by Eva Devon
The scent wafted through the air and an appreciative and collective groan met the arrival of the heavenly beverage.
“Thank you, Benson,” Derek said. “We are beholden to you.”
Benson bowed, stoic to the core, and backed out of the room.
Tony, being a boy still in many ways and having a body that burned through food like fire through a ship’s rigging, jumped up and headed for the morning repast. “Shall I be mother?”
Charles laughed. “Please do, puppy.”
Without so much as a hint of chagrin, Tony poured the coffee into the delicate cups and passed them out.
Derek clutched his like a lifeline, inhaled the steam and nearly passed out from the simple, but perfect, pleasure. He drank and, after a few moments, the world didn’t seem quite so brittle.
Tony stuffed a piece of fruited bread in his mouth and masticated voraciously.
“Dear boy, this is not a barnyard,” Charles instructed, sipping at his coffee with surprisingly good manners.
Tony rolled his eyes then said around a mouthful, “I have been out all night with no sustenance since midnight supper.”
“The horror,” teased Derek.
Tony stuffed another slice of bread in his mouth in answer.
“Lads today,” sighed Charles. “No stamina.”
Tony glared but made no reply as he chewed.
Derek strode to the window and peered out. London had come alive in the last hour. The pavement was already filled with fashionable people heading to the park and the street itself was choked with stylishly turned out riders and gleaming coaches.
“How the devil do I apologize?” he asked as he studied the passersby. “If I go and knock on her door, shall I not simply be adding to the attention I directed at her last night?”
“Yes.” Tony gulped his coffee audibly as he clearly mulled the problem over.
“Since when have you been concerned about front doors?” Charles asked. “Windows are more your thing. Mine, too, point of fact.”
He arched a silencing brow at Charles.
It was true. Neither of them were purely front door men. Both of them had made mad dashes at the sound of husbandly footsteps heading down the hall. He was also a remarkably good climber, having scaled many a back wall to gain admittance to a tryst. However, he wasn’t necessarily interested in giving Tony ideas. The lad already had success with the ladies. He didn’t need to hear about sneaking in through the rear.
“Splendid idea!” exclaimed Tony. “Why don’t we go in through the back garden? Over the wall and all that. Very Daniel Defoe and The Three Musketeers.”
Charles snorted. “We are not The Three Musketeers.”
“Clearly not,” said Tony. “I am too young. If I’m anyone, I’m d’Artagnan.”
“You read too many novels,” Charles declared.
“Blasphemy!” declared Tony.
Charles’ lips twitched.
Tony had never been to Charles’ dueling club and so had never seen the extensive library that the lord had been unable to keep himself form installing, even in a club meant to be martial. It was one of the largest private collections in London.
As if Charles’ thoughts were in alignment, he asked, “Now, why haven’t you tried to join my club, young’un?”
“It’s rather exclusive,” Tony pointed out as he helped himself to another cup of coffee.
Charles held his own cup out. “And?”
Tony seemed off foot as he filled up the rather infamous dueling lord’s drink. Tony swallowed then managed, “I didn’t know. . . I didn’t know. . .”
“Bastards are always welcome on my doorstep, young’un,” Charles assured gently. “Especially if they have your taste and style.”
Tony’s shoulders straightened with pride.
Derek ground his teeth and forced himself to appear unfazed by the interaction between Charles and his son. He’d never had to face the crowds as a bastard. No, that knowledge had been private and his father had made him ashamed of it until the day he’d finally been relieved that the old man wasn’t his real father. Still, he knew that, deep down, Tony was sometimes afraid of how men he admired looked at him.
It was hard to live under a shadow, no matter how much support one had or how carefree one seemed.
Derek was tempted to give Charles a grateful look, but he didn’t want Tony to see it. He wanted Tony to know that Charles respected him for his own sake. Not his father, the duke’s.
“So. . .” Tony waggled his brows. “We’re going then?”
“No,” Derek cut in quickly. If he had to go to his own doom, he was bloody well doing it on his own.
Tony’s brows shot up. “But. . . But. . .”
“I’m going. Never fear. But I’m going alone,” Derek said. “You go upstairs and sleep.”
“But who will keep lookout?” Tony demanded, brandishing his coffee as if it might somehow solidify his point.
At last, Derek laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Tony was a romantic. Of that, there was no debate.
“This is not one of your serial novels, lad,” Derek said, trying to gain composure. “I’ll attract far less attention if I’m on my own.”
“He’s correct,” Charles added. “How about you and I go and get a proper breakfast. I know a public house not too far that serves the best oysters—”
“Charles,” Derek growled.
“Yes?” Charles asked innocently.
“He’s already been corrupted by me.”
“So how could I possibly hurt the innocent flower any further?”
Tony sputtered, “Did you just call me an innocent flower?”
“Shhh, young’un,” Charles hushed. “The adults are sparring.”
Derek shook his head. “Fine. Oysters. But nothing else.”
Tony grinned and crossed over to Charles, pulling up the older man from the floor.
There was a long pause as Charles and Tony stared expectantly at Derek.
