Mad for Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 2

by Lynne Connolly

  Even though her mother had the means to compel her, as she had before; too many times for her to doubt it. The times she’d felt herself doing things she had no intention of doing, even while she was in the middle of them. Telling convenient lies, talking to men she disliked. Parsing her Latin, though why she should learn Latin and ancient Greek still defeated her.

  However, she’d learned them, not willingly, but forced by some power beyond her control to go to the schoolroom when she’d wanted to take her horse out for a vigorous gallop in the sunshine. Her imagination, she’d always considered it, but over the years doubts had set in and she was no longer so sure.

  Now she was sitting next to a man she found amusing but faintly alarming, one with definite pretensions to her hand, one her mother approved of.

  Lord Stretton took a leisurely, meandering path to her, so that only ten minutes remained of his allotted time, if he stuck to the prescribed visiting period of half an hour. Finally he reached her. She almost breathed in relief, but held her sign in as she turned to him with a carefully controlled smile. “I thought you made a point of avoiding affairs such as this, my lord.”

  Blaize, his gaze said, his eyes holding a soft expression. But he only murmured what he should, and then added, “As if you didn’t expect me!”

  “Not here,” she said. She tried not to shift on the brocade-covered sofa.

  “The earliest possible opportunity,” he murmured, his voice far more intimate than it should be. Or was he playing with her? No, the expression in those eyes, so open, showed her he meant it.

  Dangerous. Now she realized why. If he could do that on demand, then yes, dangerous indeed.

  He straightened and gazed down at her. “I couldn’t stay away,” he added, but in a lighter tone, one that invited mockery. “I could not wait to see what confection of a gown you intended to present to the world today.”

  She glanced at the silk draped across her lap. Not for one moment had she imagined anyone noticed her fondness for clothes.

  Offering him a smile, her first truly sincere one of the day, she wished she could spend more time with him. So many questions she wanted answered, and so much she wanted to ask him. Of course he was dangerous, but last night he’d gone to great lengths to ensure her reputation remained intact, even though he’d taken more than any man before. Even Lyndhurst, who’d been assiduously courting her for the last six months, hadn’t gone that far. They’d managed one kiss, but nothing that had taken her as thoroughly as Lord Stretton—Blaize—had done last night.

  Yearnings she didn’t know she was capable of took her when she felt him nearby and surely she could not allow that, except that she couldn’t help herself. No fool, despite her mother’s strictures, she knew full well he could be toying with her.

  She should forget him and concentrate on the prospect seated next to her, except she could not. That edge of fear was there with Stretton. He had a reputation a man didn’t earn overnight.

  Aurelia dared a glance at her mother. Her eyes glittered like the diamond brooch on her gown, and as hard. Although she sat next to Lady Comyn and appeared absorbed in their conversation, Aurelia felt her presence like a living reproach.

  Beside her, the duke stretched one arm behind her head, in a proprietorial gesture she did not like, but he didn’t touch her. “I didn’t believe you could rise this early, Stretton.”

  Blaize raised a dark brow, his eyes sultry and unreadable, his lips quirked. “You’d be surprised what I can do, Lyndhurst. On the other hand, I believe you soldiers prefer an early night.”

  “Usually. We have to get up early most mornings to fight and plan the next campaign. You know, boring things like that.”

  “A war hero? Culloden?” The last battle on British soil just over ten years ago could have included Lyndhurst, but it had been a poor affair, with most of the Scots deserting before they reached the field.

  “Culloden was a rout,” Lyndhurst said. “But Cumberland introduced some interesting techniques during the battle. He’s a professional soldier,” he went on, as Blaize shuddered. “He does what is needful.” He shrugged. The press had heavily criticized Cumberland, but Lyndhurst was right. He won his battles. The fact that he was short, stout and unprepossessing didn’t endear him to people, and that, combined with the abrupt manner inherited from his father the King did him no favours. Unfair, but until the young, handsome Bonnie Prince Charlie had grown older and fatter, he’d been the popular romantic hero.

  “Better than leading troops into certain death, I suppose.”

