She shifted her gaze over to the couple, her mulish mouth now a soft O. “They’re lovers? How did you discern that?”
“Why else would they be at such a place where they are unlikely to be seen because no cares about glasses?”
The humor was back in her eyes. “They are likely to be seen, as there are several people here, and soon there will be a good deal more. You obviously don’t appreciate the setting. Exhibits are designed as a way to expose us to the world. Here, come with me.”
He shouldn’t indulge her. To make his point, he should stay where he was, but she had piqued his curiosity. He followed her to a glass case that housed decanters in numerous shapes, all in various shades of red.
“Imagine what it took to create these,” she said softly. “Heat, such immense heat, melting the glass, then a craftsman carefully gathering it up on a rod like honey.”
He couldn’t help but think of a woman’s heat, a woman’s honey. Nor did he seem capable of preventing his gaze from trailing over her, but she didn’t notice. She was focused entirely on the goblets and pitcher in the case, and her mesmerized expression was almost as intoxicating as her words.
“Glass blown with care—just the right amount of breath, of pressure, of force. Heating, cooling, shaping, reheating. The red added. All the work, the artistry, the passion that must go into creating something so beautiful.” She looked up at him then. “Can you imagine it?”
He could imagine it. Vividly. Too vividly. Her skin flushed with the fire of passion. Her lips plump from pressure. Her gaze smoldering with blazing desire. He imagined taking her mouth, burning his brand on her soul.
What the devil was wrong with him?
“How can you not appreciate a work of art, even if it is a common item?” she asked.
There was nothing common about it, about her. She shortchanged herself if she believed men were after only her dowry. Even if they didn’t love her, they would gain so much by having her—a work of art herself—at their side. Her fortune, her land, paled when compared with her worth.
“I think what I like best,” she said softly, “is that even its imperfections don’t detract from its beauty.”
“You say that as though you have imperfections.”
“We all have imperfections.” A sorrow and something that went deeper touched her eyes.
“They add character,” he told her, mimicking words his mother had once told him.
She laughed lightly. “So my mother says.”
He wondered if all mothers relied on the same counsel. He had a strong urge to want to make her believe the truth of them, if there was something about herself with which she found fault. He wondered if it was that small freckle, the one that had been left behind when all the others had deserted her. He remembered how much she had detested them when she was a child.
She turned her attention back to the glass. “Some of these items are hundreds of years old. They’ve managed to survive the centuries. If only they could talk. They were lovingly created by someone who is no longer here, being enjoyed by people whom the creator never met, would never meet because they were yet to be born.”
“Perhaps they weren’t lovingly created. Perhaps they were nothing more than a way to pay creditors.”
“What a cynic you are. No, whoever made these cared about them a great deal. They would not be so beautiful otherwise. I won’t accept any other answer.”
“You’re a romantic.”
She laughed again. “Frightfully so. But then I don’t suppose that comes as a surprise, considering the reason behind your presence here.”
Before he could respond, a commotion caught his attention. A group of people was barreling down the passageway. Apparently, the Marlborough House Set had arrived.
They swarmed in, bees to a fresh dusting of pollen, and swept her away as easily as driftwood on an outgoing tide. It was rather amazing to watch, as though he weren’t even there, as though it were impossible to conceive that they might have been together.
Jolly good for his reputation as a man who no longer had any interest in marriage.
He supposed he could have inserted himself, but she expected him to observe and share those observations later. Instead, his gaze kept drifting down to one of the vases. The red was muted, the shade of her hair, and he imagined the artisan blowing a soft breath into it, gliding his hands lovingly over it. He envisioned her as the inspiration for the piece, that somehow three, six, eight hundred, a thousand years ago another man had pictured her as he’d worked to create a vase that would outlast his lifetime.
Death had come, and yet the vase carried on. Whoever had served as the inspiration was gone as well. And yet, she, too, in an odd manner was still bringing beauty to the world.
The poetic nonsense of his thoughts could only be attributed to how ghastly bored he was looking at glass. Because on the heel of those musings he was struck with the uncanny certainty that they belonged elsewhere, and that he wanted them.
Exhibits were collections. Someone had put this one together. Someone owned these pieces. He wanted them. He intended to have them, regardless of the price.
It had been a long time since he’d wanted something this badly.
That evening, curled on a divan in the front parlor, Grace fought not to be disappointed that in the crush of admirers, she had lost sight of Lovingdon at the exhibit. His driver had alerted her that His Grace had taken his leave but left his carriage for her convenience. She supposed he had gotten rather bored with the glass and decided to go in search of a more interesting activity.
She was presently in search of entertainment as well. Undecided regarding how she would spend her evening, she sorted through various invitations. No grand balls tonight. Instead it was a night for small affairs. A reading at Lady Evelyn Easton’s. A concert at Marlborough House. A dinner at Chetwyn’s. The gentlemen had tried to tease her into revealing where she’d be tonight, but she hadn’t a clue, so it was easy to tell them the truth.
