How to Impress a Marquess
Page 31
He ran his hand over the cleft in his chin, pondering what he could politely repeat about the previous night’s bad turn. He probably shouldn’t mention to Isabella the desire for twelve uninterrupted hours in bed with a beautiful woman, which had made him stick a red rosebud in his lapel and stroll into a gaming hell off St. James’s early last evening. How he had drained a couple of brandies, trying to wash away the anxiety of the last weeks, until he felt the shine of his old, cocky charm return. That he had been about to amble over to the perfect quarry—curly, raven hair; large, luxurious dark eyes—when he heard a sweet, breathy voice say his name.
He had spun to find Cecelia, his ex-mistress, standing there, ravishing in pale blue. His throat had gone dry. The entire room stopped mid-roll, play, bet, or conversation and watched her, as though the famed actress were onstage in her own production. Before he could manage a “good evening” to her, George Harding had stepped forward, flanked by three personal flash men, and placed a possessive hand on her shoulder.
Randall didn’t think that Harding stealing his mistress was relevant to Isabella and the business at hand. Nor did he want to admit to Isabella that Harding was damned handsome, in an exotic way. While Randall was tall, the railroad baron towered over him. The man had bronze skin, a muscular build, a flint-like jaw, and a shiny, bald head. His black brows were slashes above eerie, unblinking eyes. So, essentially his version of the story for Isabella’s ears began with, “I went to a club and saw Harding. He asked me to sit down for a drink, something about clearing the bad blood between us.”
“Why did you take my railroad, my lord?” Harding had asked, setting his glass of cognac on the table and opening his palms. “I try to be a good Tory. I back your candidates.”
Harding’s flash men rushed to agree. “That’s right, Mr. Harding. You’re a Tory’s best supporter,” and “You’ve always done right by the Tories.”
“Do you pay for this personal audience of yahoos?” Randall had asked. “Or do these cullies follow you around because they don’t have any bollocks of their own?”
Harding’s flash men had glanced at each other, as though deciding how to react. The consensus was menacing until Harding broke into deep belly laughter. “Oh, you’re a funny, funny man.” The railroad baron leaned over, plucked the rosebud from Randall’s lapel, and twirled it under his nose. “Smells nice. With your title, pretty words, and face, you could have gone far, maybe prime minister. But you supported child labor laws and the repeal of the Corn Laws, instead of building railroads and prosperity. What will become of our golden boy with his empty head and glorious ambitions if he isn’t reelected?”
Randall had let a slow smile crawl cross his lips. “Careful there, old chap. One word from me and you might lose another railroad.”
Harding replaced the viscount’s rose. “With your title, you think I can’t touch you. The world is about to change; you need to choose which side you’re on before the election. Enjoy your house party. I hope you find a lovely, connected wife. I understand you’ve been a bit lonely of late.”
Randall decided it wasn’t important to tell Isabella how everyone in the gaming hell had watched the railroad baron leave with Randall’s beautiful mistress—ex-mistress—or the stream of colorful curses he’d released under his breath.
Now he gazed out the window in Isabella’s library. In the distance, at the entrance of his home, he could make out ladies in expansive skirts stepping from the carriages. His mother must be cursing him for not being there to greet them.
“I know you make fun of me,” he said quietly. “I know you, like my critics, think I’m shallow and overly ambitious and you disagree with my views.” He turned to Isabella, latching his gaze on her face. “But dammit, I’m a good politician. I’ve all but given my life to this country. I try—”
“You need something solid to hold against Harding.”
“No.” The motivation for his visit sounded so conniving, almost dishonorable when echoed back to him. He sank into his chair, rubbed his forehead, and conceded. “Yes.”
Order Susanna Ives’s second book
in the Wicked Little Secrets series
Wicked, My Love
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About the Author
Susanna Ives started writing when she left her job as a multimedia training developer to stay home with her family. Now she keeps busy driving her children to various classes, writing books, and maintaining websites. She often follows her husband on business trips around Europe and blogs about the misadventures of touring with children. She lives in Atlanta.
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