  “What would you know about that?”

  “Indeed,” Blaize said softly, shifting a little. “What would I know?”

  The air bristled with their unspoken challenge. Fighting like two dogs—although currently relatively civilized lap dogs. But they’d turn on each other soon and then the street curs would emerge. Aurelia had seen it. After all, she had a brother.

  Aurelia closed her fan with a snap, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. “Everyone has a place in the world. If we were all soldiers, how would we raise the money for wars, and how to grow food to tend the troops?”

  Stretton glanced at her, his face relaxing into a smile, but that intimate one, only for her. As soon as she began to relax, it was gone and his gaze snapped back to aggression as he gave Lyndhurst his attention. “Do you return?”

  “I’ve given up the army. I have another career now.”

  “Ah yes. Duke.” Blaize inclined his head. “You’ll find it sadly tame next to the army.” He couldn’t have forgotten, not so soon. With a powerful, economical gesture so typical of him, he got to his feet. He and Blaize stood at a similar height, imposing, and next to each other, Aurelia noted more likenesses. Apart from their eye colour, akin but not identical, they’d seemed so different until they’d stood together and faced her.

  Then Blaize’s eyes warmed and his mouth softened in a smile. “My lady, a pleasure,” he said. “May I dare to call on you tomorrow to take some air?”

  “The rain is setting in,” the dowager announced. “It could be days before it’s clear enough.”

  They couldn’t ride together in a closed carriage, but she might have an opportunity to meet him in private. “Thank you, sir.”

  When he touched her hand, however briefly, she felt the connection through her whole body, a trail of sparks.

  When Lyndhurst bowed over her hand in farewell, she felt only warmth. Ordinary human warmth. “I look forward to your company at the theatre tomorrow night. I’ve bespoken a box.”

  She hadn’t realized her mother had made arrangements, but she often did so, only informing her daughter later, and since Aurelia could find no objection that wouldn’t appear petulant, she usually went. At least she’d get her outing with Blaize, even if they had a chaperone. If the weather was fine, he could take her to the park in an open carriage, perfectly acceptably, or they could ride.

  She prayed for sunshine.

  Outside the house, Blaize nodded to Lyndhurst, expecting to walk away until the man said, “I would speak with you. Will you accompany me to White’s?”

  He’d sounded him out, read as much as he could and discovered one thing—this man was an immortal. What kind he didn’t yet know, but he intended to find out.

  Lyndhurst glanced up at the clouds. “It’s a good day for a walk. I’ve known worse.”

  White’s was half a mile away and the drizzle was coming down with a relentlessness that suggested it had set in for the day. But he had no intention of having any kind of meaningful discussion in the rain.

  “I fear the day is too inclement for walking.” Proving he was a man by ruining his clothes didn’t sit well with Blaize. It was more likely to give him a cold.

  He hailed a passing chair. The chairmen set the sedan down and opened the door. “I’ll see you there,” Blaize said.

  Before Lyndhurst could say another word, he stepped inside. He didn’t care if the bastard joined him at the club or not. He could use a
glass or two of wine. The ride gave him a chance to assess his thoughts and decide how to conduct the coming discussion. If Lyndhurst turned up, of course.

  He’d sensed something in that room, an air, a tingle that he only felt in the presence of other immortals. His sense wasn’t acute enough to pinpoint the people or person, but when he’d approached Lyndhurst, his mind had positively shouted at him.

  He climbed into the drizzle and paid the chairmen, giving little heed to the coins he gave them. Enough to make them smile and send them on their way. Not that he cared about the smiles. The going away meant more.

  As he walked through the impressive portals of White’s Club and nodded to the porter, Blaize felt a weight slip from his shoulders. He loved this place. It smelled of tobacco smoke and fine port, a comfortable, masculine smell. The chairs were comfortably upholstered, the books and newspapers had a solid aspect, unlike the delicate, gilded furniture that adorned many a drawing room, and the members could sit and sleep, drink, chat, or go to the Hell room and gamble. Blaize unbuckled his sword and left it by the door with the others clustered in the rigid leather tubes set out for that purpose. Not every man left their weapon, but relaxing with a small sword dangling at one’s side could prove somewhat tricky. Only aristocrats were allowed to wear their swords in town, so most put up with the inconvenience. Here, they only had to demonstrate their right to walk through the door, making swords unnecessary.