She wondered what plans Lovingdon had for the evening and if he would be in the back room at Dodger’s. Her fingers itched for another round of cards, a chance to get even. How the deuce had he cheated anyway? She kept careful watch of his movements. How had he known she’d cheat?
Because she always had. It was unseemly, but the lads had always bested her at so much. Swindling them had been her small victory.
She heard the doorbell. A caller. She wasn’t up to it. Besides, Lovingdon would probably tell her that a gentleman who bothered calling wasn’t truly interested. It seemed all his examples involved the various ways that demonstrated when a man didn’t fancy her. How would she know if he did?
He’ll know your favorite flower.
There had to be more to it than that.
She looked up as the butler walked in carrying a large box.
“The Duke of Lovingdon’s man just delivered this package for you.”
It was a large box, plain as a dirty road, not wrapped in fancy paper or decorated with ribbons. He set it on the small table in front of her.
“Whatever could it be?” she asked.
“I’m certain I don’t know, m’lady.”
“What have we here?” her mother asked as she glided into the room. “I heard the bell—”
“A gift from Lovingdon.”
“Fancy that. Whatever prompted such a gesture?”
She laughed self-consciously, because she wanted the gift to mean something when she knew that it probably was merely another lesson to be learned. How would she explain that to her mother? “I haven’t a clue.”
“Shall we see what it is?”
“I suppose we should.”
She lifted the lid, set it aside. Amidst black velvet rested red glass. Very gingerly she lifted out the pitcher.
“Oh my word. Isn’t that’s lovely?” her mother asked.
“I saw it at the exhibit today.” Overwhelmed, she didn’t know what else to say. The goblets were also there but it was the
pitcher that had arrested her attention. She held it up toward the gas-lit chandeliers and the color lightened, glimmered. So magnificent.
“Is there a note?”
“What? Oh.” Moving the velvet aside, she saw the parchment, pulled it out and read the neat script.
For your future household. I suspect the artisan would rather it be used than collecting dust in an exhibit.
She supposed she would forgive him for not appreciating the exhibit, when he had managed so successfully to touch her heart. Water served from this pitcher would taste incredibly sweet, and she would never be able to sip it without thinking of him.
“He’s optimistic at least,” her mother said after reading the missive.
“Optimistic that I’ll find a man who loves me. He knows I won’t marry one who doesn’t.”
“I suspect it’s been a long time since he’s been optimistic about anything. Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing that he’s been coming around.”
Not a bad thing at all.
Chapter 10
Lovingdon couldn’t recall how he’d come to be on the floor of his library. He thought after he retrieved his last bottle of whiskey that he’d been heading for the chair. But here he was with his back against it and his bottom on the floor. Which worked well, because it gave him a sturdy place to put the bottle when he wasn’t drinking from it.
It also gave him a lovely angle from which to gaze at the vase. With the lamp on the desk off to the side, it cast a halo around the glass container, changed the way it looked. Shadow and light. Copper and red.
“I expected to find you at Dodger’s.”
Grace’s sweet voice filled his ears. He lolled his head to the side. Shadow and light. Copper and red. “I really must talk with my butler about his penchant for allowing you to wander through my residence unannounced.”
She glided nearer, no provocative sway to her hips, no enticing roll of her shoulders, no flirtatious lowering of her eyelids, yet he considered her more alluring than any woman he’d known of late.
“He understands that I’m practically family.”
“I suspect it more likely that he understands your nature to do as you please.”
She grinned. “That as well.”
“I didn’t think you had any plans for the night.”
“I didn’t, but I wanted to thank you for the lovely glass. I suppose you were demonstrating another rule. If he loves me, he’ll know when I covet something.”
He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He did hope he didn’t look as silly as he felt. “It pleased you?”
“Very much.” She was standing over him now. “Would you like me to help you into a chair?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m where I want to be.”
“Not very high standards.” She turned, came up short. “You bought the vase as well.”
“It appeared lonely with all the other red pieces gone.”
“Careful there. You’re almost sounding poetic.”
“Never.”
He watched as she strolled over to his decanter table, grabbed a crystal carafe and glass, and walked back over to him. She settled onto the floor facing him, working her back against the chair opposite his, her legs stretched out alongside his.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his tone not nearly as firm as it should be, failing to convey the inappropriateness of her actions. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“It’s bad form to drink alone. Besides, Mother and Father don’t know that I’m here. They think I went to bed early with a headache.” She poured—what was it she had? Ah, yes, the rum—into her glass. She lifted it a bit. “Cheers.”
And proceeded to take a healthy swallow. No coughing or choking. She wasn’t a novice to hard liquor, but he hadn’t expected her to take so well to the rum.
“I have sherry, if you’d like,” he told her.
“I prefer rum. Awful of me not to prefer the more dainty drinks, I know. I mastered rum because my brothers were drinking it. It’s not fair that men go off to a private room to smoke and drink, and ladies sip tea. We should be able to end our evening with a hearty drink.” She lifted her glass in another salute before sipping the golden brew. “So I came to a get a report.”
