Blaize eyed the sideboard, which still offered a reasonable amount of food. If he went for another helping, the kitchen staff would have to make their own breakfast.
Lyndhurst got to his feet and took his plate to the sideboard, where he helped himself to a chop and the remaining eggs, then added a couple of kidneys for good measure.
“Planning a siege?” Blaize enquired when he returned to the table.
Lyndhurst frowned in incomprehension.
Blaize nodded to his plate. Lyndhurst’s face cleared. “Ah. Old habits. Sometimes you don’t know where the next meal is coming from. I know those times have gone.” He paused, laughed. “No, that’s not true. I just like food. Like eating.”
Grinning, Blaize applied himself to his eggs and toast.
For a few minutes, silence ensued except for the occasional chink of dish against saucer or fork against plate. It appeared that both gentlemen had a decent appetite. Or that Lyndhurst wanted silence. Blaize could wait. In the meantime he enjoyed the fresh tea and the hot food.
Eventually Lyndhurst cleared his plate for the second time and took a deep draught of coffee. Then he put his dish on the saucer carefully, giving it a small twist until it was arranged to his satisfaction. Blaize knew why. Having a dislike of over-elaborate china, his breakfast set consisted of plain white porcelain with a Greek key pattern in gold around the edge of each piece. That dish had a mismatched pattern. The painter had made a mistake and Blaize liked it. Perfection made him uncomfortable.
Obviously Lyndhurst felt differently, because he’d just moved the faulty pattern out of his sight. Blaize leaned back, wondering if it was worth picking up the folded newspaper that sat on the sideboard, freshly pressed and ready for him. “You know why they press newspapers before they bring them up?”
Lyndhurst shot the paper a look of disparagement. “Because the pampered nobility can’t bear a crease in the newsprint?”
Blaize gave a short laugh. “Because the heat sets the print and we don’t get black fingers from reading.”
“You’d be surprised how black your fingers can get from using black powder,” Lyndhurst replied promptly.
A weary sigh was Blaize’s response. “Give it up, Lyndhurst. I’m older than you—by hundreds of years, I’d guess—and I’ve been in more wars than I care to remember. None of them left me with any sense of anything but futility and waste. Nobody gains from war.”
“That’s your considered opinion?”
“After a great deal of practical demonstration, yes. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, when a force is attacked by another and it’s defend or lose. But nobody gains in the long run. We all suffer. Just think of all the ingenuity that goes into developing a new firing mechanism, or undermining a fort, wasted when the fort explodes and takes all those clever engineers with it.”
Lyndhurst shrugged, and Blaize knew why. He’d kept away from the previous incarnation of Mars. That previous Mars had been too keen to rush into battle. Unfortunately conflict excited him. It was his nature, not something he could help. But he could control it. He prayed Lyndhurst would be the controlling type. His army experience might help. In these straitened times for immortals, he needed discipline, most especially of the internal, self-controlling kind. They all did. Which meant that Blaize’s special trick, his frenzy, went against everything he was thinking. Sometimes he had to stop thinking.
But not now. “You don’t think we’re at war with the Titans?” Lyndhurst said coolly.
“No. They’re at war with us. And the rest of mankind. The only difference is that mankind doesn’t know it. They want to rule everyone, just like the old days.”
“Which of course you remember,” Lyndhurst interjected.
Blaize went along with the folly. “Naturally. I remember too many things, Lyndhurst. And, most of all, that nothing makes sense. Believe that and you hold the world in your hand.”
Lyndhurst gave him a quizzical look. “I don’t begin to understand you. But that isn’t the point, is it?”
Blaize lifted his napkin from his lap and carefully placed it on the table by his plate, the crumpled linen a challenge to Lyndhurst’s orderly nature. “I am aware. Tread carefully, my friend. Lady Aurelia Welles is not under discussion. I told you my intentions as a matter of courtesy. I do not invite your opinion.”
“You cannot marry her, Stretton.” Wearying, how the man insisted on having his say anyway.
“Can I not?” He raised an insouciant brow, aware that would incite Lyndhurst further. “Tell me why.”
