by Darcy Burke
“Yes, I should.” Except it sounded as though he didn’t agree. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to start that up again. I’m afraid your laughter took me spectacularly off guard.”
Spectacularly. As if it were the pinnacle of his day.
She set the book in her lap. “What happened with Townsend?”
He blew out a breath. “He lost his temper. To be fair, Pippin was taunting him, but everyone was doing it. Or so Axbridge told me since I arrived late. Townsend took it too seriously and became angry.” He arched his brows. “Quite angry.”
This bothered Ivy, only because her friend was so enamored of him. “Do you think he’ll leave the party?”
“I don’t know. Wendover didn’t ask him to, and Pippin apologized.”
“I hope Townsend did the same.”
Clare frowned. “He didn’t. I don’t know him well, so maybe he’s just quick to anger, and he’ll make things right later.”
Ivy smoothed her fingertips over the book in her lap. “One can hope.” She looked over at him, assessing his appearance. He was handsome, even with bits of grass still clinging to his coat. “Are you all right?”
“Me?” His eyes widened for a brief second. “Oh, from the altercation. Yes. I’m quite well.”
They fell silent for a moment, and again Ivy felt the quiet sharply—like a drumbeat in her brain. The overwhelming emotions she’d experienced earlier during the tournament washed back over her.
She looked at him, sitting just a few feet away. His dark gaze lingered on her, but it was inscrutable. She had no inkling what he was thinking. Which made what she was about to say all the more terrifying.
She ran her tongue along the suddenly dry roof of her mouth. “When you said you could change my life, what did you mean?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you really want to know?”
She nodded.
He pulled his legs up and leaned forward, sliding to the edge of the chair. When he spoke, it was dark and soft, but she heard every syllable. “I want to make you smile. Laugh, even. Although I can apparently do that with a well-placed treatise on cattle.” His lips curved up, captivating her even more. “And, if you’ll allow, I will ensure you’re satisfied in a way you’ve never been before.”
Satisfied? She was certain what he meant. “You’re talking about…sexual acts.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I’m talking about pleasuring you in whatever way you permit.”
“What if it’s just…talking to me?” She did love the things he said to her. He made her feel beautiful and special.
A voice in the back of her mind said this was Peter all over again. That Clare was just telling her what she wanted to hear so that he could get what he really wanted. Except he talked about her. He’d said nothing about what he wanted.
She was also ten years older now, and she had no illusions about her future. She knew precisely what awaited her, and this could be her last chance to have something, if only for a short time.
He fixed her with a dark, provocative stare. “I meant what I said—whatever way you allow. Even if it’s just spending time with you. We can even discuss that treatise if you’d like.”
Yes, he seemed a man of honesty and integrity, even if he was famous for seduction.
Emmaline’s words haunted her brain: “You shouldn’t have to be alone.”
No, she shouldn’t.
Lifting her chin, Ivy looked him square in the eye. “A great source of calamity lies in regret and anticipation; therefore a person is wise who thinks of the present alone, regardless of the past or future.”
“Goldsmith.” His lips spread into a wicked smile.
“Yes.” She stood up, the treatise in her hand. “I’ll give you one chance to change my life, Clare. Just one.”
He unfolded himself from the chair, rising above her and stepping so close, she could feel the heat of his body. “Please call me West when we’re alone.” He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I’ll accept your challenge. And I promise you that once won’t be enough.”
Chapter Six
West walked into his chamber with a grin, shocked yet pleased with the afternoon’s sudden, exciting turn of events. He’d never imagined Miss Breckenridge would change her mind. But he was exceedingly glad she had.
Whenever he accepted a new liaison, he began assessing the situation, how he would approach things with his new, temporary lover. But this was different. He wasn’t even entirely certain they would engage in anything physical. She’d mentioned simply talking. That was perhaps all she wanted.
His smile faded.
“Your Grace, is there a problem?” Seaver met him just inside the door.
West met his valet’s gaze. “What’s that?”
“You looked quite pleased when you entered and then you didn’t. Is something amiss?”
