by Eva Devon
Her mouth dropped at his blatant insult.
She didn’t look down. She knew it would please him.
She’d forgotten to tug up her frock after Tony had mentioned it. And yes, she knew she was showing a good deal of cleavage but no more than was still acceptable. For goodness sake, some young ladies had actually dampened the linen of their gowns so the fabric was translucent and clung to one’s body! She hadn’t gone that far. And he was going to take umbrage with her gown?
Him?
A man with a reputation as high as a cesspit?
She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, you forget yourself. I am not your sister, your daughter, or your friend. We are but acquaintances and you have no right to censure me.”
“Your chaperone has failed to do so,” he replied dryly. “Someone must.”
She squared her shoulders. To her dismay, tears stung her eyes. He was being so bloody cold. And in absolute truth, she was doing no more than was allowed to her. She hadn’t engaged in behavior she should be ashamed of and, even if she had, he had no right to say a single word. He’d given that up when he’d shown what he thought of their budding friendship.
“You sir, are the devil,” she said. Aloud.
Several heads turned towards her.
“I do not deny it,” Aston countered.
“Then I best away from you,” she fumed. “More so since my reputation seems so important to you.”
A dark-haired man suddenly appeared behind Aston and he whispered in the duke’s ear.
Aston tensed then, suddenly, he gave a tight nod. “Forgive me, Lady Rosamund. I don’t know what overcame me.”
“What man can resist Lady Rosamund?” Mr. Basingstoke suddenly said as he, too, was aware of the sudden onlookers. “We are all worshippers from afar, are we not? Like stars gazing upon the sun?”
It hit her then that the entire ball seemed transfixed by what was happening between her and Aston.
In a few moments, in a few exchanges of words. . . She was being ruined. Oh God.
The floor seemed to rush out from under her.
Just Aston’s attention and her clear verbal dueling with him had drawn the attention of the room and Mr. Basingstoke and Aston’s companion were attempting to diffuse the damage.
A laugh ripped from her throat. “Am I a goddess then?”
Aston stared then finally said, “Without doubt, my lady. And I release you to your admirers.”
But as soon as he turned and walked away, a titter of gossip went up around them.
Basingstoke stood by her. “You should have danced with him,” he said softly.
“Should I?”
“A man like that doesn’t like to be rejected.”
“Why not?” she asked softly. “He rejected me.”
Basingstoke said nothing for a long moment then took her hand in his. “He’s a duke, Lady Rosamund.”
The words were so factual. So simple. Aston was a duke and he could do and say whatever he wished.
And she? She’d simply refused to dance with him. She didn’t think he’d meant to cause this scene. Nor had she. Not really. But then again, how could it have ended differently?
Was she simply supposed to let him treat her so casually? As if she had no feelings? No heart? No soul? Was she supposed to follow his whim?
She allowed Mr. Basingstoke to escort her back to the Dowager Duchess of Hunt who was standing with Lady Gemma and Tony.
Tony looked flummoxed.
Lady Gemma’s bright eyes were as large as twin saucers. She glanced from Mr. Basingstoke to Rosamund and grinned. “He comes in handy, does he not?”
Mr. Basingstoke simply released her hand. “I’m going to slip away. I’d hate to add any more to the night’s gossip.”
“Too late,” the dowager duchess said from behind her massive silk and gold fan. “But you’re a dear boy and we thank you.”
As Mr. Basingstoke wound his way into the crowd, Rosamund asked, “That’s Cordelia’s brother?”
Lady Gemma nodded. “Oh yes. Quite the thing, is he not?”
She hadn’t even met Cordelia yet but if her brother was any indication, the new Duchess of Hunt was going to be quite singular.
“He’s certainly unique.”
“He stared at your bosoms,” Tony said sotto voce, his forehead as wrinkled as a disapproving old man.
Rosamund leaned in. “Most men do. Remember what you told me about Tom Jones and all that? I’m sure it’s something to do with urges.”
