Fayre's brows came together as if she disapproved of his bizarre humor. Unlike their mother, who was wearing a cheerful green and yellow striped dress, his sister was looking properly tragic in mourning black crepe. "Stop it, Fayne. You are deliberately being provoking."
He kissed her on the cheek. "And spoil all my fun? God forbid!" he mocked, winking at his mother. The duchess understood and accepted his jocular disposition.
Fayre, by Carlisle standards, was a tad too staid, though his sister had showed brief spirited flickers of the family's outrageous tendencies. Two years ago, she had managed to
stir up the family when she had given her heart and body to an ambitious scoundrel who seduced her for nefarious reasons. The family had been recovering from the scandal
when she abruptly announced that she intended to marry a wealthy commoner, Maccus Brawley.
Unremorseful, the duchess now beckoned Fayne to join them. She put her plate of cake aside and opened her arms so she could embrace him. "Come here, you ungrateful rogue. You ignored all my other notes. I was left with no choice but to resort to desperate measures."
Fayne bent over and pressed the side of his face firmly against her dark cinnamon tresses bound up into a fussy knot. She felt fragile in his arms. He pulled back and studied her face. The spark of mischief, so akin to his own, still gleamed in her bluish-green eyes. Even so, the duke's death had marked her face. The lines around her eyes and mouth seemed pinched from lack of sleep. Despite their odd marriage, Fayne was positive his mother was mourning the duke in her own unique manner.
"You look healthy," he lied.
The duchess responded by poking with alarming precision the stab wound Hollensworth had delivered with his singlestick. He yelped and placed a protective hand over his chest.
"You, on the other hand, do not," his mother said smugly.
Concerned by his sudden paleness, Fayre pushed him down onto the sofa beside their sadistic mother. "Are you hurt?" she asked, her green gaze searching him from head to toe for additional signs of injury.
Fayne glared bitterly at his mother. Someone had already told her about his fight with Hollensworth. "Vicious harpy, how did you know?"
"Know what?" his sister demanded, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "No. Not again."
Magnificent. Now he would have both Carlisle women bullying him. This was the main reason why he had been avoiding his mother in the first place. "Again? Listening to gossip, dear sister? When do you find the time? I thought Brawley kept you on a tight leash these days."
Fayre's face flushed almost as brightly as her cinnamon-colored curls. Her mouth tightened at his taunt. "According to my husband, you are the one who needs a leash, Fayne," she said tersely, using his given name instead of calling him Tem as was her preference. It was a clear indicator of her annoyance. "Or the lash."
"Dueling," the duchess moaned, retrieving a lace handkerchief from a hidden pocket in her gown. She dabbed the corners of her eyes. "How many have you fought? Three? Four?"
The duchess had such a pathetic expression on her face. He refused to allow her to reprimand him as if he were still a boy. "Are we counting the number of duels I have fought in my life, Mother, or just the tally this week?" he sarcastically quipped.
The duchess held her chin up, appearing brave. "I wish your father were alive. I evidently do not understand this violent aspect of you, my son."
His father, had he lived, would have been proud. The duke had fought a fair amount of duels in his youth. The Carlisle men were taught from the cradle to fight for what they wanted. Glancing from his sister to his mother, he sensed no amount of arguing would convince them of the necessity of violence.
Still, he could not resist trying. "Would it ease your mind, Mother, if I told you that each gentleman I fought deserved it?"
The duchess furiously dabbed at her eyes and shook her head. If she was truly mopping up actual tears, she was going to need to wring out her handkerchief soon. "No, I do not believe it does, Tem."
"Good heavens," Fayre exclaimed at his impudence. "That is the best you can do?"
He glowered at his sister's interference. "Why don't you go home? Isn't Brawley waiting for you at home?"
"No, he is not. Maccus is at the 'Change."
"Perhaps you should leave anyway. You are upsetting the duchess."
The duchess saw where her children were heading, and the inevitable explosive finale. "Tem ... Fayre—really—"
"Me?" Fayre replied, her voice thick with outrage. "I am not the one who is treating dawn appointments as if he were paying social calls. How many wounds are you concealing underneath your coat, Fayne? How many times has a surgeon bled you?"
