for what would be the fun in that?) when she noticed a disturbance in the room. The current performer kept on playing, and the candles kept on shining, but something had definitely shifted in the air, causing every eye in the room to simultaneously turn toward the entranceway.
A hush descended over the crowd. Monocles were brought out, fans began to flutter, and the whispers began. Katherine had by then been to enough functions to know when Someone of Import had deigned to make an appearance. Her acquaintance, fan raised, leaned toward her in a haze of lavender toilette water and whispered, “I do believe your nephew has arrived,” as if attempting to be discreet.
Virtuous Scoundrel (The Regency Romp Trilogy Book 2) Page 5