Tony let out a pained sound. “I feel like I should murder them all.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you’re too good for all of them.”
Rosamund felt tears sting her eyes. Tony hadn’t run after his father and he hadn’t castigated her for poor behavior. He was being her friend and she couldn’t appreciate it more. “Thank you, kind sir.”
Rosamund inched closer to the dowager who had showed her much attention and kindness. “Should we leave? That scene—”
“Is why we shall stay until dawn and you shall dance every dance you are asked,” the dowager cut in. “You’ve done nothing and if we run? Well, tomorrow you’ll be ruined goods, my dear. And unless you’re entirely done with polite society, I don’t think you wish that.”
Done entirely? No. She found she quite liked aspects of ton life. The rules? No. But she loved the energy and excitement of the whirlwind that the Hunt family had included her in.
She wasn’t about to throw that away. So, she lifted her chin and pasted a smile.
“Rosamund,” Tony gritted.
“Yes?”
“You still haven’t fixed your gown. Not a criticism, merely an observation.”
She let out a beleaguered sigh. “It’s devilish annoying being a woman, Tony. Be grateful you’re a man.”
“Oh, I am. Every day.”
“Glad to hear it.” With that, Rosamund grabbed Lady Gemma’s hand and headed for the cloak room. She wasn’t taking the risk of another encounter with the Duke of Aston.
As they laced their way through the hot room, she felt the stares. Hundreds of stares all trained on her. There was a low murmur of gossip.
With each step, she felt her confidence dissipate. She’d been having such a splendid time until he’d treated her so horribly. True, she’d meant to make him jealous. . . But he’d been horrible and loud.
Her eyes burned. Burned with tears of humiliation.
How had he done that? How had he made her feel so small? She’d never thought he could do such a thing. That anyone could.
She drew in a slow breath, head still high, and squeezed Lady Gemma’s hand. She’d be damned if she let them all hurt her.
She was made of stronger stuff than that. She was a Scot, after all.
Chapter 12
“Well, that was a bloody disaster,” announced Charles from the elaborate Oriental carpet. He lifted his head and groaned then dropped it back down.
Dawn spilled in through the curtains of his London drawing room and Aston winced.
His head pounded. He and Charles had headed to the East End, drank like bloody fish, and contemplated entertaining ladies, but Derek hadn’t been able to face it.
He loved women. He’d always loved women. As did Charles. And he’d never been one to deny himself. Much like Charles.
He gloried in their variety.
Last night, he’d felt sick at the very idea. He kept seeing Rosamund, her eyes flashing with pain and her usually rosy cream skin going very white at his words.
“How did you think it was going to go?” Derek demanded. He’d managed to throw himself onto a few cushions before the fire before succumbing to Morpheus just before dawn.
Charles shoved himself into a sitting position, crawled onto all fours, and went over to the bell pull beside the fire. Though it wasn’t his house, he didn’t seem deterred. He tugged firmly before he twisted and sat back down with a thud. “I assumed you were going to seduce her.”
/> “I was.”
Charles gaped then rubbed a hand over his face. “That was not a seduction, old boy. That was a death sentence. For you. For her. For any bed play between you.”
“There will be no bed play and I wouldn’t go so far as a death sentence. It was a trifle awkward perhaps.”
Charles rolled his eyes. “You called her a whore in front of everyone.”
Derek sat up now, defensive. “I didn’t.”
Charles pulled a cheroot from his pocket and lit it from a long, slim piece of wood kept by the fire which still glowed. “You questioned her reputation. Same thing. You. The worst rake of rakes. Why?”
Derek shifted again, trying to recall the exact details. “She wouldn’t dance with me.”
Charles blew a puff of smoke into the air. “I beg your pardon, but what is your age again?”
Derek arched a brow. “Old enough.”
“Well, you acted like a babe in the nursery. You’re a master with women, Aston. What the hell happened?”
