“Do you often breakfast here?” Damian asked.
To Damian’s amusement, Bream blinked, surprised at being interrupted, but graciously tolerating the inconvenience. “Quite often,” he said. “The servants know to feed me if Cynthia isn’t down yet. It was hard while she was away,” he added wistfully.
“You live in the mews behind the Duchess of Castleton’s old house, I believe.”
“It’s not the same now that Caro lives in Hampshire,” Bream said gloomily. “I used to eat all my meals with her, if I hadn’t sold anything lately.”
“Caro maintained her salon after her husband died?”
“There was always something going on at Conduit Street. Some fellows I didn’t see again.” He stopped and thought about it. “Caro didn’t keep up with Robert’s gaming friends, but most of the crowd still gathered there.”
Damian was filled with sudden regret for the loss of the old times and old companionship. Robert had been a dazzling conversationalist with a discerning eye for a fine work of art, counterbalanced by his unfortunate passion for gaming. He and the seventeen-year-old Caro had eloped as soon as Robert came into his majority and control of his fortune. Rather than spoil the original quartet of Robert, Julian, Marcus, and Damian, Caro had fit in perfectly, a wild child always up for a lark. How angry Damian’s father had been when he’d lent the eloping couple a carriage from Beaulieu for their dash to Gretna Green.
That had also been his last visit to the estate before his own majority a few months later. The recollection dowsed the spark of regret.
They munched ham in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Damian began to see why Cynthia liked the artist. His utter absorption in his own concerns made him a soothing companion. No need to exert oneself to amuse Oliver Bream; the occasional application of nourishment was all he needed to be perfectly content.
Bream abruptly picked up the thread of their conversation. “Caro didn’t buy our pictures anymore after Robert died because he lost all his money. But she still fed us.”
Damian hadn’t grasped quite how much Robert had continued to lose after the fateful night. Somehow it didn’t make him feel better. Julian, almost as much to blame, hadn’t been punished for his part. Instead he’d fallen into a dukedom.
“I suppose Denford was at Conduit Street a lot.”
“Yes,” Bream replied. “I could go to Julian’s for breakfast, but there’s no cook at Fortescue House and he’s out of town a lot. When he wasn’t traveling he was always at Caro’s.”
“How much in the last year?”
The artist, who had reopened his sketchbook, tilted his curly head and considered the question. “Well, he was in town in the spring. I remember seeing him often at Conduit Street with Cynthia and Anne. We all went to a masquerade at the Pantheon. Or perhaps Cynthia and Julian went together and the rest of us met them there. I don’t remember. After Caro married Castleton, Julian was away for a few months. Something to do with a collection of pictures.”
The news about a picture collection was interesting, but paled in importance compared to the other item of gossip. His breakfast turned sour in his stomach. He recalled only too well the kind of licentious no-good one could get up to at a masquerade ball. “Did he take my wife around town a great deal?”
He failed to disguise the urgency behind his question, for Bream jerked his head up in alarm and relapsed into discretion. “We often went out in a group. I don’t pay much attention to the niceties, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong about a married lady accepting a gentleman’s escort when her husband is away. Cynthia doesn’t mean any harm. She’s the kindest person in the world.”
Damian’s pulse slowed. He was beginning to see the futility of dwelling on the past. “I think you may be right about that, Bream. She cares for everyone.” If he could only resolve what trouble lay between them, she might care for him too. Lady Windermere’s affection would be worth winning.
By the time he’d finished his meal, his wife had not appeared and his uninvited guest showed no sign of departing. He stamped out into the hall just in time to see Ellis open the front door to the devil himself. Julian Fortescue had always possessed unmitigated gall. Tossing him into the street unfortunately wasn’t an option with the butler looking on. Sometimes the demands of discretion were damn annoying.
“Denford,” he said, cloaking his fury in ice. “Come with me back to the library. Please.”
The duke raised a black eyebrow and followed him down the back passage.