West moved farther into the room and shrugged out of his coat. “Ah, not amiss, no.” He’d find out what she wanted soon enough, and he’d meant what he’d said—whatever she’d allow. He only wanted to see her smile. Hear her laugh.
And perhaps moan. Was that so terrible?
“I may require your help with a new liaison.” Or not. He needed to tread carefully.
Seaver took the garment from him and folded it over his arm. “Whatever I can do.” He’d been a loyal, trustworthy, and discreet valet for fourteen years. West had promoted him from the position of footman at Stour’s Edge following West’s father’s death. West had selected the liveliest of the retainers, who happened to be near to him in age, and the one the maids swooned over. He and Seaver were kindred spirits in that respect. They loved and enjoyed women—their conversation, their softness, their sexuality.
West loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Discretion will be of the utmost importance. More than usual.”
Seaver inclined his head. “I see. Do you have a specific task you’d like me to undertake?”
West tugged off his cravat and handed it to Seaver. “Not yet. I’m trying to come up with a location for us to meet later this evening.” So they could…talk?
“Shouldn’t be too difficult at a house party.”
“No, but this is a special situation.” West gave him a pointed look. “The lady is not married.”
Seaver’s ginger brows spiked up in surprise. “That is special. I understand why discretion is so critical. Forgive my impertinence, but why would you seek to ruin a young lady?”
West heard the shock, and perhaps a splash of judgment, in Seaver’s tone. How he hated that word—ruin. He’d never done that, and he wasn’t about to start now. He frowned, wondering if he was taking advantage. “She’s a companion. And I’m not entirely certain our liaison will be of the physical variety.”
“Miss Breckenridge?” Seaver knew who she was since he’d arranged to deliver the notes and the book West had sent. “Since she is closer to my class than yours, might I point out that it wouldn’t take a physical liaison to ruin her if you were discovered. If you’re seen alone together in suspicious circumstances—as in, you didn’t happen to encounter each other in, say, the library—it would likely get her fired, and she’d have difficulty finding a new position.”
West nearly smiled at Seaver’s supposition, since chance meetings in the library were the basis of their relationship. “You’re saying I should leave her alone.” He’d tried. Truly. But then she’d asked him to change her life. She wasn’t a green girl.
He’d also played the role of seducer.
Damn it to hell.
He had to let her steer the ship. But he could at least organize a “chance” meeting. “Is there somewhere other than the library where I might happen to run into Miss Breckenridge?”
Seaver thought for a moment. “What about the conservatory? It seems a reasonable place to encounter other partygoers.”
“That would work well. You’ll need to get another note to her chamber.” West knew this wouldn’t be a problem since Seaver had handl
ed the previous items West had sent. Seaver had befriended one of the maids, and she was quite disposed to helping him—discreetly, of course.
West went to the desk, and his gaze fell on a glass of the whiskey Wendover had given him positioned next to an unopened letter. “Bloody hell.”
Seaver came up beside him. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s that time again.”
West’s birthday was in a few days, and it was one of two times each year he could expect a missive, the other being Yuletide. Though he could set a clock to their arrival, he never failed to forget this impending irritation. But then why would one choose to dwell upon something distasteful?
“Thank you for the whiskey,” West said. Seaver had started that tradition with the second letter West had received—more than a dozen years ago now. After seeing how upset it had made him, Seaver had simply given him the next one with a glass of whiskey. It had made the reading easier.
“You could throw it in the fire,” Seaver suggested, as he always did.
A few times, West had come close. Sometimes he read it immediately; other times he waited until he was at least tipsy. Why did he torture himself? Because what if the letter he burned was the letter in which she apologized? The letter in which she atoned for her wrongdoings and told him she loved him?
“Let’s just get it over with.” West picked up the glass first and tossed back the entire contents. He savored the rich, warm flavor and took a deep breath after he swallowed.
Seaver disappeared into the dressing room as West lifted the letter from the desk. He opened it slowly, dread curling in his gut.
As usual, it was less than a page and was crafted in the straightest, most elegant handwriting he’d ever known.