“A report?”
“Yes, about what you observed today. Anyone who doesn’t fancy me.”
“Bertie fancies you.”
She laughed lightly. “The Prince of Wales?”
“Indeed, but you want to steer clear of married men, especially one who might one day rule an empire.”
“No worries there, as I have no interest in married men. Sort of defeats my purpose, since I am in search of a husband.”
He studied her, sipped his whiskey. It was loosening his tongue. Probably not a good thing, but—
“Why the urgency, Grace? Why the urgency to marry?”
She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “You won’t understand.”
“Whatever the reason, I promise not to judge you.”
She sighed. “I probably shouldn’t have had spirits tonight. It makes it so easy to talk, to say things that I wouldn’t normally say. Why does it do that?”
She hadn’t had a great deal yet, so maybe she wasn’t as accustomed to it as he thought. “That’s the whole point of it, to make you lose your inhibitions, to not give a damn one way or another. You can tell me because I’m so far gone that I probably won’t remember in the morning what you said.”
She tapped her glass, and he had an insane flash of her tapping that finger against his bare chest, of her running that nail down his breastbone, scoring his flesh. Yes, he should stop drinking now.
“My father,” she said.
He blinked, fought not to look surprised. But he was off his game. He suspected he looked like a deer that had suddenly found itself crossing the path of a hunter. “He’s forcing you to marry?”
“Of course not, but he’s losing his sight. You mustn’t tell anyone. He’s so proud and he’s hid it for years. I want him to see me as a bride, to know I’m happy. I want him to be able to dance with me on the day I marry.”
There was little that he could imagine that was worse than going blind, unless it was to lose the one you loved, but he suspected that others could tell him something worse. Everything was perspective. Everything was subjective.
“I’m sorry,” he said, words he meant from the depths of his blackened heart.
“I don’t know if it’s better to have been born blind and to never know what the world looks like or to have seen the world and then be condemned to blackness.”
“It’s rather like that question you posed the night you asked for my assistance: is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?”
“I would rather have love for a little while.”
Because she’d never had it. Things that one never possessed always shined more brightly than the things that were held.
They sat in silence for several long moments, with the fire crackling, the clock ticking, his collie snoring in the corner. Her dress buttoned up to her chin. The sleeves were long. No need for gloves when she was here in such an informal capacity. She drew up her knees to her chest, wound one arm around her legs. She couldn’t have had on more than one petticoat, because her skirt draped over her as though nothing existed between her and her skin. He wanted to touch her ankle, her knee, her hip, her shoulder, her chin. Light touches.
Sometimes they could be the most intimate.
Oh, but he needed to get his thoughts onto something else, so he said, “The couple at the exhibit, looking at the blue glass—I had it wrong. They were married to each other.”
She perked up. “How do you know?”
“Because of the way he touched her. Without thought, without artifice. He wanted her to know he was there, enjoying the moment with her, but he was careful not to intrude.”
Her brow pleated. “But you said they were lovers.”
“They are. One does no
t exclude the other.”
“But you were quite sure that she was married to someone else,” she reminded him.
“I’m not perfect, Grace. I do know they have six children, and so they frequent exhibits in order to be alone for a bit.”
“How did you acquire that information?”
“Spoke with him for a few moments when she went to the necessary room.”
Smiling brightly, she settled back against the chair. “I’m glad they’re married. That they’re lovers, and in love. So if a gentleman touches me, he loves me.”
“If he touches you without thinking, if he touches you simply because you’re near.”
Silence again. He didn’t know if he’d adequately explained the sort of action to which he was referring.
“Why are you here alone tonight?” she asked quietly.
“Sometimes I need to be alone.”
She craned her head back to see the portrait above the fireplace, the one of Juliette. “I was so young when you got married—too young for her and I to become dear friends. I wonder why I always saw her as so old, but never was bothered by the years separating you and I.”
“Perhaps because I was always in your life, and she came into it later.” Now he looked up. He couldn’t see Juliette from that angle, which was a good thing. She’d never approved of his drinking, so he only had a glass on special occasions. She’d never even developed a taste for wine. She didn’t like card games. Had she played, she certainly never would have cheated at them.
Unlike the woman across from him who was pouring herself more rum. She didn’t chastise him for sitting here, three sheets to the wind. She simply grabbed a decanter and joined him.
“What are you smiling at?” Grace asked.
Jolted from his reverie by her question, he jerked his head back. “Am I?”
“I can’t see your teeth, but your lips are curled up. I always liked your smile.”
“Always liked yours.”
“My teeth were too big for a bit there.”
“I never noticed.”
“Liar.”
He thought his smile grew. He always felt comfortable with her, as though there were no judgments, no wrongs, no sins. But at that moment he wanted more with her.
When the Duke Was Wicked Page 13
