by Lora Darling
Westhaven leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If you haven’t, I’ll skip all but what’s important. The woman is obscenely wealthy and obviously in need of company.” He winked. “If you catch my meaning.”
Adrien glanced at Kilby. “Am I to understand the two of you received an invite from said lady, requesting the pleasure of your company?”
Kilby tugged at his cravat. “Aye.” He shot a glance toward Westhaven, who offered an encouraging nod. “She’s asked to see me evening after next, but I was just saying to Henry I’m not likely to accept the invite.” He tugged some more at his cravat. “If it’s something clandestine she’s after, I’d think someone else better suited to the task.”
Adrien slid his gaze from Kilby, allowing the man some privacy as he turned bright red and continued to fidget with his neckwear. Settling his attention upon Westhaven, he cocked a brow. “When are you to meet with the lady?”
“Five days hence. Damned odd.”
Venton stirred, drawing everyone’s attention “I’m to wait upon her in four days.”
“And I, tomorrow,” Adrien admitted. What the devil was the lady about?
“That leaves the third day unaccounted for,” Westhaven remarked to no one in particular. “Unless she is allowing herself a day of rest, if you catch my meaning.”
“Assuming her reason for sending the invitations is as lewd as you suspect.” For some reason, Adrien did not think the woman was after a bit of slap and tickle as Cyril so eloquently stated. Inviting such high profile gentlemen into her home seemed a bit scandalous for a recluse. Hell, placing an ad in the Times would draw less attention.
“I know that look, Benoit. What’s eating at you?”
Adrien looked to Venton. “None of this feels right.”
Venton shrugged. “Waste your time attempting to reason through it if you wish, but I could not care less. From what I’ve heard, the lady has no plans to marry, and I’m in desperate need of a wife. So unless she means to fill my pockets with good, shiny coin, I ain’t interested in accepting her cryptic invite.” He saluted the table with his whiskey glass. “Have at it, gentlemen.” He excused himself after that, all but sealing the doomed fate of the game.
“With Kilby and Venton bowing out, I guess that leaves you and me, Westhaven.”
“And myself.” The new voice came from behind Adrien, and when he turned in his seat, he found Samuel Petley had arrived. Sam offered a nod of acknowledgment, then took the seat Venton had just vacated. “I do assume you are discussing Lady Rowe-Weston?”
“I take it you received an invite as well?” This from Westhaven as he busied himself collecting up the discarded cards to reshuffle the deck.
“Yes.” Petley offered nothing beyond the succinct affirmative.
“Three days hence?” Adrien’s question earned him Petley’s full attention, and he was once again struck by the lack of familial resemblance between Cyril and Sam. Yes, they were cousins, not brothers, but still. There should have been something to link them together, but there was nothing. Sam rivaled Venton when it came to darkness, with his near-black hair and jet eyes, whereas Cyril possessed nut-brown hair and eyes that tended to read lighter in direct sunlight. Then there was the contrast in their physical proportions. Sam was indeed the thoroughbred Adrien had likened him to with his long limbs and solid build. Cyril could only be described as stout.
But the differences went deeper than the physical. Sam wore an air of greed, as if it were a well-tailored frock. Cyril would have given the shirt off his back to any beggar in the street. But all that aside, quite simply, Adrien did not like Sam. Never had, and he could not imagine he ever would.
“Yes, three days hence I am to call upon the lady.” Sam allowed his dark, unsettling gaze to fall upon each occupant of the table in turn before returning his focus to Adrien. “I suggest the rest of you follow Venton’s example and bow out gracefully.”
Kilby shifted loudly upon his chair, despite already having voiced his intent to ignore the lady’s invite. As for Westhaven, he merely shrugged and continued shuffling the cards.
Petley continued to stare at Adrien. “Do I have your word, Benoit?”
Adrien picked up his whiskey. “No.” Truth be told, Petley’s keen determination to be the only player in Lady Rowe-Weston’s mysterious game had just raised the stakes.
