“Thank you.” She took the glass and lifted it to take a sip, but then she paused, staring at him in astonishment as he swallowed the entire contents of his own glass in a single draught.
Henry was beyond caring about mundane civilities at this point. The wine, however, did the trick, enabling him to banish from his mind erotic pictures of Miss Deverill standing in a bathtub wearing nothing but a filmy layer of soapsuds. He returned the glass to the tray and gave the footman a nod of dismissal, and then, with his body once more under his usual stern regulation, he returned his attention to his guest and decided it was time to broach a delicate topic, one he knew his role as host demanded of him.
“Since we have been talking of family, Miss Deverill, there is something I would like to say about mine before we go in to dinner.”
“Yes?”
He paused, choosing his words with care. “I would ask,” he said at last, “that you forgive what you overheard just before you came in this evening. My sisters were gossiping about you, that is true, but they did not mean to be unkind.”
“No?” She considered for a moment, then she gave a nod. “In regard to your own sisters, I shall take you at your word.”
“You are a woman wholly outside their experience, you see, and they don’t know quite what to make of you. They are both very young, not yet twenty, and they have led a sheltered life. The latter fact is undoubtedly my fault, and I hope you will forgive them any thoughtlessness in their remarks, for it was borne of naiveté, not unkindness of heart.”
“And Lady David?” she asked. “What explanation is there for her behavior?”
“The fact that she is Lady David,” he said at once, and at once regretted it.
“I don’t understand.”
He cursed himself for his impulsive reply and wondered what it was about this woman that spurred him to frank remarks and licentious thoughts. He was usually much more circumspect nowadays. He had no time to ponder his own uncharacteristic behavior, however, for Miss Deverill was watching him, waiting for an explanation. “Carlotta,” he said with great reluctance, “married the brother of a duke, when marrying the duke was what she really wanted.”
She blinked, staring at him, looking so stunned that if Henry had ever possessed a shred of conceit about himself, it would have disintegrated in that moment. “She wanted to marry you?”
“Hard as that is to imagine, yes.”
The dryness of his reply was not lost on her. She bit her lip, looking contrite. “That didn’t come out right . . . I wasn’t trying to imply anything derogatory about your personal attractions . . . I mean . . . I would hardly criticize your sisters for that sort of thing and then do the same thing to you . . . I didn’t intend . . .” She stopped and took a deep breath amid this tangle of disjointed phrases. “Was she very much in love with you?”
“Love?” He gave a laugh, but it wasn’t a laugh of amusement. It was a sound so terribly cynical, they both grimaced. “Hardly,” he said.
His answer did not, however, deter her. “And you? Were you in love with her?”
“Carlotta?” He gave a shudder at the very idea. “God, no. But I learned long ago—” He broke off and glanced at the door, seeking some sort of diversion. “Where the devil is Boothby? It must surely be past eight o’clock by now.”
“What did you learn?” she persisted, demonstrating that she was not one to be easily distracted. Obligated to explain, he went on, “There are many women who would happily marry me, Miss Deverill, but I have always known that ambition, not love, is the usual reason why.”
If he hoped she would dispute that view with a tactfully murmured compliment about his personal attractions, she disappointed him, and her silence reminded him that this woman didn’t offer banal insincerities for the sake of politeness. That fact alone made her unlike nearly all the other people of his acquaintance.
“A cynical contention,” she said. “And yet, one you sound as if you regret.”
“I do regret it.” He smiled a little. “You seem surprised, Miss Deverill.”
“Well, yes. Should I not be?” She laughed a little, clearly confounded. “Given our previous conversations, it has always seemed obvious to me that romantic love doesn’t mean anything to you.”
It did once, he wanted to say. That’s why I married a poor girl of no significant family and ruined both our lives. It meant everything.