“Because you can’t live a life under enchantment.” Lyndhurst, still sitting perfectly upright, while Blaize had allowed himself to lounge, glared at him.
Blaize met his gaze, held it, and for an instant, let that part of him show through that he usually preferred to keep hidden. “Tell that to Circe. I don’t have to be mad myself to drive others mad, you know. I can do it temporarily, or I can scramble your brains permanently.”
“Do not marry Lady Aurelia.”
“I’d like to know what business it is of yours.”
Lyndhurst gave a “give me strength” look that Blaize rather liked. “With Jupiter weakened by his lack of knowledge and his recent illness, we Ancients need you.”
“Do not concern yourself with Jupiter. Give him a little time with his bride.” So far nobody had discovered exactly where Gerard was with Faith and his father. Not at the family seat of Hill House, that was for sure. Blaize would rather keep it that way, even from so-called allies like Lyndhurst. They needed time and peace and quiet. And after the ordeal Gerard had suffered, he deserved it, too. “They are guarding Kronos. I have him neatly boxed and tidied away as long as the shell of the body he occupies holds out. I was careful to leave him in good physical shape.”
“Fair enough.” Lyndhurst could understand that, of course. Battle tactics included distraction and misleading. “I’ve kept quiet the last thirty years while I learned how to cope with my gifts. I had to learn who and what I was in solitude. The army proved a good escape and a training ground.” He leaned forward, dark eyes intent, meeting Blaize’s gaze fearlessly. “Lady Aurelia and her mother are in a conspiracy together.”
Blaize thought of a counter-argument. “If Aurelia is part of the dowager’s plan, why has she not trapped more immortals already?” They would have come to his notice if they’d have made any major conquests before.
“She’s not the dowager’s dupe. You are smitten, Stretton, and she will take you and destroy you. We can’t afford that.”
Blaize allowed his lip to curl. “So you’ll save me from myself?”
“Something of that nature. Yes. None of us are above the plotting of Titans.”
Blaize shook his head. “If you try to cross me in this, I will fight you. Once you get me out of my corner, you will be sorry for it.”
“We know her mother contrived to be present that day when the gods were destroyed. We know Kentmere is the result. Is d’Argento safe searching for him on his own?”
“He’ll take care.” He’d better. Blaize trusted d’Argento to tell him if he was in trouble. They’d always operated as a team. They worked well together, but if Lyndhurst opposed them and refused to listen to reason, they couldn’t count him as an ally. The gods hadn’t always got along together, even the same generation. Even when they’d been siblings.
Blaize got to his feet. “We’ve spoken enough. I have an appointment soon.” Should he tell Lyndhurst he was visiting the dowager? No, because then Lyndhurst would likely arrive too, determined to spoil Blaize’s game.
He would go ahead as planned and secure Aurelia’s hand. Then he’d take her to the theatre, and then to the busiest, most populous balls in town, and since this was the height of the Season, that shouldn’t prove difficult. Announce his intentions in the most public way possible. If that didn’t bring her brother running, nothing would.
He left the room. Lyndhurst could eat everything on the sideboard as far as Blaize was concerned. T
he sideboard itself, come to that. He had other things to do.
Blaize stood outside the door of the house hired by the dowager for the Season, a gracious residence in a fashionable part of London, set in a street of similarly gracious houses. He gave himself a moment to get his strategy straight in his mind. Be firm, but allow the duchess enough leeway to think she was getting her own way. Lyndhurst was right in one thing—she wanted to ensnare an immortal who would convert her daughter. Something he was sure he would do in the fullness of time. Not every mortal could be converted—in the old days, made a demigod—but Aurelia had immortal blood in her, so she’d be a prime candidate. If the unlikeliest thing happened and she could not be converted, Blaize had a plan for that as well.
With a tug to his waistcoat, he strode up the steps and rang the bell.
Sitting in the stately grandeur of her drawing room, the dowager duchess listened to his carefully worded, formal request in silence. She must know, as he did, that this was the initial foray into what could be complex negotiations. Even in normal circumstances, when both participants were mortal, discussions were complicated enough. With immortals? Worse.