****
The next morning, Adrien was in the process of filling his coffee cup for a third time when Cyril finally entered the breakfast room. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to join me, mon ami.”
Cyril stopped dead in his tracks. “Am I hallucinating? Or are you really standing in the breakfast room after a night of cards, drinking, and God knows what else?”
Adrien carried his coffee to the table. “You are not hallucinating. I am, indeed, here in the flesh and likely because the night lacked excess of any kind. More’s the pity.”
After filling a plate with his usual fare, Cyril joined Adrien at the table. “Did no one properly appreciate your jacket?”
Adrien acknowledged the jab with a smirk. “Kilby nearly had a fit while petting the velvet.”
“Oh, I imagine he did.” Cyril chuckled and speared a sausage onto his fork. “No doubt he would prefer you trim your breeches in velvet next time so he might have an excuse to pet your—”
“Leave off, Cyril. Discussing Kilby’s affectations is not the reason I’ve decided to join you while you feast.”
Cyril gestured with his fork for Adrien to elaborate, seeing as how his mouth was full.
“What is there to know about your cousin and Lady Rowe-Weston?”
Once he had swallowed and taken a sip of tea, Cyril sat back in his chair. “Why do you assume there is anything to know?”
“Because your cousin would have pissed on the lady, had she been present last evening, in order to mark his territory. I wish to know why he feels so entitled.”
“To my knowledge, he has no reason to feel territorial toward the lady.”
“And yet he does. Can you explain it?”
Cyril thought for a moment, sipped some more tea, then nodded. “Sam has made repeated attempts to call upon the lady since her arrival in London. All attempts have been denied, and I don’t need to tell you how poorly Sam takes rejection, do I?”
“No.” Adrien had witnessed Sam’s aversion to rejection in person more than once. It was not a pretty sight. “Why does the lady continue to turn him away?”
“Because he is pushing for her hand in marriage, and rumor has it, she has no intention to wed anyone. He is becoming rather temperamental over the issue. Claims the lady is merely playing hard to get. If you ask me—” Cyril suddenly gaped at Adrien. “You told him about your invite.”
“Not in so many terms, but yes, he is aware.”
“Hell, I’m surprised he did not demand pistols at dawn.”
“He’s that determined to win her hand?”
Having ignored his food for too long, Cyril took up his fork and filled it with egg. “I believe he is, yes.”
“I am not the only one who received an invite from the lady.”
Due to his enthusiastic eating, Cyril merely raised his brows at that bit of information.
“Westhaven, Kilby, Venton, myself and your cousin.”
Cyril’s fork clattered to the plate. “The hell? Is the woman daft? Why the devil would she invite Sam into her home? A bit like granny letting in the wolf, isn’t it? And what do you make of the others? An odd assortment, if I do say so myself.”
“Quite odd, though if she is as reclusive as you claim, perhaps she knows nothing more than what is written in the papers. If, as you presume, she is looking for a bit of intimacy, her choices appear logical given our roguish reputations.”
“Damned odd, I say.” Cyril shook his head and frowned at his half eaten meal. “Why the devil would a recluse arrange for a parade of notable reprobates to be seen going in and out of her home?” He cast his gaze down the length of the table. “Th
at’s a fine way to see one’s reputation dead and buried.”
Adrien could not agree more. “I will endeavor to provide answers to all your questions once I’ve met with the lady.”
“So you mean to accept her invite?”
“Oui. My curiosity aside, I look forward to further enraging your cousin.”
Cyril did not quite react as Adrien had anticipated. There was no fraternal smile or amused chuckle at the thought of Sam being bested. He, instead, fixed a rather unsettling gaze upon Adrien and frowned. “Do be careful, Adrien. Sam might not take kindly to being bested.”
“You speak as though it is a foregone conclusion I will find favor with the lady.”
Now Cyril chuckled. “When has a woman ever proven immune to your charms?”
Chapter Two
“Your guest has arrived, my lady.”
Eirene looked up from contemplating the lists spread across her writing desk. “I assume you have seen to his comfort?”
“Aye, my lady. He’s no doubt partaking in your fine brandy as we speak.”