  He strode upstairs and into the main room, intending to spend a few minutes with a newspaper and a glass of burgundy before Lyndhurst arrived. The waiter silently set a glass of rich, red wine by his side.

  All Blaize could see in his mind’s eye was Aurelia, that snatched few minutes in the little pavilion the only memory invading him and pursuing him. He took a sip of wine, then changed his mind and drained the glass, lifting a finger for the servant to refill it. Immediately he felt better, but he caught knowing glances from a few men seated nearby. There he goes, drinking again. They didn’t have to say it for him to hear it, even though today, as always, he kept his mind shuttered. He could taste her in the wine; her scent was permanently with him.

  “Stretton.”

  Blaize took his time turning his head to look up—and up—into the face of his rival. He kept his expression bland. “Won’t you join me? Wine?”

  Lyndhurst glanced at the glass, then at Blaize. “A small glass. I thank you.” His lips firmed in a straight line. Blaize’s response was to indicate that he wanted another drink. He needed sobriety for this discussion.

  Blaize gave him a bland smile. “Are you home for good this time?” He would keep this discussion civilized if it killed him. One reason a meeting at the club was preferable to somewhere more private.

  Lyndhurst shrugged. “I don’t have a home. I was in the army for ten years.”

  Thirty, Lyndhurst was thirty. Born in that fateful year that had caused the current turmoil. Blaize lifted his chin and paid attention to what he was asking. “You enjoyed the army?” Where had he been? More importantly, doing what?

  “It was a fulfilling career. I was sorry to leave it. I thought my brother would marry and beget heirs, but it was not to be, so I returned home to attend to the duties on the estate.”

  Lyndhurst had the light grey eyes shared by so many immortals and an air of command that could have been engendered by his career and his position in society, but Blaize sensed something else. He wouldn’t try to read the man yet. To sense his mind might reveal too much at this stage. Better Lyndhurst thought him a mortal. “Gentlemen.” D’Argento arrived. Blaize hadn’t even sent him a message. The perceptive Italian would know when he was needed. After all, that was part of Mercury’s place in the world. The charming, lilting accent he used in public concealed a mind of steel, but none of that echoed in his voice.

  D’Argento waited until a servant had carried a chair over to them and settled it before taking his seat and ordering coffee. He turned a laughing face to Blaize when he objected. “Not all of us are such devotees of the fermented grape.”

  Lyndhurst sipped his wine and then placed it on the table. “Sometimes it was all that we could get when the water was undrinkable. Have you ever tried boiled water?” He grimaced. “I’d rather drink my own urine.”

  “Dear Lord,” d’Argento remarked mildly, “I can’t say the substance has much appeal to me, but in a straight choice, I know which one I would plump for.”

  Blaize gestured to Lyndhurst with his half-empty glass. “I have no idea what your piss tastes like, but I’d rather not find out.”

  Despite their cordiality, the air sparked between them for one reason. Aurelia. Blaize wanted her, beyond reason. Lyndhurst nearly had her.

  “You’re known for keeping away from respectable women,” Lyndhurst said abruptly. “You should continue your policy with Lady Aurelia Welles.”

  Aha. Now they were getting somewhere. “She’s beautiful, wealthy and clever. Added to that, she doesn’t listen to gossip.”

  Lyndhurst’s long fingers flexed. “Maybe she should. I’ve been doing some research.”

  “Enterprising of you.” Tension snapped, and from the corner of his eye Blaize saw someone shift in his chair, while another lowered his newspaper. They sensed the tension between him and the other man. No special sensory gifts required.

  “You’ve had an adventurous career,” Lyndhurst said.