“I’ll head over then.” Derek felt his spirits lag. He’d never had to do anything like this before. . . And well, he wasn’t sure where to begin.
Tony hesitated. “Da?”
“Yes?”
“Take a bath.”
Another laugh boomed from Derek’s throat. “That bad, eh?”
Tony sniffed with dramatic effect. “You smell like the East End.”
“A damned fine scent,” Charles put in. “But not to the ladies.”
“Go,” Derek ordered. “Go, both of you, so I can prepare myself to beg the lady’s pardon.”
“Ask her to marry you. For the hell of it,” Charles drawled. “Every man should put his neck in the noose once.”
“My neck has been in danger more times than I can count but not from a woman.”
And asking Rosamund to marry him was the one thing he’d never do. No matter how much a deep, unacknowledged part of him might wish to.
Chapter 13
Rosamund eyed herself in her dressing mirror. The light yellow silk gown did wonders for her hair and complexion and it was so cheerful she thought she might make herself ill. Still, she was going to go downstairs in a moment, break her fast, and then go for a long walk. And she wanted all of London to see her as bright, happy, and unbothered by the night’s events.
But she was bothered. Extremely so.
Quite frankly, she’d never thought to see Aston in such an encounter. Perhaps, she’d see him across the ballroom. Perhaps they would speak at a supper. Perhaps, one day they’d dance. But he’d made it clear when he’d left her to be Tony’s friend over Christmas that they were not to be intimate.
It had left her completely furious and completely flummoxed that he had behaved so brazenly as if he had rights to make comment on her in any way.
He was acting like a jealous lover, someone who owned her, when, in fact, he was entirely the opposite.
She’d slept little because of it. In fact, she’d gone over their conversation again and again, comin
g up with more blistering points with each re-imagination of the whole horrifying scenario.
Her bedroom door popped open and Gemma darted in, a swirl of ruffles and russet curls bouncing.
Rosamund usually would have loved such an entrance, but at the moment, she was a bit off company and she had the decided feeling that Gemma likely had news.
Gemma was beaming. Positively beaming.
“You’ve done it,” Gemma gushed.
Being in no mood for mystery, Rosamund tsked. “Och, what have I done?”
“You’ve become the most glorious jewel of the ton. Rosamund, I’m not sure anything can touch you!” Gemma declared. “Mother’s friends and many the mama have been sending notes of support for you over en masse. We’ve already had calls at this shocking hour. Can you imagine!
Gemma’s eyes widened and she gave a wicked grin, “Gentlemen are sending bouquets declaring they shall call upon you this afternoon.”
It couldn’t be possible. Rosamund couldn’t find a reply as she stood stock still. Was she still dreaming?
Finally, she managed to point out, “But a duke suggested I was disreputable!”
“After you told him to go the devil,” Gemma countered. “After you made it clear that you wouldn’t dance with him because it could hurt your reputation. Everyone is saying that you must be virtuous, indeed, to not dance with a man as black as Aston, no matter how powerful he is! You stood up to him, don’t you see?”
She gaped at her friend, completely astonished. In many ways, she’d been waiting for condemnation to drop on her and she’d been girding her proverbial loins to face that censure without shirking. Now, she was to understand that not only was she not condemned, she was being celebrated?
It seemed mad. Were all English mad? Was the ton completely populated by mad people? It certainly seemed possible at this moment.
“I think I need to sit down,” Rosamund said and clutched the chair before her dressing table.
“Oh, do. If you are overcome, it’s the best thing. . . Or chocolate. Would you care for some chocolate?”
“No, thank you,” she said as she lowered herself to the damask-covered cushion and propped an elbow on her dressing table.
Completely nonplussed, Gemma continued, “It’s being said that the Duke of Aston left the ball so quickly last night with my brother, Charles, because he was so terribly ashamed of his own behavior. Can you imagine?”
“Aston feeling ashamed?” she replied. The room seemed to spin as she took it all in. “No. I don’t think I can.”
“Well, I am.”
The voice from the window elicited a gasp of delight from Gemma.
Rosamund, on the other hand, immediately got up, strode to said window and was very tempted to shove the man crouching in it straight to the bushes below.
“What are you doing?” she hissed at him.
Amazingly, he looked completely at ease on the sill. It was like he was completely accustomed to crouching thusly. “I’ve come to apologize,” he said.
His voice was a delicious caress and she almost hated him for it.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re in my window.”
“Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes further. “On the second floor.”
“Yes.”
“You opened it from the outside.”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad?” she asked with as much patience as she could muster at the moment.
“Y—” he began.
She whipped up a hand and stopped him before he could say yes again. Her head was beginning to ache and her heart was beating again in a most distressing manner.
Was there anyone simultaneously more infuriating and fascinating than he? Really, she should have just given him a solid shove and ended the misery of many a lady.
“How romantic,” sighed Gemma.
“It is not!” Rosamund bellowed with unladylike irritation. Instead of pushing as tempted, Rosamund did the opposite. She grabbed Aston’s lapel and tugged him inward.
