by Sylvia Day
“And who gave him that power?” she countered.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with an upraised hand. “I’m exhausted, and I don’t wish to discuss your problems anymore this evening. Fetch your cloak. We’re leaving.”
As the door to the parlor closed, the two intertwined figures on the settee separated, and one sat up.
“Fascinating,” Amanda murmured, as she straightened her bodice.
Magnus, Duke of Glasser, brushed aside her dark hair to nuzzle her neck. “Not as fascinating as what I have right here,” he murmured wickedly.
“Glass, for heaven’s sake. Don’t you realize we’ve just met our future daughter-in-law?” She brushed his roving hands away.
The duke heaved a long-suffering sigh and sat up beside her. “We didn’t meet anyone. We eavesdropped. And it sounded like the chit has her claws in Fontaine. Why would she want Charles?”
“Charles?” She rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Glass, pay attention. I’m talking about Lucien.”
“Lucien?” he queried, obviously confused. “She’s an earl’s daughter. And from the sound of it, she’s well on her way to being a marchioness. What would she want with Lucien?”
“What woman wouldn’t want Lucien? He’s the spitting image of you, handsome devil that you are.” She smiled seductively. “And didn’t you hear Lady Julienne defend him? There’s something afoot there. She likes him.”
“Lots of women like Lucien,” Magnus pointed out with a good dollop of fatherly pride. “Doesn’t mean he wants to marry them. Who knows if he’s even met the gel before?”
Amanda attempted to restore some order to her hair. “Trust me, darling. A woman knows these things. Lady Julienne took a personal offense to Montrose’s comments. I can assure you, they’ve met. You’ll see I’m right.”
She squealed as she was tackled back onto the settee.
“I’ve got something to show you,” the duke growled. “Right here.”
“You look awful.”
Lucien scowled as he paced the empty hazard room of Remington’s. “To hell with you, too, Marchant.”
His man-of-affairs laughed. “It’s unusually early for you to be here.”
“You’re here,” Lucien retorted.
“I’m always here at this time.” Marchant sighed at Lucien’s skeptical glance. “You truly have no idea what you pay me for, do you?”
Lucien paused in his pacing and glared. “I’m certain I don’t pay you to harass and insult me, so be on your way.”
“I have something to discuss with you, Lucien.”
“Not now. I’m not in the mood.”
“It is precisely your present mood that necessitates my speaking with you.”
“Bloody hell and damnation!” Lucien leaned against a hazard table and crossed his arms, his head throbbing viciously. “Out with it then. And make haste.”
“I gave you some bad advice the other day.”
Lucien arched a brow. “Not something you want to tell me, Harold. One of the things I pay you for is your advice. If it’s not worth hearing, I may sack you.”
“The employee in me is quaking in his boots,” Marchant said wryly. “But as your friend, I must continue regardless.”
Lucien closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. God help him.
“I don’t think you should allow Lady Julienne to marry any of the men on that list I compiled.”
Lucien’s eyes flew open. “Why? What’s wrong with them?”
“’Tis not what’s wrong with them, but what’s wrong with you.” Marchant’s eyes were kind behind his spectacles. “You’re lovesick.”
“I am not!”
“You are. You’re barely tolerable. The employees are avoiding you, the customers are steering clear of your company, you’ve been drinking yourself into a stupor every night, and instead of going home, you’ve been staying in your rooms upstairs.”
“I own the damn place!” Lucien growled. “I can spend the night here if I wish.”
“You are staying in the Sapphire Room because of her,” Marchant argued.
Lucien lowered his head. There was no point in denying it. His man-of-affairs was too bright. “You told me to stay away from her, Harold.”
“I thought she was merely a temporary amusement. Now it’s obvious to me, and to everyone else, that she means far more to you than that.”
“My feelings don’t signify. I’m not worthy of her.”
Marchant sighed. “Will you be able to live with yourself knowing she is married to someone else? A man you see regularly here within the walls of your own establishment? Will you be able to hold your tongue, and your fists, when he makes use of the courtesans while the woman you covet waits at home for him? How will you feel when Lord Fontaine comes in to celebrate the birth of their children?”
“That’s enough!” Lucien shouted, his chest tight with fury and misery. To think of Julienne belonging to another man was too much to bear. If he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want anyone else to have her either. But that wasn’t the way it would be. And somehow, he would have to find the strength to live with that.
“There are some mistakes we can live with, and others we can’t. Only you can determine which kind of mistake this is.” Marchant turned to walk away.
“Harold.”
The man-of-affairs paused.
“Thank you.”
“Lucien, darling. Punctual, as always.”
Lucien smiled affectionately at his mother as he was shown into her parlor. Shades of pink and mauve embellished with gilt and satin made the room an entirely feminine retreat. Leaning over her, he kissed both of her cheeks. “You look stunning, Mother.”
She waited until he took the seat opposite her before beginning tea. “You look like hell,” she said bluntly. “Have you lost weight?” She handed Lucien a cup and saucer. “Pining for Lady Julienne La Coeur?”