Once out of earshot of the servants, Damian crowded his unwelcome visitor. They were much of a height, Julian having an advantage of barely an inch. Damian scowled, thrusting his head forward so they were almost nose to nose. “I told you to leave her alone.”
Denford didn’t flinch. “Where is Cynthia?”
“Lady Windermere to you, Duke.”
“Don’t be an ass, Damian. We may be at odds, but let’s not pretend we don’t know each other.”
“At odds! Is that what we are? My wife is upstairs. There is no reason for you to see her. Ever.”
“I want to make sure she is well.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“You tell me, Damian.”
With incredulous fury he understood what Denford implied. “I have never a hit a woman in my life and I never will.”
“I’m relieved to hear your years among the dirty machinations of government haven’t changed you in that respect. But there are ways of hurting a woman without striking a blow. The Damian I once knew would never have behaved with so little courtesy and gentleness. The way you hustled her out of Hamble’s and into the carriage was brutal.”
He hadn’t been physically rough with Cynthia, he was certain, though perhaps intimidating in his anger. He must make sure she wasn’t afraid of him, once he’d got rid of bloody Denford. “It’s none of your business. There’s no point revisiting the past again.”
“None at all. Let us look to the future, which is my business.”
“The only thing I have to say about your future is this: Keep away from my wife.”
“That’s not what I had in mind.”
“I’m warning you.”
Denford’s lips stretched into the sneer he used to find amusing when its goal was the taunting of the Oxford proctors, an outraged hostess, or a stiff-backed pillar of the House of Lords, especially the late Lord Windermere. Now Damian understood exactly why those worthies had all wanted to kill Julian Fortescue. “Stop looking as though you’d like to throttle me. You wouldn’t succeed if you tried and you will wish to hear my proposition. I called to see you, so the least you can do is offer me a seat.”
“To see me?” Damian stepped back. Curiosity fought with the urge to commit violence and emerged the victor. Beating Denford to pulp was an option he kept in reserve. He waved at the pair of wing chairs on either side of the hearth and they took their seats, like the civil acquaintances they weren’t.
“Last time we spoke tête-à-tête,” Denford began, “you were uncommonly interested in the Falleron collection.”
“You do have it!”
“Let’s just say that I can lay my hands on certain pictures in exchange for a consideration.”
Damian felt the rush of anticipation that always accompanied a diplomatic breakthrough. He wasn’t even going to negotiate much. The Foreign Office could afford it, and all he wanted was to complete his mission and get rid of Denford forever. “Name your price.”
Blue eyes flashed in the hawkish face. “Cynthia. I want Cynthia.”
Damian shook his head, doubting he had heard correctly. “Is this a jest?”
“Do sit down again and let us discuss it reasonably. The country gets its alliance, Prince Heinrich the Dreadful gets his pictures, and I get Cynthia.”
“No.” Damian couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. Julian expected him to wink at his wife’s continued infidelity in return for certain considerations. Depressingly, it was the ki
nd of arrangement he might not have found unacceptable if the woman in question were someone else’s wife. It was also the arrangement that Radcliffe had hinted at.
“You can’t have her,” he said, returning to his seat with a stiff spine that matched his determination. “Once you helped me lose the thing that mattered to me most. I won’t let you besmirch my wife with your squalid morals.”
If Denford were capable of sincerity, that’s how Damian would have read his softened gaze. “You mistake me. My intentions are entirely honorable. I wish to marry your wife.”
“You can’t. She’s already married to me.”
“Obviously. That’s why she’s your wife. That can be changed. Divorce her. I’ll give you cause—God knows I’ve been trying hard enough—then you can bring your plea to Parliament. Given your connections in the cabinet, there should be no difficulty persuading that coterie of rogues and extortionists.” Denford spoke of His Majesty’s government with the scorn of a bishop sermonizing on the denizens of hell.
“You are mad. I understand you wanted to seduce Cynthia to get back at me. But why would you go to all the trouble to wed her?”