The dowager must know that Blaize was an immortal, but not who. If she knew who he was, she could attack him more efficiently. Otherwise, he’d have taken more precautions. But he was impatient—he wanted to make Aurelia his as soon as possible. Take her away from the conflagration to come, when they started the war with the dowager in earnest, ensure her safety, because that meant more to him than anything else.
Her hard, grey gaze never left his face while he explained. She must be used to receiving requests like this, especially in her son’s absence.
Blaize had recited his speech by rote, he’d practiced it so much, and he didn’t feel in the least nervous while he was speaking, but when he fell silent, his stomach fluttered. This was Aurelia’s mother, and without her blessing they would have a difficult time ahead. Because whatever happened after this, Aurelia belonged to him. He was determined on it.
He forced a smile. “I appreciate your seeing me. I assume we have negotiations ahead. Do you have any questions for me today?”
The dowager raised a brow. “Many. The first, naturally, is your income. I know your status, it’s all too obvious.” Folding her hands in her lap, she prepared to listen.
Aware she had offered no refreshments, Blaize ploughed on. He listed his estates and their incomes, adding with a deprecating smile that he would have to repeat it all when Kentmere returned. “Because, naturally we require his permission.” But not if Kentmere took much longer.
“Naturally.” She sounded frosty, but she usually sounded like that, so he thought nothing of it.
He discussed the situation and convenience of his main country house, and mentioned that he had a project for Aurelia, should she like it. “The formal gardens are badly in need of bringing up-to-date. If Lady Aurelia wishes, she can make them her own.”
“If she ever sees them.” With ponderous majesty, the duchess got to her feet. Blaize quickly stood but she bade him sit again. “I don’t usually indulge in spirits at this time of the day, but I need sustenance. Would you take a drink?”
Cautiously, he nodded. “Thank you.”
A Tantalus stood on the sideboard, and she took a delicate key from the gold chatelaine that hung from her waist and unlocked it. “You have a reputation, you know.”
“For what, pray?”
“For your consumption of alcohol.”
Ah. He’d tried not to make his drinking too obvious around her, to allay her suspicions, but of course the gossip mill would be working exceedingly well. If she hadn’t seen it, she’d have heard of it. “It’s an illusion, ma’am.” He gave her an easy smile. “I am usually to be found with a drink in my hand, but that’s partly to deter people from offering more. I drink at my own pace. Have you ever seen me the worse for alcohol?”
She regarded him thoughtfully. “No.” However hard he tried, Blaize couldn’t read her. Her mind was closed as securely as a mantrap around a poacher’s leg.
Tension invaded the air between them. It snapped tight, although from their conversation Blaize couldn’t detect anything. Only that sense that enabled him to detect moods told him something had changed. The dowager had listened to his petition calmly, no expression on her hard features. But now something else entered the air. Was she about to refuse his request?
“Does that satisfy you?” he concluded.
After staring at him in silence for several long seconds, the duchess put down her own tumbler, untouched. Blaize had finished his already. It was very good brandy, not a variety he was familiar with.
“Not nearly enough,” she said softly. A new note coloured her voice, one of absolute certainty.
Blaize cocked his head and asked the inevitable. “What else would you like to know?”
“How long you thought you could fool me.” She got to her feet.
Out of politeness, Blaize tried to get up too, but he found he couldn’t. His feet seemed stuck to the floor.
The dowager watched him, a spider observing her prey. “I knew what you were, I only needed to discover who. Then I discovered your diamond in Aurelia’s room. I have a friend, one who specializes in divination and some very interesting herbs. Not only did she tell me who you were, merely by touching your pin, she also had some useful mixtures to hand. That brandy was interesting, wasn’t it? It had an extra ingredient. She said the mixture was tasteless, but I didn’t trust it. Anyone who drinks as much as Bacchus would detect something, if only by habituation.”
She sighed. “It took a long time to find that particular brandy, one that is rarely sold in London. There’s enough foxglove juice in there to kill ten men. Or render one god insensible.”
