by Eva Devon
“I do like this book,” she finally said. “I love how bold the heroine is. I love a great deal about it. But must Tom act like a. . . A. . .”
“Randy sheep?”
She coughed. “Well he is forever. . .”
“Mounting things?” supplied Tony.
“My goodness you do have a way with words.”
“I could be more direct but I think we should take your education in degrees. After all, I don’t think you really wish the vocabulary of a Barbary whore.”
“Too late,” she moaned with dramatic sorrow. “Too late, Tony. You keep saying things like Barbary whore.”
“Do I?” he asked with a marked, and therefore false, note of surprise. It was a trait he’d, no doubt, gotten from his father. “I don’t usually with the ladies. You must make me forget myself.”
She eyed the intelligent but incorrigible fellow. “I don’t think anyone could make you forget yourself. You are far to calculated in your desire to shock, young man.”
“Oooooh.” He leaned forward, a dark lock of hair spilling over his bright blue eyes. “I do like that. Say it again.”
“What?”
He grinned. “Young man. You look so deliciously stern.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Tony, stop that.”
“Oh fine.”
“Now, we were discussing. . .” She hesitated.
“Randy sheep or young men who love to drop their breeches?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“Well, what are you unclear about?” he asked, leaning back, his book still open in his large hand.
She searched for the words, words she didn’t seem to possess. “It does seem Tom is forever—”
“Rogering the ladies?”
“Tony!”
“You’re not allowed to be shocked, Rosamund,” he warned. “You’re the one who showed up on Da’s doorstep hoping to be rogered yourself. I am merely the innocent victim here, doomed to be your tutor in the ways of nefarious and disappointing masculinity.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. He added such a touch of drama and self-pity to his voice.
“Point to you, Master Tony, but you did say you wished to save me from the knowledge of a Barbary whore.”
He raised his brows, astonished. “Did I?”
“Not two minutes ago,” she drawled.
“Ah. Well, I do think a good memory is unforgivable don’t you?” He winked. “Perhaps it doesn’t suit me to explain the waywardness of the lads.”
She arched a single eyebrow and glowered at him.
He threw down his book and raised his hands. “Stop! Stop! You could kill a man with that look.”
She laughed. “Why, thank you. We call it the eye, in my family. My grandmother had it as well.”
“Your grandmother was, no doubt, a fascinating woman.”
“Oh yes.”
“Acquainted with wayward young men?” Tony ventured.
She nodded. “She’s the entire reason I can even be on this particular adventure. She gave me my independence and all that.”
A weary sigh escaped Tony’s lips. “I thought so. You had to have acquired such shocking behavior from somewhere. Now, drink your champagne.”
Since it was an agreeable order, she followed it. Then waited expectantly.
Tony sat up a little straighter then stared at the ceiling before finally beginning. “Men, boys even, have. . . Let us say, urges.”
“I have urges,” she pointed out.
Tony let out a hiss of alarm. “I don’t wish to hear about your urges. Your red hair and stunning bosom are torture enough for me.”
“I have a stunning bosom?” The champagne was clearly doing funny things to her head, for whatever came into it seemed to be then issuing forth from her mouth.
Tony sighed heavily again. “Do not go searching for compliments, Rosamund. It’s beneath you. You know full well the exquisiteness of your person.”
Well, she knew she wasn’t a fright. But exquisite? She sat a little straighter and preened. No one had ever said such a thing to her and she found she quite liked it. And since Tony didn’t want anything from her except companionship, his observation felt more true.
“Now, we were speaking of male urges,” Tony said firmly.
“So we were,” she agreed as she took another drink.
“These urges are often very strong and well, to be frank, when an urge falls upon me, I often feel as if my wits have suddenly wandered off to Bedfordshire, if you understand me.”
“Not exactly, but when your father kissed me—”
Tony snapped up a hand. “No thank you, Rosamund. My father and I share a great deal and I know the excellence of bed sport to which I have to aspire when speaking of my father. Still, it is too much to hear it from your lips.”
“Too true. Badly done of me. We shall keep this to generalities, especially since my experience is so limited in any case.”
“Wise,” Tony intoned. “Very wise.”
She eyed her nearly empty glass then the bottle nestled in the silver dish filled with ice.
“Go on,” said Tony. “You’ll need it. Besides, best start getting used to it now, lest you act the fool in London.”
“Speaking of London—”
“We were speaking of urges. Do you not wish your question answered?”
As she stood and grabbed the bottle, eschewing the glass, she wondered if perhaps she didn’t wish to know. After all, if it was simply an urge than got a hold of men, did that mean that Aston had felt nothing particularly special about her? Tony did keep insisting that his father had liked her too much which is why he hadn’t come to the manor house to debauch her. But. . . It was hard to believe. With a man as worldly as Aston, what made her so very special?
She studied the fire as if were the most fascinating thing in the world.
The marmalade cat, Rousseau, popped his head from under Tony’s chair and he strolled quite nonchalantly to Rosamund then head-butted her skirts.
She smiled, knelt down, then ran her knuckles along the cat’s chin.
He purred appreciatively.