He slipped a little and his beautiful whisky eyes widened with alarm.
For a moment, a terrifying feeling that she’d facilitated his death swept over her but then he was easily bounding into her room.
“You’re far too skilled at that,” she accused.
He hesitated then admitted, “I have had practice.”
“Why am I not surprised?” she bemoaned. “And how did you know which room was mine?”
“That also takes practice but it was largely deduction and simple skills like looking through the glass and listening.”
“My goodness!” Gemma exclaimed. “How many lady’s rooms have you visited?”
“A few,” he said with no visible pride and yet no visible shame, either.
“Well,” Rosamund huffed, folding her arms just under her bosom. “I’ve no desire to have you in mine. So, just turn around and—”
“I’ve come to apologize,” he said steadily.
Her words trailed off and it took her a moment to reply. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve come to apologize,” he said again, his voice deep and rough and without a hint of his usual mockery.
“Should I go?” Lady Gemma asked.
“No!” Rosamund said.
“Yes,” replied Aston.
Gemma clapped her hands together then began to back towards the door. “You have all the fun, Rosamund. This is too delicious for words.”
Rosamund wanted to grab onto her friend and hold her there, but she refused to let Aston see that the idea of being alone with him was disconcerting to her.
As Lady Gemma turned the door knob, she whispered, “I should lock it if I were you. Servants, you know. And be quiet.”
Be quiet? What the devil was that supposed to mean?
Well, she supposed she could take Gemma’s words innocently, and, yes, it was essential that servants not deduce she had a man in her room. From the glint in her friend’s eyes, Gemma was clearly hoping for more than apologizing in this room.
As soon as the door snicked shut, Rosamund could scarily draw breath.
The air suddenly felt thick and hot and every part of her felt alarmingly alive.
They were alone. Utterly alone.
Her still unmade bed was but a few feet away.
He towered in the center of the room, like some rugged, repentant god in his long coat and slightly too long hair. His eyes? My God, his eyes. They searched over her body then paused on her face and they stared.
She met that gaze, a gaze which dared to meet hers even after what he’d done.
Heat blossomed in her chest then traveled the length and breadth of her body. She hated that he could do that to her. With one look.
Oh, but the power of that look!
Truth be told, there was something about him. Something wild. Something tortured that only she could see beneath his outrageous facade and, at this moment, she felt it full force. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff just as a gale force wind came in.
One felt about to take flight, come rack, come ruin and she was tempted to throw out her arms and allow herself to be taken by the storm.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
“I had to come,” he answered simply.
His lack of flowery protestation only deepened the power of his words.
“Why?” She hated the surprised note in her voice, as if she’d resigned herself to being almost insignificant in his eyes. Except, she knew she wasn’t. If she was, he wouldn’t be here now.
“It was made clear to me that I had behaved appallingly.”
Ah. So there it was. And it wasn’t particularly flattering. “I see,” she sighed. “So, you didn’t realize this on your own? I do not need an apology that has been guilted from you.”
His eyes darkened and the lines about his mouth tightened as if he were holding very fast to something. “I do not understand what it is you do to me.”
“Now, it is I th
at don’t understand.” She didn’t. Truly. If she affected him so, how could he behave as he had? It made no sense. He made no sense. Not really. Just when she thought she understood him, he seemed to slip away from her, as ephemeral as smoke.
“You bring out a streak in me I had no idea existed.” His mouth tightened with frustration. “A proper one.”
“It’s the one thing I never wished from you,” she said, hating the unfairness of it. “A proper streak.”
“Don’t I know it. But you do it all the same.” His eyes smoldered, like banked coals. “I want you, Rosamund. I want you with a passion that I can scarcely give credit to. It’s without sense. In fact, when I saw you last night in Basingstoke’s arms, I nigh went mad. I wanted to storm across the floor, rip you out of his arms, drag you into the hall and make you mine.”
“How can that be?” she protested. “You pushed me away. You could have had me before and you pushed me away.”
“And I’ll continue to do so.”
“Why?” she demanded. Frankly, if he had dragged her into the hall last night, she doubted she would have denied him. He was too tempting. He represented something unknown, something she hungered for beyond all compare.
“Because you’re too good for the likes of me.”
She heard the words but they were utter nonsense. “You’re a duke. Who else could be more suited?”
Pain tensed his features. An old, dark pain. “Appearances can be deceiving. I’m not worthy to touch the hem of your gown.”
“You’ve tasted my lips. The hem of my gown seems rather innocent in comparison.”
“And it was glorious, but that’s all I can do. All I can taste. No more. It’s done between us but I would not leave you without apologizing for nearly ruining you in my own madness last night. What I said. . . How I behaved. . . ”
“It was unwarranted,” she agreed without pause. “Though I wanted to be scandalous, with you, I have yet to do anything that would warrant—”
“You needn’t justify yourself to me. I wish your happiness. Whatever path that it is. Whether it’s marriage—”
“I don’t wish to marry. You know that.”
At last, he smiled. A larger than life, breath-stealing Aston smile. “I do. I wish everyone else would listen to you as I have done.”