Startled, Lucien fumbled with his cup, cursing as he spilt the hot liquid. “Beg your pardon?” Setting the saucer down, he stuck his burnt fingers in his mouth.
“I said you look like hell.”
“I heard that part,” he muttered, wiping his hand on a linen napkin. “It was the rest of it I missed.”
“No, you didn’t. I met your love last night.”
Lucien blinked, his head spinning. “What did you say?”
Amanda dropped two lumps of sugar into her tea. “She’s lovely and feisty.”
“Julienne was here?” He shot to his feet. “Last night?”
“Sit down, Lucien. I shall get a neck cramp looking up at you.”
Frowning, he sat.
His Julienne? Here? In the midst of London’s demimonde? He flushed.
“It bothers you that she was here?” his mother asked.
“Why was she here?”
Amanda smiled. “She was dragging her scapegrace brother home.”
Lucien stood again. “Montrose is back?” He swallowed hard. This was dreadful. Now Fontaine could pay his addresses.
“Lucien, please! Sit down.”
Again he dropped dutifully into the seat. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely, fighting off a mild panic.
“She was quite firm with him, scolding him and ordering him to start accepting his responsibilities.”
Lucien couldn’t hold back a smile. Fierce, passionate, no-nonsense Julienne.
Amanda smiled over the rim of her cup. “And when Montrose made a nasty comment about you, she defended you. I wish you could have heard her. She was magnificent.”
The nausea he’d been fighting all morning suddenly worsened.
Last night. After the things he’d done and said to her, Julienne had defended him anyway.
His head dropped into his hands. Damnation. He would have felt better if she’d maligned him right along with her brother.
This morning he’d been certain there was no more wretched person on earth than himself. He’d believed it wasn’t possible to feel a
ny worse.
But he did. Much worse.
How would he ever make amends to her? Fueled by brandy, jealousy had eaten him alive. Julienne had spoken with Fontaine at length. The sight of them together had crushed him further. They presented a dashing couple—two perfect, blond, beautiful aristocrats. The handsome marquess had staked an obvious claim to Julienne, and Lucien had wanted nothing more than to rip them apart.
He’d determined to make her as jealous as he was, to force her to share in his misery. But when he’d succeeded, when she’d fled the room in obvious distress, he’d followed, unable to do otherwise. The smell of her, the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth—he’d been consumed by a singular madness. To give her up, to lose her, was nigh unbearable, and he’d wanted her to say she felt the same. He’d wanted her to fight for him, and when she had, when she’d turned the tables, he’d wanted her even more.
“Lucien?” His mother’s voice was filled with concern.
He slid his hands through his hair and laced them at the back of his neck. He looked at his mother with a pained smile. “I’ve made a mess of things again.”
The parlor door opened.
“Good morning!” the duke greeted as he entered.
Lucien rose from his chair and extended his hand to the man with whom he bore a remarkable resemblance. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“You look terrible, son.”
“So I’ve been told. Repeatedly.”
“Your father thinks Lady Julienne would be perfect for Haverston,” Amanda murmured.
“What?” Lucien’s eyes widened in horror. There was one way for his life to become more hellish than it presently was, and that was for his younger brother, Charles, the present Marquess of Haverston and future Duke of Glasser, to court or (heaven forbid!) marry his Julienne.
His Grace shot a glance at his longtime paramour. “Seems you were correct, love,” he conceded dryly.
Amanda smiled with triumph. “Am I not always?”
The duke grunted and bent to kiss her upraised cheek. “I must depart. Carolyn is having some sort of soiree this weekend, and I’m expected to attend.”
“Of course,” she replied, showing no sign of hurt or dismay at the mention of the Duchess of Glasser. After all their years together, she was confident in the extent of the duke’s love for her and was aware that after the birth of Charles, the heir, he had never touched his wife again. “Return to me at your soonest.”
“Never doubt it.” Magnus kissed her again.
Lucien watched the exchange as he had often done over the years, but today the scene held new poignancy. It was a harsh reminder that people did not marry below their class. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that the most he could hope for would be to become Julienne’s lover after her marriage. The arrangement could almost be perfect. He would not have to marry, and Julienne could have the title she deserved. But Lucien knew he could never share her with another man, and Julienne would never consent to such an arrangement in any case. She took her responsibilities seriously and would never betray her husband, even if that husband were unfaithful to her.
After the duke left, his mother returned her attention to him. “Do you intend to allow Lady Julienne to marry Fontaine?”
“I have no choice.”
“Why not?”
“I offered to marry her, and she refused.”
“Lucien!” Amanda’s brow creased with a frown, something she never allowed herself to do because she feared it would cause wrinkles. “You love her.” It was a statement, not a question.
Lucien lifted his cup. “I lust for her.”
She sighed. “For heaven’s sake, darling, I am your mother. You cannot lie to me.”
“That’s not a lie.”
“Surely there’s more to it than that.”
“Such as?” he muttered. First Marchant, now his mother. Was everyone determined to meddle in his life?