Sometimes his sister saw too much. "My business, not yours, sister mine," he growled.
"It will be our business if you get yourself killed!" she yelled back at him. It was so rare for Fayre to raise her voice in anger that Fayne found the experience rather disquieting. "We just laid our beloved father to rest. How soon before your recklessness obliges us to mourn you, as well?" she demanded.
Fayne winced at her genuine tears. "No. None of that," he ordered, feeling something akin to panic. Fayre's lower lip quivered before she started sobbing. "Aw, hell, Fayre."
He pulled her onto his lap and cuddled her against him. He sent a mute appeal to his mother, but she was concentrating on blowing her nose into her handkerchief. Fayne shut his eyes in disgust. "See here, Fayre. Brawley is going to want to rip my head off for making you cry. If you value my life, you will dry up those waterworks immediately."
With her face pressed into his shoulder, his sister sniffed and then giggled.
Fayne lifted his brows, perplexed. "You scream at me for dueling, and yet the thought of your husband throttling me amuses you," he mused, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Pondering the feminine intellect leaves me at sixes and sevens."
Fayre pulled her face from his shoulder, laughing. Wiping the wetness from her cheeks, she said, "No, silly, the thought of you and my husband fighting never amuses me. I was just remembering that Maccus had a similar worry about you when we announced our betrothal."
The duchess gasped, probably recalling how her husband had reacted to the news that Mr. Brawley had ruined his daughter. Twisting the damp linen in her hands into a contorted mess, she said, "Tem, pray tell me that you did not attack Mr. Brawley?"
"Why would I?" Fayne countered, seeing no reason to admit that he and Brawley had had a private chat the day after their betrothal was announced. "Father had the situation well in hand."
"Well in hand?" The duchess expelled a breathy laugh. It was the first glint of humor he had seen on his mother's face since his arrival. "Oh, what a night! The duke murdered half a dozen doors in the house trying to get to Fayre's poor Mr. Brawley."
Fayne chuckled. "And a harpsichord, if I recall the tale correctly." His father had been so livid about the damage he had wrecked on his daughter's behalf that he sent Brawley the bill. Fortunately for all, Brawley had settled the debt without a whimper.
His sister tugged at his cravat impishly and climbed off his lap. Retrieving their mother's empty teacup, she went over to the tea table to refill it. "Papa was very agreeable about our match, once Maccus paid for all the damages," Fayre said, blissfully unaware that she had the men in her life wrapped around her little finger. If she ever learned the truth, she would be insufferable.
"Yes, he did," the duchess cheerfully agreed. "I think Brawley has been an interesting addition to our little family."
His disagreement with his sister had distracted their mother from her earlier worry over his dueling and her mood had lightened tremendously. If luck was on his side, she would not recall why she had summoned him until after he had departed.
"Speaking of paying one's debts," his mother said, switching topics. She smiled and accepted the cup of tea Fayre offered her. "Tem, do you recall your promise that you would escort me if I required it?"
Fayn
e's green gaze narrowed slightly. "Yes. Vaguely." He had made the hasty promise right after Hollensworth had shoved them both through the duke's portrait, rending it beyond repair. The duchess had been so distressed afterward that he would have sold his soul to the devil to appease her.
"I have need of you tonight," she said crisply, raising the edge of the cup to her lips. The duchess gave his sister a sly sideways glance, which Fayre returned with an arrogant smirk.
Belatedly, he sensed the trap before it snapped shut. The Carlisle women had hatched a plan to keep him out of trouble—at least for the evening—and their execution was short of brilliant. He had never been hoodwinked by a woman before, let alone two.
Suitably impressed, Fayne surrendered wordlessly.
CHAPTER 6
The supper at Lord Guttrey's was a small gathering, comprising thirty or so guests. The viscount was nearing his seventieth birthday, and the majority of his guests were considerably older than Kilby. There was one lady, however, a Mrs. Du Toy, who at twenty-six was the closest to Kilby's age. The five-foot-nine-inch blonde had taken one dismissive glance at her, and then moved on to converse with several gentlemen she seemed to be acquainted with.