  Blaize waved his hand in a casual gesture of dismissal. “Either that or become bored to death.” The waiter arrived. Blaize picked up the fresh glass and sipped. “I have extravagant tastes. However, I can behave in a civilized manner if it doesn’t become too tedious.” He paused. “Last night I nearly abandoned it all and eloped with a woman I only just met. How I resisted, I will never know.”

  “I’ve carefully courted that woman for the last six months,” Lyndhurst said, keeping his voice low, but menace still infused every note.

  A spurt of emotion struck him. He had Lyndhurst on the raw. Blaize specialized in unbalancing people, a way to let d’Argento in to discover the nature of the beast they were dealing with. He could use his special gifts to quietly penetrate the man’s outer mental barriers to discover what lay underneath.

  Knowing men sitting nearby were listening, he raised his voice a trifle. If old Godfrey leaned forward much more he’d tumble from his chair, and whoever was hiding behind that journal hadn’t turned a page since Lyndhurst had come in.

  “May the best man win.” Blaize raised his glass and toasted Lyndhurst. “She’s a taking piece. If I get there before you do, I have the rights of a sitting tenant. Or maybe you like to share?”

  “You’d disparage a lady in such a way?” Aha. Definite bristle. The problem was, Blaize had the strongest urge to strike the man. He disliked overweening arrogance, and duke or no duke, nobody had the right to claim a woman without making his attentions clear. In his opinion, not even then.

  “I compliment her. Few society maidens hold my attention for long.”

  “You were gone with her for some time last night.”

  Blaize carefully placed his glass on the side table and gave the stem a twist, settling it to his satisfaction. “Be careful.”

  “Gentlemen,” d’Argento warned, his voice low.

  D’Argento contacted him mentally, something he could do without detection with irritating ease. Is this a ploy? What did you do with that girl last night?

  Too much. He paused. Not enough. Damn, how do I know?

  You want her.

  He’d have laughed, but he didn’t reveal for a second the channel his friend had opened up between them.

  “You have derided her, my lord,” Lyndhurst said stiffly. Oho, when titles came into the mix, matters grew serious.

  Blaize relaxed back into the deep comfort of his leather chair. “In what way? I merely had conversation with her.” And a little more, but he wouldn’t be revealing that.

  “Do you consider yourself a suitable companion for a young, untried woman?”
/>   Before he could stop himself, he gave the response, “Someone has to try her.”

  With a scrape of his chair, such that the sound echoed around the near-silent room, Lyndhurst sprang to his feet, his hand going to the place at his side where his sword customarily resided. With a “Gah!” of frustration, he towered over Blaize. “Get to your feet so I can kill you where you stand.”

  Blaize gave an inward sigh. As usual, he’d taken matters too far.

  He rose, keeping the sardonic smile firmly fixed on his face. “Not here, dear boy.” Blaize lifted his coat, to reveal the absence of his weapon. “Before you say the fateful words, think about what you’re doing. A duel would disparage the lady’s name far more than anything I’ve said here today.”

  “Then let’s agree that the world is too small to hold both of us.”

  He raised a brow. “The world? Rather a large remit, don’t you think?”

  “Not in this case.” With his lowering brows and murder in his eyes, Blaize could believe Lyndhurst was a soldier men feared. He epitomized warlike and martial.

  The notion struck him with the force of a tidal wave. He lost the smile, then his breath. His chin shot up and he stared at Lyndhurst. “By Christ…”

  By his side, d’Argento cleared his throat. “We have matters to discuss.” With a shot of accurate, blinding mental clarity, Blaize felt the force of the message Mercury sent to the man standing before them.

  Lyndhurst flinched back as if from an invisible blow. His eyes widened, startled. But he stood proudly. “Name your seconds, sir.”

  An immortal. But what kind? Nymph, god, Titan? Who else but a Titan would be so quick to combat? Would Blaize be so keen to take advantage of a situation that would give him the chance to destroy his opponent?

  Tight-lipped, Blaize nodded. “Tomorrow at dawn, on Hampstead Heath with swords. First blood.” He didn’t want this man dead, he wanted him weak and vulnerable. This was one way he could achieve that. But Lyndhurst would try to kill him if he was a Titan.