Blaize couldn’t move, couldn’t even close his eyes. All he could do was breathe. How long would that last? His throat seized up and he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
Only one path remained to him. Mustering all his strength, pushing away the black clouds obscuring his mind, he pushed into her, as far as he could, heedless of the pain he might cause. Who are you?
Giving a shocked cry, she clapped a hand to her bosom and forced him out. A Titan. She was a Titan.
Then the clouds won and he pitched forward into their soft, cushiony depths.
Chapter Eight
Back from her shopping trip, Aurelia waited for the summons from her mother. When her mama had informed her that she was receiving Lord Stretton that morning, she knew what was afoot. So delighted their waiting was about to end, she happily took her maid to her favourite milliner’s establishment on Oxford Street and spent an hour selecting a hat she knew Blaize would like to see her in. Returning, she went upstairs and waited patiently. Surely her mother wouldn’t take more than an hour with him? But as she waited, another hour passed before Aurelia decided to go downstairs.
Her mother sat in the drawing room entertaining a few friends. She gave a sunny smile when Aurelia entered, and bade her join them. She could hardly question her mother in front of company. So she discussed the weather, the fashion in embroidery for twining vines that seemed the absolute vogue this Season and the genius of Mr. Garrick at Drury Lane, showing every evidence of interest. She’d learned to act over the years. Only one thing interested her today.
While disappointed not to meet him, she waited patiently for her mother’s guests to depart. Usually after a proposal and agreement, the bride-to-be was allowed a short time with her groom-to-be in glorious, unsupervised privacy. She’d longed for that, thirsted for his kiss, ached to feel his arms around her. Had he gone to expedite the marriage, to apply for the special licence before the office closed? That must be the answer. She’d see him later.
Having assured herself, she found her store of patience sorely tried, as her mother entertained a steady stream of what must have been her stuffiest acquaintances. When they began to discuss the latest sermon at St. George’s, Hanover Square, Aurelia was hard put no
t to fall asleep. But she fought to stay awake and smiled and nodded. The people would go home and call her utterly charming, say her manners were impeccable.
At last they left and it was time to go upstairs to dress for dinner. Aurelia could speak to her mother.
“Mama, did he call today?”
Her mother waved at the closed door, her courtly gesture indicating her pleasure in the number. “Patience, my dear. It appears they like us in London, which is a blessing. They could have made your entry into London society difficult. We lingered in Edinburgh too long, I fear, but it isn’t too late. I think we should come here next year, perhaps take up a few of the invitations to the house parties. I already have two.”
Surely she wouldn’t be there. “But Mama—didn’t you have a visitor earlier?”
Her mother’s face cleared. “Oh, you mean Lord Stretton?”
Aurelia stopped herself from stamping her foot in temper. “Yes, of course I do. What did he say?”
“Why, that he had to leave town and if we left for Scotland before his return, to give you his best wishes. I’m remiss in doing that, my dear. Forgive me.”
“He said no more?” Her mind reeled. But he had pledged himself to her! He wouldn’t have done that, surely. “Did he say why he had to leave so quickly?”
“No, I don’t believe he did.”
“Was he agitated?”
Her mother shot her a sharp stare. “No. Why, were you expecting more?”
Tears threatened. She blinked them back, swallowed them down. Any sign of distress and her mother would pounce on it. She always did, never let any chance to dominate her daughter pass without using it. She did it calmly and with the utmost reason. Only when Aurelia examined the dowager’s reasons did she find flaws, or rather, deviations that gave her mother the edge but weren’t necessarily true.
Except in the dowager duchess’s eyes, of course.
“You know I was expecting more. Lord Stretton has made his intentions very particular.”
Aurelia hated that superior laugh. No real mirth hid in the tinkling notes. “Poor child! You expected him to propose to you? I told you, Lord Stretton is a dangerous flirt. He was amusing himself with you, no more. I daresay he’ll send you a note full of regret. Matters were becoming a little too particular for him. You are well rid of him.” She raised a hand when Aurelia began to protest. “We have some interesting guests tonight, some I think you’ll enjoy. Go and change for dinner and ensure you’re wearing something most becoming. The amber silk would work well, I think.”
Mad for Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 2 Page 10