Resigned that her supper companion was likely to be a gentleman forty years her senior, she left Priddy to discuss politics with their host's brother and his wife and wandered on her own. The drawing room connected to the music room. She did not linger in the music room. Beyond the door she found herself in an outer hall that led to the stairs. The viscountess had warned her earlier at the theater that Lord Guttrey would be asking her later to play the pianoforte. Her parents had ensured that her skills with the instrument were competent, so she was not worried about disgracing herself or Lady Quennell.
"Lady Kilby, is that you, my dear girl?"
She glanced down from the balustrade and saw Lord Ordish poised on the stairs. "Why, good evening, my lord," she said pleasantly. "I did not know you were joining the festivities this evening."
The earl looked a little sheepish. "In truth, I am not. Gut-trey and I had some late-night business to conclude. I was hoping to leave before anyone noticed my presence and insisted that I remain for supper." He leaned heavily on his walking stick and grimaced. "By Jove, I am too old to be cavorting about at these hours. The night is for the young."
Kilby hid her smile as she glanced back at the open doorways. Lord Ordish could not be older than fifty, but acted as if he had the poor constitution of someone near seventy. She wagered half of Guttrey's guests were older than the earl and she had not heard them complaining about the hour. It was a pity. He was a fine-looking gentleman. If he was not so rigid, he might have made a perfect companion for Lady Quennell. Descending the stairs to draw less attention to their conversation, she said, "Well, do not concern yourself. I will not tell a soul I have seen you."
The earl formally bowed over her hand. "You are a sweet girl. I knew I could count on you." He beckoned her closer. "Actually, finding you here is a prodigious coincidence," he said in a conspiring tone. "You had asked me about some of the gentlemen who courted your mother in her youth."
Pleased he had been thinking about their previous conversation, she confided, "Yes, the last time we spoke on the matter, you had mentioned Lord Ursgate. I took your advice and tried to seek him out at the fair. Regrettably, my efforts were unfruitful." There was no reason to confess that she had forgotten all about the man after she had encountered the Duke of Solitea.
Lord Ordish patted her hand sympathetically. "Just as well. First, I must beg your forgiveness. In hindsight, I must confess I directed you to the wrong gentleman."
Kilby was frankly relieved to cross the baron off her list of gentlemen to interview. Lyssa had warned her that Lord Ursgate was an unsavory character. She preferred to heed her friend's advice. "There was no harm done. Whom should I add to my list?"
“Tulley. Rutger Elliot, Earl of Tulley." Lord Ordish smiled blandly at her. "He was quite a bit younger than the crowd he ran with in those days. Tulley has done well for himself. Inheriting the title added twenty-six thousand pounds annually to his income, and the ladies seem to think his visage fair."
"Why, Lord Ordish, are you playing matchmaker?" Kilby teased.
"I would never be so presumptuous," he replied with feigned indignation. "It just seems a shame someone as lovely as you is spending her time in London seeking out old friends of her parents instead of flirting with a dozen beaux."
She laughed lightly. Her friends had given her similar advice. "Never fear, my lord. Lady Quennell has taken up the challenge to have me married off before the season ends. Personally, I think she is being overly ambitious." Kilby shrugged, unwilling to share with the earl the truth behind her chaperone's dedicated efforts. "We are out almost every night, and there has been a never-ending stream of introductions, so that I no longer can recall anyone's name."
Lord Ordish's gray eyes warmed with amused sympathy. Together they walked to the front door. One of the footmen opened the door. "It sounds like your Lady Quennell is determined."
The gentleman had no idea what a veritable whirlwind of enthusiasm Priddy was when she settled on a project. "She is. If you can stay longer, I could introduce you?" Kilby asked, guessing the earl would refuse her invitation.