“I may be mad, Damian, but you are a horse’s arse. I used to feel guilty about what happened at Cruikshank’s, but no more. You marry a lady who not only brings you a fortune, but is also beautiful, clever, and kind, and you have no idea how lucky you are. Instead of appreciating your treasure, you neglect her.”
Damian stared at Julian in amazement. He really meant what he said. “Are you in love with my wife?”
“I’m not even sure I know what love is. I doubt if I am capable of feeling it and I’m quite sure I don’t deserve it. But I have a fancy to settle down and the scandal of a divorce doesn’t trouble me. I’ve never been respectable and I don’t care if I am now. Some people will fawn over me because I’m a duke, others will shun me. Either way, I don’t give a damn.”
“You never did.” At first this carelessness of convention had strongly attracted Damian. Invited to Julian’s rooms in Christ Church College, he’d discovered an Aladdin’s cave of drawings and watercolors pinned on walls, propped on the mantelpiece, and littering every flat surface. Drunk with aesthetic stimulation, Damian had tripped over a stray copy of Aristotle’s Politics that lay abandoned on the floor. When he apologized for damaging the book, Julian opened the window and flung it out into the quadrangle. “Dreadfully dull book,” he said. Damian, who had dutifully plowed through the Latin and Greek texts that Eton required for university preparation, was alarmed and thrilled. Shortly afterward he discovered how little was required of a nobleman at Oxford and took full advantage of the laxity. But it was Julian who had showed him the way.
It was Julian who had led him down the primrose path of wild behavior and cocking a snook at his father. Julian who had opened his world to a dizzying variety of sensations and experiences outside the ken of a naïve and sheltered boy. Julian who had ultimately driven him back to embrace the straight and narrow with all the zeal of the convert.
Julian, the most important influence in his earlier life, had stolen the woman who should be the central figure of his future, and wanted to make the theft permanent. Except, he hadn’t. Damian was so shocked by his proposition, he’d missed the careless admission of Julian’s failure to seduce Cynthia.
He’d refused to believe her when she swore she’d never been with Julian, but she’d been telling the truth. Of course she had. Cynthia, Lady Windermere, his wife, was an honest woman, as anyone but a consummate fool would know after half an hour in her company. A dozen times, as he’d come to know his wife, he’d found himself thinking of her as innocent, and he’d been right all along. If only he’d listened to his instinct instead of his reason. She was true blue and incorruptible.
“You never bedded her,” he stated. The question that had haunted him was settled in his mind without a shadow of doubt. He didn’t even need confirmation.
Julian shrugged. “Lady Windermere proved a tough nut to crack. I did my best from the first day I met her at Caro’s. A worthy punishment for you, I thought.”
“Because of the Maddox business.” The exploitation of an innocent in their strife turned his mouth sour. His desire for revenge had set off the exchange but it was Julian who had brought Cynthia into their conflict. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he said. “My wife had nothing to do with what happened between us.”
“Believe it or not, I am ashamed.” They looked at each other across the endless two-yard width of the marble hearth, and Damian wondered if he imagined the regret and anger in the other’s eyes, or whether he was still reading his own mind. Then Julian shook his ridiculous long hair, ran a long thumb over the silver tip of his affected ebony walking stick, and smiled his taunting smile. “Not that being seduced by me wouldn’t have been thoroughly enjoyable for her.”
Damian’s fists clenched, not least because he was ashamed. Cynthia would have had a better time in bed with her lover than she’d had with her husband. But he intended to remain her husband and make sure she never regretted the loss of the Duke of Denford. He summoned the reserves of patience and calm he’d cultivated in years of diplomacy to keep himself planted in his chair. But he was a coiled spring, a jack-in-the-box ready to launch itself at the least provocation, straight for Julian Fortescue’s traitorous face.
“Back to business,” Julian said. “If I’m to be wed, I’d prefer a wife I like and admire. I cannot imagine a woman I’d rather spend my life with than Cynthia. She only married you because her uncle bullied her. I’ll make her happier than you do.”
