by Eva Devon
It was infinitely possible he was going to kill them all. If the din of his own single-minded thoughts didn’t kill him first.
Tossing a quarter of the brandy back, he spotted the veritable mountain of wadded writing paper resting at his black-booted feet. A clean sheet sat on the table just before him on a green felt blotter. The crystal inkwell winking up at him dared him to write yet again. The India ink was depressingly low. He’d used nigh on half a pint.
At varying points of his long occupation in his chair, the servants had tried to collect the papers but he waved them off. The pile on the floor was a reminder as to why he was not going to start another note to Kathryn, despite the siren lure of the white sheet in front of him.
It was ridiculous.
A youth in the first flush of some idyllic infatuation could not be more idiotic. Or worse. A damned poet languishing over the right words to praise his lady love. Even so, the desire to write her, to have some communication with her, consumed him. He’d even sent his footman home to see if she’d written him.
Twice.
She hadn’t.
Apparently, Kathryn Darrell had superior willpower. Unlike him.
Lifting the glass of brandy back to his lips, Ryder eyed the sheet of paper as if it were a direct enemy. An enemy leading him to a certain and unpleasant death.
“Pickling your liver?”
Ryder forced himself to tear his gaze from the note. “Ah, Hunt.” Sprawling back in his chair, Ryder gave the duke a halfhearted grin. “If you intend to be an arse, skive off.”
“I could never be anything but perfectly amiable.” Hunt eyed the letters scattered about, shifted his gaze to Ryder, checking for signs of madness, then sat in the opposite leather chair, his emerald green coat almost black in the candlelight. “Practicing your correspondence?”
“These?” Ryder gestured at the offending sheets with his glass. “Nothing, old man, nothing.” He was not about to confess he’d written twenty notes of differing lengths to Kathryn in the last two hours. And he certainly wouldn’t admit he’d nearly sent five.
Each time, he’d just managed to stop his footman before committing that act of lunacy. Ryder shifted back on the rich, brown leather chair. He’d appear careless if it cost him his last nerve.
“Mmm.” Hunt leaned forward, the silver embroidery on his coat glowing in the faint light. He sat silently for a moment, nodding. Then, with the speed of a damned mongoose, he darted down and snatched one up.
Ryder lurched forward. The crystal glasses shook on the table, but he paid them no heed in his bid to snatch the paper from Hunt’s hand.
“My Dearest Kathryn,” Hunt read. He threw back his head and laughed. The bastard laughed so hard he wiped his eyes. “You’ve been conquered.”
Ryder grabbed the sheet. Furious he’d been caught acting so ludicrously, he crumpled the paper into a tight little ball and dropped it back down to the others. “No,” he bit out. “I have not.”
Hunt cocked his head. “Then I’m to assume that those pages in a pretty little pile at your feet aren’t all addressed to,” Hunt batted his lashes and placed one hand over his heart, “My Dearest Kathryn?”
Ryder ground his teeth together, unable to deny it.
Shaking his head, Hunt sat forward. “Come now, it seems the only two people who don’t realize the remedy to their situation are you and Mrs. Darrell.” He reached for the bottle of brandy, eyed its half-empty state then poured himself a stiff glass. “Two more bullheaded—”
“Enough,” Ryder cut in. “I know your intentions are good but—”
“Look man, face facts.” Hunt’s usually laissez-faire smile faded. “You’re walking around with all the cheer of a baited bear. You’ve had the woman. You still want her. It’s time you do something about it.”
Ryder was tempted to slam his fist into his friend’s face for linking Kathryn’s name with such scandalous actions, but they had been obvious in their too brief affair, and Hunt did have a point. “There’s nothing to be done.”
Hunt’s eyes widened as if Ryder were the slowest man in Christendom. “Of course there is.”
“What? Self-slaughter?” Ryder drawled, having no wish to play games.
“Marriage,” Hunt said slowly, speaking as he would to a small child.
Ryder sputtered on a sip of brandy and winced as the alcohol rushed into his nose.