Although she liked both Lord Ordish and Lady Quennell, at this delicate stage of her search into her mother's life, she was somewhat reluctant for the couple to meet. The earl might innocently reveal to the viscountess Kilby's interest in her parents' old friends. Priddy had been very close to both her parents during their years of seclusion at Ealkin, and she was protective of their memory. If the older woman learned their eldest daughter was stirring up the past with her questions, she might abruptly end their stay in London. No, it was best to keep Priddy and Lord Ordish from encountering one another.
"Another time, perhaps. I really must be off," the earl promised, bowing stiffly. "Besides, I am keeping you from flirting with all the young gentlemen who undoubtedly desire your company."
She fluttered her lashes at her companion's flattery. The man was just being kind. "Well, the best-looking gentleman is leaving, so I will just have to set my sights on Lord Guttrey."
Lord Ordish's cheeks reddened at her compliment. His bark of laughter was dry and hoarse. "Careful with that old scoundrel. He will be offering for your hand on the morrow if you smile more than once at him."
Kilby smiled and waved farewell to the earl. Lord Ordish was merely jesting about his concern regarding any genuine interest her host might have in her. Lord Guttrey had cataracts in both eyes and moved at a snail's pace. Receiving a marriage proposal from the gentleman was unlikely, and the least of her concerns.
"Now that he's gone, mayhap you will settle for second best?" the Duke of Solitea said behind her.
Fayne's green eyes gleamed with unconcealed pleasure as Lady Kilby whirled around and gaped in amazement at him. After his mother had bullied him into escorting her this evening, he had never guessed he would feel gratitude to be sharing supper with a bunch of old fossils; especially when he compared the staid event with his original plans of going off with two of his former mistresses and Everod.
An evening with Lady Kilby Fitchwolf was worth the sacrifice. She looked delectable wearing a fine white muslin dress. The front was cut low, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts. The pleated back was high, with ribbon bows adorning the back from waist to train. The sleeves were puffed and two bows matching the back one were attached. Her black tresses were pulled high and the ends curled. A wreath of greenery and small purple flowers adorned her crown. Amethyst and gold jewelry gleamed from her ears, throat, and wrists.
Her deep violet eyes narrowed on him suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"
"Eventually having supper, if Guttrey ever manages to pull his guests from the card tables," he said casually, suddenly wishing he were not escorting his mother. Fayne loved the duchess de
arly; however, the model of a dedicated son was not overtly part of the wicked reputation he had garnered over the years.
Without a hint of conceit, he knew Lady Kilby desired him. Like the coundess ladies before her, she had the keen eye to admire his masculine beauty, the intelligence to covet his title and wealth, and the ambition to claim a part of him for herself. Fayne was usually attracted to ladies who were not afraid of their passions and were bold enough to take what they wanted. He would be only too happy to oblige this particular lady.
Nevertheless, Fayne had a strict rule about flaunting his lovers in front of his family. And Lady Kilby Fitchwolf would soon be in his bed.
"What about your injuries?" she asked, her gaze drifting unerringly down to the wound on his chest. "There was so much blood, I thought you would be abed."
If he had managed earlier at the fair to lure her away from her friends, he would have cheerfully surrendered to her tender mercies and enjoyed the evening with her in bed. He liked sharing secrets with her. Not even his mother knew the extent of his injuries. Fayne smiled, basking in the concern she expressed on his behalf. Taking her arm, he escorted her past the library toward the conservatory. "Most of my wounds were superficial. The surgeon on hand was actually pleased that the worst ones bled so freely as to prevent the risk of infection."
Fayne opened the glass doors to the conservatory and gallantly bowed. "My lady." His initial response when he had seen her giggling and whispering to Lord Ordish was jealousy. The strange reaction was a first for him. He had laid claim to her this afternoon, and he was not about to permit a gentleman old enough to be his father to steal away a lady he deemed as his. Lady Kilby was fortunate that she had not inadvertently provoked him further by leaving with the gentleman. This newly discovered possessive side to his nature was unpredictable. He wanted the lady to be wary of him, but not terrified.
Someone had lit the lanterns within the conservatory, but the lush, earth-scented interior was gloomy and mysterious to the less adventurous. "We really should not be wandering about Lord Guttrey's house like this. Everyone is upstairs."
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