She plunked herself onto the floor, allowing the Tom to crawl into her lap. She took an unladylike swig from her bottle. Fortified by the drink, the comfort of a cat, and then warmth of a fire on a damp night, she gestured for Tony to continue. “On with it then.”
“Well, you see. . .” Tony cleared his throat. “When a boy, for it does start quite young, or man, sees a lady he is drawn to, his body rather comes to life in a way that is at first embarrassing to the uninitiated.”
“Indeed?” It had never occurred to her that men might be ashamed of their urges.
“Oh yes,” Tony affirmed. “Well, it’s rather hard to hide and then the lady either thinks the fellow is an absolute bounder or the fellow feels as if he’s completely in her power.”
“Is he?” she asked, fascinated.
Tony frowned. “Sometimes. Especially if the young man is inexperienced or has had little or no guidance from responsible sources. But over time, with practice, we can control our urges. We cannot respond unless we wish to act upon our desire.”
“So, then Tom Jones must be a very slow study.”
He mulled this over then finally admitted, “In all truth, I think some men will never be able to settle down with one lady.”
“Oh.” For some reason, his proclamation dismayed her. A rather hollow feeling settled in her heart. Was Aston such a man?
“Tom Jones for all his protestations of love for his Sophia? I’m not sure he’ll be able to be faithful to her after the wedding.”
“But there is a long-standing rumor that rakes make the best husbands.”
“I doubt it,” Tony said ruefully. “There is another rumor. A leopard cannot change his spots, Rosamund.”
“Lucky for me then that I do not intend to wed and therefore shall not require faithfulness.”
Tony bellowed with laughter. “Well said.
. . And truth be told, I think you might be a bit of a rake yourself, you saucy wench.”
“Me?” she asked, dramatically bringing her bottle of champagne to her bosom.
“You.”
“How fascinating. I didn’t know a lady could be a rake.”
“Oh yes. They’re usually married or widowed. But there is a whole sort of woman who enjoys her freedoms almost with the same ease as a man.”
Without another thought she said, “That sounds what I should be like.”
“But it’s not all fun and games, Ros. It does make one. . . Well. . . A bit hard.”
“Not me,” she said and winked. “Cynicism shall never mar my brow.”
Tony stared at her for a long while but then he gave her a smile. “I do hope not. For there are few as lovely as you.”
“Thank you, Master Tony.”
There was a knock on the door and Tony jumped up. “Shall we go to Christmas dinner?”
She stroked Rousseau’s head then nodded. It was the best Christmas she’d ever head. Full of good company and naughty discourse. Despite how odd it was, she hoped that she’d find a way to always celebrate with a warm fire, a cat, and a friend.
Chapter 10
Aston headed into the Duke of Hunt’s brother’s exclusive fencing club. The dukes often met in Lord Charles’ establishment while in London.
Briefly, Derek wondered if, despite the late hour, he should have just headed straight for the docks, readied his ship, and set sail for parts unknown. He could have sent a letter to Tony, asking his son to join him at the coast.
Then they would have been off, leaving the cold, gray island behind them and the woman who was haunting every damn moment he drew breath.
In the last weeks, he had been unable to put Lady Rosamund from his mind.
Matters had not helped when Tony’s letter had arrived.
Instead of sending her off on a public coach, his son was escorting Rosamund to London.
Incognito, of course.
But the idea of Tony and Rosamund in London was enough to make him feel absolutely mad.
To his relief, Tony had sent another report. He was ensconced at his London lodging and Lady Rosamund was safely tucked away with the Dowager Duchess of Hunt and her daughter Lady Gemma.
Safe? Ha!
Lady Rosamund was about as safe as a piece of meat in a tiger house.
She had no idea what might befall her. None. And from what he could gather from between the lines of Tony’s letters, she had not mellowed from Tony’s tales. Oh no. If anything, she seemed more determined.
He was going to have to throttle his son.
After he hugged him, of course.
He couldn’t blame the boy for Rosamund’s nature or his, or Tony’s own. They were all rebels in a strange land, attempting to make their way.
There was nothing for it to accept that Lady Rosamund was not going to go quietly back to her life in Scotland. No matter what he did or how he ignored her. She’d taken the bit in her teeth so to speak and had no inclination or ability to be led.
He admired her for it.
But that didn’t mean he had to help her descend into hell, here in London.
Oh no. He wasn’t going to see her. He was going to avoid her at all costs.
Visiting with Lord Charles who might happen to have firsthand knowledge of Rosamund’s ongoing visit at his mother’s had nothing to do with why Aston had showed up on the man’s doorstep. No. He needed a fight and a drink.
That’s what Charles was good for after all.
Aston swiped off his big hat, the feather tickling his face and he drew off his cloak in a quick sweep.
He looked around.
Waiting.
Charles wouldn’t be pleased to hear that the porter had slipped off. Or perhaps he was handling some impossible secret. Knowing Charles. Anything was possible.
The sound of blades clashing filled the air and being in no mood to wait, he started off in the direction of the beautiful sound.
The club was only for members who liked to draw a bit of blood and who were as serious about their blades as their drink and their women.
Milksops mincing about were not welcome.