“Good.” Stacking the lists in a neat pile, she stood, then smoothed a few barely discernible creases from her skirt. “How do I look, Hamish?”
Unlike most butlers, who might have stuttered and refused to answer such a question from their mistress, Hamish considered Eirene for a moment or two then offered a curt nod. “You aren’t likely to arouse his passions, if that is what you truly wish to know, my lady.”
“Thank you, Hamish.” She’d chosen well then in deciding to wear a simple frock of deep burgundy, sans embellishment, save for a rather opaque fichu tucked inside her modest bodice. “And what do you make of my guest? Is he all the gossips claim him to be?”
“As to that, I wouldn’t know. He seems a fine sort of gentleman, and he arrived on a prime bit of horseflesh. Chevalier.”
Eirene frowned. “He is a vicomte, Hamish, not a knight.”
“Begging your pardon, my lady. The horse’s name is Chevalier.”
“Ah. I see. Thank you for the insight.” Not that any of it was the least bit enlightening. Given Hamish’s love of all things equine and his obvious approval of Chevalier, it was no wonder he termed Benoit, “a fine sort of gentleman.” He likely had not spared the man more than a passing glance but could probably describe the horse in exacting detail.
She sighed. Best just get on with it then and draw her own conclusions, though she had already decided against Benoit based upon what she read in the papers so diligently collected by Hamish. According to gossips, the man possessed great prowess at the card tables and even greater prowess in bed. She had begun to compile a list of the debutantes who had allegedly lost their good sense, and then some, to the man but had abandoned the task when the names spilled onto the back of her paper. It seemed a bit severe to think one man could be responsible for the ruination of such a great many females.
Turning to other remarked upon characteristics had led her to paint a rather vivid image in her mind of Benoit. Poetic and continental were two adjectives the gossips favored. Empty-headed and obnoxious, in other words. As for his looks, the gossips called him dashing and fair. To her, such words were simply code for effeminate. And when describing the man’s fashion, forward thinking and unconventional were applied. God help her, but the man was clearly a strutting peacock with more opinions than sense. The fact that he had allegedly seduced half of London only pointed to the frivolity and senselessness of her own gender.
“Shall I prepare a tray, my lady?”
Eirene hesitated. “I think not, Hamish. I do not imagine this interview will take long.”
In fact, she could probably have Hamish send the man on his way with an apology for having wasted his time. Doing so, however, went against one of her grandfather’s fundamental rules of comportment. When one decided upon a path, one had to see it through to its end, no matter how unpleasant the terrain.
With that in mind, she made her way to the study, determined to eliminate the first of her Chosen Candidates. Her decision to interview said candidates within the confines of the oppressive masculinity of her grandfather’s study had not been decided on a whim. She had considered, deliberated, listed the reasons for and against, then decided the atmosphere suitable for exposing the true nature of the five gentlemen. If the room intimidated them, she would know their opinion of their own masculinity and deduce them too weak willed to follow through with the task she intended to lay at their feet. On the other hand, if the room put them at ease, she would move their name to the short list and give them a more thorough consideration once all the interviews were complete.
Hesitating outside the door, she allowed herself a moment to imagine Vicomte Benoit overwhelmed by her grandfather’s fondness for ebony paneling, weaponry, and large, leather furniture. Would he be cowering in one of the massive wing-backs or hovering near the desk, tossing back glass after glass of fortifying brandy?
She opened the door and entered, sweeping her gaze about the dimly lit interior until she spied her guest. Contradicting her imaginings, Benoit stood before the hearth, back to the door, legs braced apart, shoulders square, and head canted back. He appeared to be admiring the large portrait of her grandfather in his regimentals. As well he should. The artist had managed to render her grandfather as impressive and intimidating in oils as he had been in the flesh.
“That is my grandfather, the late Earl Weston.” Her statement lacked the usual social graces, but she had not invited the man into her home to offer him tea and empty conversation.
Benoit turned and flashed a smile in response to the unsolicited information given in lieu of an actual greeting. “I had surmised as much, but thank you for confirming it, my lady.