Hunt scowled and flicked away the dark spots on his immaculate coat. “Do be careful, this is new.”
Desperate for a lifeline out of this damned line of questioning, Ryder grabbed on to one of his friend’s most sensitive political causes. The extravagance of the wealthy. Anything to avoid the M-word. “You can afford a hundred new coats.”
“Yes, but I like this one. Besides, one shouldn’t just toss money away. The poor in the East End rarely acquire new clothing, go shoeless with great frequency and if the Lords simply gave a few of their many pounds. . .” Hunt stopped himself and pinned Ryder with a knowing stare. “Very clever, but I’ll not be distracted. You can still save the woman’s reputation. Your title, her wealth—”
“Marriage is not an option,” Ryder said flatly, his fingers instinctively wandering to the pale ribbon about his wrist.
“Isn’t it?” Hunt set his glass down and folded his arms across his chest.
Glancing towards the windows, Ryder said in a low tone, “I won’t do it again.” He couldn’t. It would be the worst betrayal of the woman who had been so kind to him.
The silence drew out between them for several seconds before Hunt said quietly, “Jane would understand. You know that, do you not?”
Ryder shifted on his seat, familiar pain cutting at his innards. His parents died when he was young and he had no brothers and sisters. Jane had been the only soothing thing he had in his life. She’d taught him how to be merry and take joy from the simple things. Their marriage had been so peaceful and so short. What he regretted most was they had no child, and she’d. . .
He looked down at the white notes that symbolized his growing betrayal of his first wife. “You know what I did,” he whispered.
The usual calm that formed Hunt’s presence vanished and he slammed his broad palm down on the table. “You did nothing.”
“I let her die,” he said lowly, his voice near breaking as the memories rushed back him.
“Look at me,” Hunt snapped.
Bile churned in his stomach at the thought of Jane’s death, of her ravaged body, but Ryder forced himself to look up.
Hunt’s face had gone hard. His black eyes spiked with anger and a bizarre mix of sympathy. “She died of small pox, Darkwell. Last I heard, not even you can stop the destruction of disease.”
A muscle ticked in Ryder’s jaw and he gave the slightest nod to acknowledge Hunt’s words. But he couldn’t stop the neverending self-reproach burning in his belly. He could still see his young wife’s terrified face as she died, tortured by the sickness. “I should have taken better care of her. I should have stopped her.”
“She had a large heart and she wanted to help your tenants,” Hunt said gently.
It didn’t matter. As a husband, it had been in Ryder’s power to forbid her to go amongst his dying tenants. His throat tightened and he had to suck in a breath. If he had just told her no, she never would have contracted the illness. She would still be alive, if he had just taken better care of her. God, she had been so stubborn. He told her again and again she shouldn’t go. She refused to listen. Yes. He should have ordered her, locked her up if need be.
Anything to keep her safe.
Slowly, he caressed the ribbon that had been so often in her soft hair. If he closed his eyes and remembered, he could still smell her faint scent of lemon and lavender. It was enough to sting his eyes. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
Sighing, Hunt nodded. “Understood, but I grow tired of your brooding. You can only flagellate yourself for so long.”
Ryder narrowed his eyes. “I don’t brood.”
/>
The duke arched an arrogant brow. “Have you considered that if you do not marry Mrs. Darrell, she’s destroyed?”
He had. Of course he had, but he couldn’t face that thought just now. And as far as he could see, Kathryn had no desire to marry him. She made that quite clear before. “Did you come here to discuss my love life or was Mrs. Barton simply not at home?”
Hunt shoved back from the table and stood. “In truth, I came to get you out of here. I thought you might be growing mold.”
Ryder snorted and glared up at his friend. “You’re amiability is dimming.”
Then again, he had been sitting here for hours. And if he sat here any longer, he’d soon be writing another letter. God, it was appalling how much he wanted to contact her.
It was the most strenuous test of his self-control he’d ever known, this simple action of not writing her a letter. He, the Duke of Death, the Duke of Debauchery, was having trouble not writing a letter. If he had heard it of any other man, he would have laughed his head off.