He felt suddenly, terribly vulnerable, almost as if he’d made his admission aloud, and he hastened into speech. “Do not misunderstand me. While I may regret the fact that most women of my acquaintance would willingly marry me without love, I do not condemn them for it. How can I? Duty requires me to make a suitable marriage, and love cannot be allowed to play any part in my choice of bride. ‘A duke,’” he added, quoting his father, ‘must marry a woman worthy of his position.’”
“And yet . . .” She paused, tilting her head, her eyes studying him with thoughtful speculation. “And yet, you must sometimes wish it were not so?”
He felt a jolt of alarm. “Not at all,” he denied at once. “I accept the fact that for me, love is—must be—a secondary consideration. Wishing it were otherwise would be a waste of time.”
“I see.”
He very much feared she did see, that those beautiful, discerning hazel eyes had just peeked beneath his smooth, carefully cultivated surface and seen him for what he was: a man who’d once wanted a girl so desperately, desired her so passionately, that he’d thrown away everything else in his world just to possess her, with catastrophic results. He feared he had revealed the essence of himself: a man whose controlled manner, disciplined life, and fastidious rules of conduct were far more than requirements of his position. They were the twines of a lifeline, one he clung to so that he might never again be swept away by his own appetites.
The silence seemed deafening, impelling him to break it. “So there you have it, Miss Deverill,” he said, forcing a light note into his voice. “The truth about love and dukes. Terribly unromantic, I grant you, but there it is.”
“There’s one thing I still don’t understand.”
“And what is that?”
“You’ve said that among your kind of people, love is, at best, a secondary consideration to matrimony.”
“And?”
She lifted her free hand, a sweeping gesture that encompassed far more than just the room around them. “How could you—or my father, for that matter—possibly think this world, where clothes are more important than kindness, and alliance is valued more highly than love, is a world I would ever want to live in?”
He had no idea how to respond to that question, for women like her, women for whom his world held no appeal, were as rare as hens’ teeth. He’d certainly never met one before. Thankfully, however, Boothby’s deep voice intervened before he was forced to craft a reply.
“Your Graces, ladies and gentlemen,” the butler announced from the doorway with all his customary grandeur, “dinner is served.”
Chapter 8
The Duke of Torquil may have surprised Irene with his very modern baths, but she soon discovered that when it came to his dining room, he made no concessions whatsoever to modernity, and the result was beyond surprising. It was stunning.
Old silver gleamed and crystal glittered on a table of pristine white linen, elegant footmen in livery waited to serve, and dozens of candles had been placed in the epergnes on the table and the chandeliers overhead, lighting the room with a soft, ethereal glow.
She’d dined in wealthy surroundings before, of course. When she’d first reached an age to put up her hair and dine with her parents, her grandfather’s newspaper empire had enabled them to enjoy a certain number of luxuries, including an excellent chef and a well-set table. And yet, even in her family’s most prosperous days, their dining room had never possessed quite the elegant ambience she felt here. The gleaming Tass silver and sparkling Irish crystal on the table, the Reynolds and Gainsborough paintings on the walls, the thick bu
t faded Axminster carpet beneath her feet—items every bit as rare and expensive and elegant as these could have been bought by any new money millionaire, and yet, somehow, the room would not have looked like this. The difference was undefinable, yet unmistakable. Anyone walking into this room knew at once that these treasures had been handed down for many generations, not purchased at an auction.
As Irene took her place beside her host at the long oval dining table, she found in front of her an array of plates, glasses, and utensils far more elaborate than anything her family would ever have set out.
She pulled off her gloves and placed them in her lap, then reached for her napkin, glancing across the table to see how her sister was faring in the face of this bewildering display of cut glass and cutlery.
Seated between Lord David and the duchess, Clara had already removed her gloves and was now staring back at Irene with pleading eyes, clearly looking for guidance. Remembering the words of her governess from long ago about starting from the outside in, Irene tapped her index finger discreetly against the outermost utensil to the right of her plate, a tiny, delicate spoon made of mother-of-pearl, the purpose of which she could not begin to imagine.