Eirene had never considered herself a typical sort of female. She could not recall ever having gaped over the appearance of a man. Though, to her recollection, she had never been in the presence of a man quite so…impressive.
Where the devil was the poetic, continental, empty-headed, effeminate peacock she had been expecting? She glanced around the room, half expecting said creature to suddenly appear from behind one of the tall chairs. Of course, that did not occur, and she could not pretend the man before the hearth was any other than Vicomte Benoit.
Taking advantage of her silent stupor, he strode toward her to confirm his identity with a courtly bow. “Vicomte Benoit, at your service, my lady.”
As if controlled by an invisible puppet master, her hand lifted so that he might kiss the air above her knuckles. While doing so, he kept his gaze upon her face. And what a gaze it was. Had the papers mentioned his eyes were the color of freshly buffed pewter? Surely, if they had, she would remember. And what of his hair? Why had none of the gossips thought to remark upon the multi-hued golden waves? Perhaps if the gossips knew how to do their job, she would have been better prepared.
“Enchanté.” He released her hand and straightened to flash another smile that could have melted butter on a cold winter’s day.
Why had no one mentioned that smile?
Mentally shaking herself, she cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. She was being ridiculous, and ridiculous she never was. “Thank you for agreeing to see me upon such short notice, my lord. Please”—she gestured toward her desk and the two chairs angled before it—“have a seat and we shall begin.”
“Begin what, if I might be so bold as to inquire?”
Eirene had to concentrate on each step toward her desk lest she fall prey to the rich tones of his voice and find herself a casualty of weak knees. Reaching the desk, she made quick work of rounding it and taking a seat. After a few breaths, her equilibrium returned in full and she was able to address Benoit’s question.
“I have every intention of satisfying your curiosity, my lord.” She indicated the chair once more then the brandy at the edge of the desk. “Please. Do make yourself comfortable.”
The process of watching him cross the room and flick his jacket out of the way before taking a seat
had her questioning her sanity. Only a madwoman would find fascination in such menial tasks. And surely only a crazed female would experience a sudden onslaught of dry mouth when considering the expert tailoring that had gone into Benoit’s wardrobe. His tailor had to be an artist to have so expertly fitted the navy blue jacket to the breadth of the man’s shoulders and the length of his arms.
When Benoit leaned forward to help himself to a glass of brandy, the jacket did not so much as strain at a single seam. It did, however, fall completely open to reveal a black waistcoat shot through with coordinating blue thread and linens so white she wondered if he ever wore the same stock and shirt twice.
“My lady?” He allowed the carafe to hover over an empty glass.
“No, thank you.” She dare not imbibe when feeling so out of sorts.
He nodded, set down the carafe, replaced the stopper, then took up his glass. After a sip and an appreciative nod, he settled back into the chair and crossed his legs. Like most men of his set, he wore trousers in lieu of breeches. They were black and as complimentary to the line of his thigh as the jacket was to the breadth of his shoulders. They also fitted tight enough to disappear into the top of his riding boots without a single crease.
“Forgive my boldness, my lady, but am I safe in assuming I am not what you were expecting?”
Eirene forced her gaze from the man’s thigh. “Truthfully? No. Not at all.”
He smiled, though the gesture was tempered this time. More of a smirk, actually. “Better or worse?”
“Pardon?”
The smirk grew into the full, butter-melting smile. “Am I better or worse than what you had imagined, Lady Rowe-Weston?”
“What an extraordinarily inappropriate question.” As if she would stroke the man’s well established ego by admitting he exceeded all expectations.
“Yes, well, I have been known to be extraordinarily inappropriate at times.” He saluted her with his glass, then sipped the brandy. “This is excellent, by the way.” He smacked his lips before taking another sip. The action drew her eye to the shape of his mouth, the fullness of the lower lip, and the slightly less full upper. It was a mouth worthy of the rest of his features, its proportions the perfect complement to his rather Romanesque nose, square jaw, chiseled cheekbones, and striking eyes.