Hunt nodded towards the hall. “You can bring the brandy bottle if you want, but you’re coming with me.”
Ryder eyed the nearly empty bottle. He was afloat in the stuff and he felt only the faintest of effects. To his surprise, he heard himself ask, “Where did you have in mind?”
Hunt eyed him up and down, a touch of disbelief quirking his brows. “In the prickly state you’re in?”
“State?” His hackles rose. He’d worked hard to control the rages that had stormed inside him since Jane. If he hadn’t been able to control them, he locked himself away. He thought he’d been hiding his unease admirably. Perhaps not.
“You’re in need of a cure,” Hunt said merrily.
Sighing, Ryder pushed his chair back and slowly stood. The room spun just a little, but soon righted itself. “What kind of cure?”
“Mrs. Darrell has infected your blood.” Hunt waggled his brows, an anticipatory gleam brightening his dark eyes. “It’s obvious you’re pining away for her and we must draw her from you as one draws an illness.”
“Pining?” Ryder drawled. “The Duke of Darkwell does not pine.”
“Yes, he does.” Hunt pointed at him. “Like a little school girl for her fluffy white kitten.”
Knowing full well if he started a brawl in the main hall of Brooks’ he’d be out of a club and on his arse in the street, duke or no duke, Ryder managed not to reach forward and knock his friend’s head off his shoulders. Ryder leveled his friend with a ball-crushing stare. “Do you wish to have your eyeballs upon the table?”
“Good.” Hunt pulled at his pristine white cuffs then brushed down the front of his silver waistcoat. “I’m ready to see you do something besides drown yourself in a brandy sea.”
They started heading towards the hall. “So, what’s the cure?” Ryder asked.
Hunt laughed. “A new man in town out of the West Indies is throwing a gentleman’s only party.”
“Not a planter. I hate sugar planters. They’re boring as all hell. What kind of amusement do you think we can get from one of those slave owning bastards—”
“I think he was in another line,” Hunt cut in.
“Indeed?” Ryder asked, curious now despite himself. “What line?”
“Let’s say, he might just hoist the Jolly Roger and ask you to walk the plank.”
Hmm. After the damned angst he’d swum in since meeting Mrs. Darrell, a jump into shark infested waters didn’t concern him. Actually, in comparison, it sounded downright comforting.
Chapter 15
Paper. There had to be paper somewhere.
Ryder glanced about the male-packed hallway, hoping he might spot some sort of desk hiding in the fray of grumbling lords.
But the only thing in the hall, besides the massive paintings in golden frames hanging upon the red and gold silk walls, were men.
Possibly hundreds of them.
The paintings were damned interesting though. Naked women and a few men were depicted in all sorts of positions. The beautiful women seemed to glance down at the onlookers, urging them to try whatever sexual delectation they were participating in. Ryder had tried most of the positions at some point and he’d certainly seen books depicting the sexual teachings of the east, but never had he seen such large or lifelike recreations.
The center painting was a lecherous pan, tall as a giant, his furry legs and hooves painted feather brown beneath a Grecian torso. A golden flute was at his lips and he beckoned with mischievous green eyes. Interesting that the most devious and lecherous of the paintings was the largest.
Ryder glanced down the hall, grinding his teeth together. His patience was slowly dimming. He’d come here to forget about Kathryn and what was he doing? Standing in a large hallway with nude portraits, a group of the ton’s most preposterous men, and all he wanted or could think about was Kathryn.
Perhaps if he summoned a footman, surely he could get a quill and paper? Or perhaps he should just hie off and throw pebbles at her window like some obsessed Romeo? But given his current state, he’d probably chuck a stone and break the glass. Hardly, the way to win a lady.
“Cease and desist, I tell you.”
He snapped his gaze to Hunt who had been shifting from booted foot to booted foot. “Hmm?”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“And?” Ryder challenged. He couldn’t possibly be that transparent.
Hunt blew out a breath, shaking his head. “You are a pathetic display of manhood.”