Now, that wasn’t to say that gentlemen who liked a lacey cravat were turned away. Oh no. Aston had found that, sometimes, a fellow with a few too many diamonds, a powdered wig, and a twirling wrist could be the most dangerous with a sword.
And Lord Charles didn’t care what a fellow got up to as long as he wasn’t bothered by blood or morality.
Aston sighed. His own father would have been mortified. It had been another reason he’d so happily embraced the fold of the Duke of Hunt, Darkwell, and Charles, Hunt’s twin brother. Anything that might make the old man rattle in his crypt was a good thing.
As he entered the long hall, he spotted Charles beating some young fellow into the hardwood floor.
Well, not beating per say. Filleting might be a better description.
Charles, who was an exact physical replica of the Duke of Hunt, didn’t bother to flick his black hair from his wicked eyes as he skewered the other man’s shirt and cut it from his body.
A yelp escaped the opponent.
Charles paused, lowered his blade then narrowed his eyes. “You’re not ready. Go back and fence with your school chums.”
“My lord, please!” the young man begged, paying no attention to his tattered linen. “I will do whatever it takes.”
Charles whipped his sword up and left the barest red stripe on the youth’s cheek. “Good. Now go do it. Practice a bit more with your masters. Come back in six months. You haven’t the stomach for the kill yet.”
The young man looked like he was about to let his lower lip quiver which would have been his undoing, but fortunately, he squared his shoulders just in time. “Yes, Lord Charles. Six months.”
“Indeed,” Charles assured. “We shall match our blades again. I’m sure your mettle will have been toughened by then.”
Wordlessly, the young man left, not even daring to look at Aston as he strode past.
Aston sauntered forward. “I don’t suppose you’ve energy to fight someone who might actually cause you to exert yourself a bit?”
Charles tensed then turned. There was a dark, haunted look in the man’s stare but then he grinned.
It was a grin Aston knew too well. It was the grin of man hiding a bleak and consuming darkness from the world.
“For you, you blackguard? Any hour of the day.”
“Any?” Aston quipped. “Glad to hear it, though I do hope dawn is never in our future.”
“I can’t see why we should.” Charles pulled at his open-tied shirt which somehow managed to look perfectly crisp. “Given we both haven’t a touch of honor to our tarnished souls.”
It was fairly true, though for some reason, this time, such a proclamation grated Derek the wrong way. Which was absurd. He’d spent his life creating such an honorless image about himself.
A servant suddenly scurried forward.
Aston didn’t react but even he was stunned by the skill of Charles’ servants. Generally, they were silent, helpful, and somehow managed to always be lingering in the shadows ready to do whatever was needed.
Whatever was needed at present was the taking of his cloak and hat.
Said servant took the items quickly and scurried off again.
Charles waggled his brows. “Pick your blade.”
Aston eyed the wall, covered in racks of swords.
There wasn’t a practice blade amongst them. It was half the fun, the fear of becoming a pin cushion or well-carved side of meat.
He picked a Toledo steel rapier, checked the balance then headed towards the dueling strip.
Charles gave him an elaborate bow. “Good to have you back. Where the devil did you go?”
“Scotland.”
“Ah. Beautiful place. Barbarous people.”
Derek gave his blade a flourish. “I quite like barbarous
people.”
“Course you do, old man. Only people who would put up with you.”
Derek presented, ready to begin. “What does that say about you?”
“Did I ever say I was civilized?” And with that Charles advanced in a flash of silver and shockingly aggressive moves.
Derek felt himself come alive as he parried and riposted. Charles was perhaps the only swordsman in all England who could give him that delicious feeling of fear. Fear that he might feel his flesh parted.
He allowed himself to be pushed back before letting loose a series of attacks himself, driving Charles back.
“Seen your mother lately?” Derek suddenly asked.
Charles staggered.
The sudden unguarded movement shocked Derek and he retracted, not quite willing to stab the man.
Charles quickly recovered. “Not if I can help it.”
Derek fought an urge to curse. If Charles hadn’t visited his mother, he likely hadn’t seen Rosamund. Of course, he didn’t care. . . “Your sister then?”
Charles lunged, swinging his blade towards Derek’s chest.
Derek twirled away, just before his own coat was shredded.
“I saw Gemma yesterday evening,” Charles informed him. “The wicked girl will go to every party she’s invited to.”
That nasty feeling he’d just felt, deepened. “Indeed? Wicked girl?”
“Gemma? Of course. She’s her mother’s daughter. I pity the man who thinks he can keep up with her. And that new of friend of hers isn’t helping.”
He and Charles moved back and forth, their eyes locked. . .Even as Derek felt a shudder of dismay ripple down his spine.
“New friend?”
“Yes. Some Scottish piece. Hair like fire. Lips like strawberries and a set of bosoms to make a man—”
Derek bellowed and drove forward so quickly that Charles was easily able to sidestep the blunder and slice his blade across Derek’s arm.
A strip of blood immediately popped up along the expensive fabric.
Derek cursed.
Charles started to laugh. “Oh, no. No, no. Don’t say it’s so.”
Derek stood straight and adjusted his now ripped coat. “What the blazes are you speaking of?”
Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re here to find out about the little Scot.”