It was, she soon discovered, a caviar spoon. Several other equally unfamiliar utensils lay beside it; however, by careful observance of the duke and Lady Angela, as well as a minimal amount of conversation, Irene was able to manage not only the caviar spoon, but also the escargot fork and tongs and the pâté knife. Nonetheless, when the hors d’oeuvres had given way to the soup, she couldn’t help feeling relieved. Clara, she had no doubt, felt the same.
Once the soup had been served, Irene felt comfortable enough with the accoutrements of her meal that she could devote her attention to the conversation going on around her and be able to converse beyond the monosyllables she’d uttered during the first course.
“What shall we do tomorrow?” Lady Sarah was asking. “We’ve no fixed engagements, so where shall we take our guests? Shopping?”
“I believe you have several engagements already, Sarah,” said the duchess. “Carlotta had your schedule completely full for the entire week, as I recall.”
“We cancelled everything this week. We didn’t know if—” Lady Sarah broke off, casting an uneasy glance at Lady David. “We thought—that is, we told everyone you were ill. We feared, you see . . .” Her voice trailed off, her floundering explanations fading into an uncomfortable silence.
Torquil broke it at once. “In light of recent events, I believe the young ladies thought it best to remain close to home.”
“Oh, my dears,” the duchess said, glancing from one of her daughters to the other, then to her daughter-in-law, “there was no need for any of you to cancel your plans.”
“Probably not,” Torquil said, and though that murmur of agreement was bland, it reclaimed his mother’s attention at once. “But I don’t think any of us knew quite what to do, Mama. We’ve all been rather at sixes and sevens this week.”
Behind that comment, there was an unmistakable hint of reproof. The duchess glanced away, looking a bit conscience-stricken, and Irene stirred, uncomfortable on her behalf.
“The point is,” Lady Angela said, jumping in as another awkward silence threatened, “we’ve a whole day free, nothing planned, and guests to entertain. So what shall we do?”
“What about an excursion outside the city?” Lord David suggested. “We could take a picnic, make a day of it.”
Her hosts, she realized, were unaware of her schedule, and she knew she could not allow them to continue making plans for her in which she could not participate, but Lord James spoke before she had the chance.
“I’ve an idea. The Mary Louisa is docked at Queen’s Wharf. If tomorrow is a fine day, we could take her out, sail down to Kew, and have our picnic there.”
“But shouldn’t we be taking the Miss Deverills about here in town?” Sarah asked. “How can we introduce them to our acquaintances if we are on the yacht all day?”
“You have a yacht?” Diverted, Irene turned to her host, and was at once reminded by his impeccably fitted dinner jacket and perfectly formed white tie that her question was a bit absurd. “What am I saying?” she muttered. “Of course you have a yacht.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t know that already, Miss Deverill,” Carlotta said before her brother-in-law could reply. “After all, Society Snippets seems to have found our family and friends quite fascinating during the past year. I’m amazed that tidbit escaped your notice.”
Irene was tempted to say that if Lady David continued to be so damnably irritating, the paper just might start to find her the most fascinating person in all of society, but for Clara’s sake, she refrained, and Torquil spoke before she could think of a more tactful reply.
“I’m sure Miss Deverill is fully aware of what is printed in her own paper, Carlotta,” he said, a defense of her so unexpected that Irene couldn’t help staring at him in astonishment. “And most of the London papers find us a topic for news. It’s part of our life to be talked about. I would think you’d be resigned to that by now.”
“Of course,” Carlotta murmured, returning her attention to her consommé.
“As for the Mary Louisa, Miss Deverill,” Torquil went on, turning to Irene, “she’s small as yachts go—only 108 feet—but quite well-equipped. She has a full galley and dining room, a parlor, and four bedrooms. She even has”—he paused and took a sip of his wine—“a bath.”
“Then you miscounted, Duke,” she quipped. “You have eighteen bathrooms.”