Derek didn’t like sharing intimate details of his inner workings. But he had to speak about it, he supposed, if he’d really made such a muck of it. “She happened.”
“I don’t follow.”
“She does things to me. . .”
“Are you in love?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It seems to be going around.” Charles shuddered with mock horror. “Damned frightening. My brother, his friend. I’m going to have to start drinking tonics and carrying a posset to ward off the disease.”
Derek snorted. “I have not fallen in love. I do not succumb to such things.”
And he didn’t. He couldn’t afford to.
“I just admire her. Very much.”
“You’ve a damned odd way of showing it.”
The sound of the townhouse door opening had Derek glancing at the drawing room door. It was damned early for a caller.
The murmur of voices suggested that Benson, the butler, was about to enter with whoever had arrived.
The door swung open and Tony strode in, his usually affable face dark as thunder.
The lad was still in his evening kit.
As always, his heart swelled with pleasure at the sight of the young man who’d given his life meaning. Derek bounded up from the floor, despite his pounding head, and went to embrace his son.
Tony allowed himself to be enfolded and he clapped his father on the back but then he pushed away.
“Morning, my lad,” Derek said, studying his son’s face. The young man looked damned serious.
“Da, what the devil were you thinking last night?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Yes you do. Don’t treat me like all the other fools.”
“He doesn’t treat me like a fool,” Charles put in.
Benson cleared his throat from the door. “Coffee, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” Derek sighed. He wasn’t accustomed to being brought out on the carpet. And certainly not by his son, but he wasn’t going to dismiss the boy. “Plenty, Benson. Thank you.”
“You’ve taken a fondness to Lady Rosamund,” Derek observed.
“Who wouldn’t?” Tony said.
“It seems everyone loves her.” To his own shock, Derek realized he sounded damned bitter.
“Yes,” Tony said. “She’s that sort. Generous. Happy. Kind. And you went and—”
“Treated her like a whore,” Derek supplied before grinding his teeth together.
Tony narrowed his eyes. “Glad to see you know.”
“Look here, puppy,” Derek warned. “erek damned complicated.”
“No.”
Aston blinked. “No?”
“You behaved like an arse,” Tony said passionately. “You’re going to apologize.”
Derek cocked his head to the side. “I am, am I?”
“Yes. You are.”
Derek stared at his young son, both awed and furious. He was delighted Tony wasn’t afraid to tell him what was what and stand up to him, but he didn’t like being told what to do. No one told him. Whether in London or Singapore.
“I’m right, Da,” Tony said softly.
The bluster that had been building up inside Derek faded like hot air from one of those marvelous new flying balloons. “Yes. I suppose you are.”
“You behaved in an appalling manner.”
“You already said it.” Derek plunged a hand through his hair. “He’s said it, too.”
Tony nodded. “Brilliant. I hope all London says it. Otherwise, you’ve caused irreparable damage.”
Derek blew out a harsh breath. How had he managed to cock things up so badly in one encounter? Because he’d been having feelings he hadn’t had since childhood. That’s why. And frankly, he’d no idea how to manage them. How did one manage abject jealousy when one had never felt it before?
“Was it very bad? After we left?” Derek asked.
Tony, in a gesture that was an exact and unconscious copy of the one Derek had just done, plunged a hand through his black hair, leaving it wild. He crossed to a settee and threw himself down. “For a moment there, it did seem as if they were all going to strike, but thank God for the Dowager Duchess of Hunt. What with her smiling and fan waving, they all acted like naught had happened. Rosamund especially. They all laughed and grinned. Myself, too. And someone else, a boring chap, asked her to dance and next thing you knew, everyone had called off the hounds.”
“So, she her reputation’s not a bloody mess?” Derek found himself holding his breath. He’d been the one so determined that she not throw her reputation away in Scotland. How had it come to transpire that he was the one to run it into the mud? His balls. His stupid, large, offended balls. That’s how. And he hated himself for it.