Julian, with his unerring eye for quality, had seen the remarkable woman behind the gentle exterior. He was right about Cynthia and about Damian too. Where his wife was concerned Damian had been an utter arse, so caught up in his own concerns he’d had little thought for her. He’d arrogantly assumed from the start that she had wished to wed him, been honored by the match and its advantages. But she’d never given any sign of worldly ambition and might very well prefer life with Denford, even with the accompanying scandal.
“Come, let us make an agreement,” the duke said. “Your wife in exchange for the Falleron collection.”
Sleeping late and drinking chocolate in bed was one benefit of marriage Cynthia had never regretted. She would sip her hot drink, mixed precisely to her taste, and remember waking at dawn in the spartan accommodations of the Birmingham Academy for Young Ladies. Then she would sink back into her plump, soft pillows and think about negotiating Aunt Lavinia’s nerves and Uncle Chorley’s alarming demands. There was a letter from Birmingham that morning. Chorley had learned of Windermere’s return and ordered his niece, in blunt terms, to get herself with child immediately, since she couldn’t be relied upon to keep him in her bed for long before he wandered off to another part of the world. That she’d denied Damian last night gave her a certain satisfaction, as far as Chorley was concerned. She’d go about the conception of a little Chorley-Lewis heir when she was ready.
While taking her side against her uncle’s on the Spitalfields Acts wasn’t a prerequisite for intimacy, giving her a serious hearing was. Sir Richard Radcliffe, she remembered, was acquainted with Joseph Chorley and they had much in common. Neither exercised a benign influence over her life and marriage.
On her way downstairs Cynthia glanced into the drawing room and her eye caught the gargantuan French buffet, for which Hamble had billed three hundred guineas, in all its overgilded, overwrought glory. She didn’t regret the ruse that financed her Flowers Street household. Choosing only the ugliest objects least suited to the classic elegance of Windermere House was another matter. It had been done for revenge, and wasn’t revenge always petty? She’d seen Damian wince when he laid eyes (and his behind) on the cerise sofa and avoid looking at the gruesome still life in the hall. He did seem to enjoy the pair of censers, though for their use rather than their beauty. Thinking about that evening, the happiest of her married life, made her blush.
With a newfound determination to forge a marriage on her own terms, it seemed fair to begin with a gesture toward his. She would make a list of all the most dubious purchases and replace them with items in good taste. No, it would be better to consult Damian. They would do it together and learn more about each other in the process.
The morning room was empty but for a servant clearing away two used places. “Mr. Bream just left,” the footman informed her. “I believe His Lordship is in the library.”
She hoped they’d got on well together, Damian and Oliver. It would be agreeable to have friends in common. Not much chance of him making up with Julian. Yet those were Denford’s deep tones wafting down the back passage from the partly open door of her husband’s sanctum. Apprehension knotted her stomach as she stopped at the door.
“Come, let us make an agreement. Your wife in exchange for the Falleron collection. You don’t want Cynthia. You only married her for Beaulieu.”
The wickedness of Julian’s brazen request scarcely registered. All she cared about was the answer. She held her breath, waiting for her husband to deny it, at least the part about not wanting her. Julian’s claim had once been true, but surely no longer. They’d come so far in the days since his return.
“She’s mine,” Damian said in a voice like a growl.
The two possessive words send a thrill down her spine. Her fists clenched as she waited for him to elaborate. She’s mine and she will stay mine because I care for her. Those were the words she longed to hear.
“She’s mine and you can’t have her.”
You can’t have her.
Hope fizzled like a snowflakes on a bonfire and turned into steam.
They were Lysander and Demetrius, always wanting the same women. Or a pair of dogs growling over a bone. She, Cynthia, a living breathing human, was merely the latest object in the long rivalry between Damian and Julian. She stepped into the room and slammed the door behind her. Had she been in the mood, the two men’s gaping surprise would have been comical. They stood side by side on the hearth, frozen in attack position.
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