“Goodness, Torquil,” Sarah said, laughing. “What inspired you and Miss Deverill to count up the number of baths we possess?”
“I wanted to know,” Irene said before the duke could reply. “And I was so impressed by the number that I deemed him a hedonist.”
The absurdity of that description was underscored by a merry round of laughter at the table, and then Angela spoke. “The number’s still wrong, though,” she pointed out. “It’s twenty baths, if you include both yachts.”
“You have two?” she echoed, and looked at the duke askance. “Two yachts, and you still say you are not a hedonist?”
He smiled as another round of laughter broke out around the table.
“Each ship has its own purposes,” he explained. “The Mary Louisa is, as I said, quite small, with a mast short enough to pass under all the London bridges. We use her mostly for sailing the Thames and the canals. The Endeavour is a much larger vessel, meant for the sea. And Angela is right about the number of baths, for the Endeavour has two.”
Irene reached for her wine, beginning to feel staggered by all this opulence. In creating a scandal sheet, she’d known instinctively that this glittering world appealed to a wide swath of people, and the publication’s success had proven her right, but she’d never shared the public’s fascination for aristocrats and their ton. She’d come here certain that nothing about these people, or their wealth, or their style of living could impress her, but in these elegant surroundings, Irene began to fear she wasn’t quite so high-minded as she’d thought herself. Two yachts, she had to admit, sounded like smashing good fun. As for the man beside her, she didn’t like him, not at all. He hadn’t given her much reason to do so. And yet—
She slid her gaze sideways and found to her astonishment that he was watching her, and though his countenance was as impassive as ever, there was something in his steady, unreadable gaze that impelled her to take another gulp of wine, and she decided one of the things about him she found most vexing was his ability to hide what he thought and felt so well. But maybe there was nothing to hide. Maybe he was every bit as cold as she’d first thought him, as emotionless as he always appeared.
Impelled to break the silence, Irene struggled to remember what they’d been talking about. “If you have two yachts, you must love sailing,” she said, a comment so inane, she instantly wanted to kick herself.
“We are a sailing family,” he agreed, and though his voice
was as grave as ever, there was no need to guess that he was teasing her.
Irene made a face at him, but before she could pay him out for it with a suitable retort, another voice intervened.
“There are two kinds of families in society, Miss Deverill,” Carlotta said, obviously feeling the need to school her on such matters. “Hunting families and sailing families.”
“Well, we are most definitely in the latter category,” Angela said, laughing. “So, Torquil, can we take the Miss Deverills out on the Mary Louisa?”
“That depends,” he answered. “Our guests may not enjoy sailing.”
Angela looked from her brother to Irene. “Are you a good sailor, Miss Deverill?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I’ve never been on a boat, other than a punt on the Serpentine. Does that count?”
“Not if you ask my brother. He thinks if it doesn’t have a sail, it’s beneath his notice.”
“Not true,” the duke objected. “I sculled and rowed at Cambridge, you know. And I’ve punted you around the Serpentine a time or two, dear sister. But I confess, I do prefer ships with sails. Why do the work yourself when you can let the wind do it for you?”
“As if sailing isn’t work!” Angela cried. “If we do go sailing, Miss Deverill, my brother will put us all through our paces. The Mary Louisa has been in dry dock all season for repairs, and she was only put on the water a few days ago, which means there’s been no time to make her ready. If we take her out tomorrow, we shall all have to help get her underway—except Mama, of course. I doubt being our guest will save you. I expect Torquil will haul the pair of you into service the moment you step on the gangplank. He’ll probably thrust a rag and a tin of metal polish into your hand and tell you to get to it.”
“I shall do no such thing to guests of ours,” he answered. “You may rest easy, Miss Deverill, Miss Clara, for no work on your part shall be required. My saucy sister, however, is a different matter.”
“You see?” Angela said, making a face at him past Irene’s plate. “What did I tell you?”
The Truth About Love and Dukes Page 11