Ryder snorted. “My manhood is splendid, thank you very much.”
“Oh?” Hunt’s brows rose innocently. “I thought perhaps you’d lost it altogether, what with the way you’re staring about like a moon calf. I know you’re thinking about her.”
Moon? Ryder ground his teeth, trying not to breathe fire. Apparently, he was that obvious. And it was damned disconcerting. He was mooning over a woman. A woman who didn’t want to see him again for that matter.
Hunt folded his arms across his broad chest and said as a judge condemning a man to the gallows, “Mrs. Darrell owns your manhood now, my friend.”
“Ridiculous,” Ryder scoffed, but he couldn’t quite stop himself from glancing askance. “I haven’t thought of her since we left the club.” Surely he sounded sincere?
About as sincere as a dockside pimp swearing his girls were sweet as strawberry tart.
Hunt stared back, unblinking. “And I like to dress up in pink satin and trot about in high heeled slippers.”
Ryder pinned Hunt with a mocking stare. “Well, I did hear about the Gaddington party. . .”
Several sets of curious gazes swung towards them. The combination of words was too good to ignore.
Hunt narrowed his eyes, jerked his finger up and jabbed it into Ryder’s chest. “Speak of it and die.”
Clearing his throat, Hunt glared at the onlookers. “Skive off.”
And at his growling tone, the nosy bastards all looked up at the paintings murmuring loudly.
Ryder fought a laugh, turning his attention back to Hunt. “A might sensitive, are we? Come now, you make a lovely woman. A tad muscular perhaps but—”
“Look here, I’d had ten bottles of champagne,” Hunt huffed, his voice hushed in some feigned stage whisper. “A man that soused, will do anything—”
“Including singing My Wild Irish Rose while waving a peacock feather fan at Lord Wellesley?” Ryder taunted, loving that he was no longer the focus of criticism and that Hunt was the one defending himself.
“I have a very fine voice, I’ll have you know.”
A group of flask drinking, snuffing military men in scarlet coats and enough gold on their uniforms to stun a maharaja pressed into them.
Ryder and Hunt simultaneous threw the young pups a ball-crushing stare.
The youngest, a white powered wig atop his cherry red face, guffawed. “Beg your pardons. It is a bit close in here, is it not?”
At Ryder’s unfriendly stare, the young man
swallowed and turned back to his friends who did their best to press into the crowd opposite them.
In truth, the room was growing suffocating what with the lords packed in like sardines, and the smell. . .
Thick perfume, cigar smoke, tragically the ripe odor of male and God knew what else was wafting through the ever-heating hall.
“Who the hell is this duke?” Hunt demanded, eyeing the horde. “And why the devil is he keeping us waiting.”
Ryder shook his head at Hunt’s irritation. The party, so far, was only intriguing for its lack of host and number of men all located in one place, outside of a club or a battlefield. Most of them were attired in insane finery. Gold, silver and jewels were encrusted on the men’s coats. Each obviously eager to show his importance.
They all stood milling before a set of gold double doors. If he didn’t know better he’d think he was being admitted to a gaudy Almacks.
“I need a drink.” Hunt glanced about for any signs of a servant, his mouth twisting with displeasure. “If I wanted to mill about with men, I could have gone to Parliament.”
Ryder gave him a hard stare. “This was your idea.”
“Well, I was expecting a divers—”
The shimmering echo of a gong rippled through the air and the golden doors slowly began to open. A general murmur of confusion and anticipation went up from the crowded gentlemen.
“My lords!” a servant boomed out from somewhere in the crowd. “Please proceed to an island of pleasure.”
“An island of pleasure?” Ryder echoed. He cocked his head and bared his teeth in a mocking grin. “I’m going to kill you, you know that, don’t you?”
Hunt rolled his eyes and started forward, following the crowd pushing forward. As they all pressed in towards the gold doors, the strangest music began to beat. Drums. It sounded like bloody tribal drums, chiming symbols and other unidentifiable music. To Ryder’s surprise, it was damned stirring. And not in the way one might feel marching off to battle.