Amanda set her clasped hands on the edge of the table. “Such as why she was so quick to rush to your defense? Against her brother, no less. And one hundred thousand quid, Lucien? You would never have allowed Montrose to become so far in your debt without a motive.” Her eyes lit with discovery. “Are you planning to use the earl’s misfortune to obtain his sister? Something so underhanded sounds just like you.”
“Thank you for the glowing estimation of my character, Mother.” But what an interesting idea. He was surprised he hadn’t come up with it himself.
Amanda pounced on his telltale smile. “What is your plan?” she queried eagerly.
“I don’t have a plan. I was biding my time until one presented itself.”
“Come now. You always have a plan. ’Tis how you acquired greater wealth than your brother.”
“Mother,” Lucien began with quiet emphasis, “I’m not certain what impression you received from Julienne last evening, but I can assure you, she is not in charity with me at the moment.”
His mother frowned again. “Do you want her?”
“Of course,” he admitted. “I just don’t know in what way I want her. Or for how long, which is why she refused my suit.” Of course, he’d botched the entire affair by accusing her of things she wasn’t capable of and then storming out . . .
“Tell me what was said, and I’ll tell you where you erred.”
He laughed. “Why is the mistake assumed to be mine?”
She leaned forward, and Lucien was caught by the earnest intensity of her voice. “You deserve to be happy. If Lady Julienne makes you happy, you should fight to the death for her. You are worthy of a highborn bride. Never doubt that.”
“I’m not worthy of Julienne.” There was no bitterness in his voice, just quiet resignation.
Raw hurt glittered in his mother’s eyes. “I am the only difference between you and Fontaine. You are wealthier, you are more handsome, and your blood is almost as blue. Are you ashamed of me, Lucien? Is it because your mother is a courtesan that you feel unworthy of Julienne La Coeur?”
“No.” He reached across the table for her delicate hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It has nothing to do with you. I’ve never been a good man, never aspired to be one, and I’ve been perfectly content. I have no desire to change. Julienne is an angel, the purest thing I’ve ever known. Agreeing to my suit would alienate her from the only life she’s ever known. Eventually she would grow to hate me for that.”
“I think you underestimate her strength, Lucien. You may find that you won’t make her a lesser woman. Instead she may make you a better man.” Amanda shot him a quizzical glance. “Does your bastardy offend her?”
“No.” Lucien smiled. “She thinks your affair is ‘romantic. ’”
“And so it is,” she said, with a smug smile. “I liked the girl last night. I like her even more now. She seems a very practical sort.”
Lucien arched a brow. “I recognize that look. Stay out of my private affairs, Mother. I do an excellent job of botching them up on my own. I don’t require any assistance.” He stood. “I have to go now. I have work to do.”
“And a lot to think about as well.”
He grinned affectionately and ignored her comment. “I shall see you next week.”
As her son left, Amanda Remington sat back in her chair and contemplated her next course of action. She knew what her son needed, even if he didn’t.
And she would see that he got it.
Chapter Nine
Hugh La Coeur, the sixth Earl of Montrose, paused on the step of his carriage and grimaced at the imposing three-story, columned entrance to Remington’s. The morning sun shone brightly on the white façade as various members of the peerage exited and entered the popular gentlemen’s club. Behind him, traffic was heavy on St. James. The steady clatter of rolling carriage wheels, horses’ hooves, and harnesses reminded him that life was still bustling forward for the rest of London, while he prepared to face his largest and most ruthless creditor.
With a deep, fortifying breath,
Hugh climbed the steps to the watered-glass, double-door entrance. A footman in black-and-silver livery welcomed him inside, and Hugh handed his hat, gloves, and cane to one of two waiting attendants. He stepped into the round entrance foyer, with its black-and-white marbled floors, and again admired the massive chandelier that hung three stories up, with a large round table centered below it. A gigantic floral arrangement dominated the center of the table, its heady fragrance permeating every corner of the foyer.
Straight ahead was the gaming area. From there, one could find either the staircases that led to the upper floors—where the fencing studio, courtesans, and private rooms were located— or to the lower floors, where the pugilist rings were kept. To the left was the kitchen. To the right were the offices of Lucien Remington.
Hugh took one last, wistful look at the gaming rooms and then turned to his right. He walked through the huge wooden door, with its oval glass center, and handed his card to the secretary, expecting to wait. He was surprised when he was announced without delay.
Nervous trepidation plagued him as he entered the sanctum of Lucien Remington. He’d never been in the offices before, and he took in his surroundings with a curious eye. The first thing he noticed was the carved mahogany desk, which directly faced the door. The massive piece of furniture was flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling windows, and the desktop was littered with paperwork, silent confirmation of the strength and breadth of Remington’s empire.
The room was done in masculine shades of deep green, cream, and gold. An immense fireplace to the left was the focal point of a conversation area holding a settee and two leather wingback chairs. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases took up all the available wall space. To the right, sunlit windows afforded views of the street below.
“Good afternoon, Lord Montrose. I trust your trip to the country was pleasant.”
Hugh turned toward the deep voice and saw Remington standing behind his desk, his famous blue eyes lit with amusement as he waved a hand toward one of the chairs that faced him.
“How did you know where I was?” Hugh asked crossly as he took a seat.