Tony tugged at his cravat. “In all honesty? I don’t know. You never know how the old crows are going to turn. We shall have to see what the gossip mills say this morning. Only a few more hours to wait and see.”
Derek nodded. “I should have set sail yesterday.”
“Running away, Da?”
“She’s not like the others, lad.”
“I know that.” A look of nigh worship crossed Tony’s face. “She’s bloody marvelous. Are you sure you don’t want to make her my mother?”
Derek felt his blood run cold. Not with horror, but at the sheer fear of doing something which might give him more happiness than he could ever imagine. He didn’t deserve such happiness. A man like him would never deserve Lady Rosamund. Not like that.
“She’s no wish to marry, Tony. Surely she made that clear to you?”
Charles perked up. “I do beg your pardon, but why would she tell your son?”
Tony squirmed. “Lady Rosamund is my friend, if you must know.”
Charles gave him an incredulous stare. “How? You’ve just come down from school. You’re a burgeoning rakehell. What are you doing making friends with young ladies like that? And how have you been accepted into her good graces so quickly? Who introduced you?”
Charles’ sobering line of questions sent a shiver down Derek’s spine. If Charles was wondering, would other people? The whole ton knew Tony was his son. They’d made no secret of it. In fact, Tony was known to have quite a fortune of his own. And while some might give him a sniff and narrowed glance, most accepted him into the fold with no mention of his bastardy. Would Tony ever be free of it? Certainly not. And many young ladies would never be allowed to dance with him let alone marry him, but Tony wasn’t an outcast because Derek had made certain that anyone who disparaged him would be dragged into hell and left there.
“It’s none of your bloody business, Charles,” Derek warned coolly.
Charles held up his hands. “Fine. Fine. You all are remarkably and mysteriously close. But the lad’s right, Aston. Why don’t you just make her your duchess? She’s a perfect candidate. Wealthy, beautiful, the sister of a duke. Couldn’t be any better, old man.”
Charles suddenly coughed and choked. “Good
God, what am I saying? Did I just advise marriage?”
“You did, and you’re the third person, the second in a matter of minutes,” Derek said, glaring at Charles then his son, then back to Charles again, “to suggest it.”
“Clearly, it’s a good suggestion then,” Tony said.
“Bad logic there, puppy,” Derek countered. “Majority is not an indicator that something’s good.”
“Your father has a point there young’un. When the majority clamors, make sure you’re not running with sheep.”
“So, you do want to marry her though, Da?” Tony asked, a hopeful note in his voice. “Is that it? But she won’t? Have you asked her?”
Derek felt the decided and unfamiliar urge to squirm. “That’s a damned personal question.”
“Who better to ask?” Tony quipped.
Derek smiled. “No one. You’re the only one who’d dare.”
“Then?” prompted his son.
“No.” Derek gave a decisive shake of his head, possibly to convince himself as much as to convince his company. “I haven’t and I won’t. Lady Rosamund deserves better than my used up old carcass.”
Charles gagged. “What nauseating self-pity. In what way are you a carcass? You’re also wealthy. You’re a duke. You’re good looking.”
“You’ve noticed? Charles, I’m touched,” Derek drawled.
Charles snorted. “Stuff it, old boy.”
“It’s my insides that are rotting, Charles.”
“To the core. Certainly,” Charles parried. “But what does that matter if you like each other? Dukes have to marry inevitably, now don’t they? Why not her?”
Derek drew in a harsh breath. He could never explain it to Charles, to the world, to Rosamund, but he simply couldn’t do what so many were advising him to do. So, it was simpler to pin his inability on Rosamund.
“Look,” Derek said quietly. “You make good argument, but none of that matters. She told me. Her brother told me. She’s no wish to marry. Why should she? As you point out Charles, she’s wealthy and highly placed. She’s far too clever to throw herself away on marriage.”
“You’re still going to go apologize, Da,” Tony put in, “lest you think we’ve forgotten.”
The door swung quietly open and Benson snuck in, bearing a tray laden with coffee and pastries.