Clare,
Happy birthday. I hope this letter finds you well. And hopefully married or about to be married. You have a duty to the title, and your failure to provide an heir weighs heavy on my mind. Your father would be bitterly disappointed.
West crumpled the edge of the letter in his curling fingers. He wouldn’t either. The only thing his father had been bitter about was her.
If you can’t see fit to marry, you could at least repair your ghastly reputation. Though I am far away in Cornwall, I am still well aware of your transgressions, as are my neighbors. Have you no care for my shame, if not your own?
I am well and will continue to pray for your rehabilitation. It’s never too late to embrace godliness and expel sin. Sometimes I wonder what I did wrong to beget a son such as you, but I know it’s the devil tainting you. There is nothing I could have done better.
Except maybe loving him? Or his father?
He forced himself to finish it.
I am ever hopeful you will respond someday. Until then, I remain your faithful and concerned mother.
Anger burned his insides. She’d underlined faithful as she always did. She meant that as a slight against his father, who’d been unfaithful, but only because she’d given him no other choice. What was a man to do when his wife showed no interest in him for over a decade? His father had been a bloody saint, and all she could do was disgrace his memory with her rubbish.
He crushed the paper in his fist and dropped it onto the desk. He would’ve thrown it in the fire if one had been lit.
Why had he bothered? She wasn’t ever going to change. Ten months after his father had died fourteen years ago, she’d moved to Cornwall, much to West’s relief. At first, he’d tried responding to her correspondence, but she’d only written back to him with greater fervor. He’d ultimately given up, and it had been close to a decade since he’d tried. That she continued to write to him was a testament to her tenacity. But then he’d never doubted that.
Obstinacy had been one of her greatest traits. Along with detachment and disdain. He hadn’t noticed it much until he was about ten. He’d started to spend more time out of the nursery, particularly with his father, and the chasm between his parents had become rather obvious. He’d especially noticed it when they visited his aunt and uncle or the neighbors. West noted that they exchanged smiles and looks, that they touched one another. When he returned home, it was like stepping into a tomb—nothing but darkness and gloom.
He’d grown to hate it. And once his father had shared the truth, that he’d tried to love his wife, but she couldn’t love him back, West had grown to hate her.
A rap on his chamber door drew him from his memories. He took a deep breath and blinked, refocusing his eyes on the room around him.
Seaver came from the dressing room. “Shall I answer the door, Your Grace?”
West couldn’t imagine who it would be, but he was grateful for the interruption. “No, I’ll get it.”
“Did you draft the note yet? If so, I can take care of that now.”
“I haven’t. As usual, The Duchess has pissed all over my mood.”
“My apologies. Perhaps you’d care for another glass of whiskey.”
A second knock came from the door. “In a bit, thank you.”
Seaver nodded and returned to the dressing room as West went to the door. Opening it, he was surprised to see Townsend.
The viscount was a good five years younger than West’s thirty-one—almost thirty-two—years. He was also a few inches shorter and possessed a lean, athletic frame and a crop of light brown hair. His bark-brown eyes looked troubled, and he had trouble meeting West’s gaze immediately.
“Townsend, to what do I owe this visit?”
“Your Grace, I wondered if I might intrude upon you for a few minutes. I am seeking some advice, and you seem the best person to provide assistance.”
West opened the door wider. “Certainly. Come in.” As Townsend came inside, West tried to imagine what he could possibly advise him on and came to only one conclusion—sex. The number of young, unmarried men who’d sought his counsel was too high to count.
After closing the door, West followed him into the chamber to the small sitting area near the hearth. “This is…unexpected.”
Townsend didn’t sit in one of the pair of chairs. He clasped his hands together, appearing agitated. “You were there this afternoon at the shuttlecock court.” The statement held just the slightest edge of a question, as if he wanted confirmation.
West frowned, finding his almost-query strange. “Yes, I knocked you to the ground, if you recall.”
Townsend massaged his forehead with his fingertips. “Oh yes, yes.” He dropped his hand to his side. “My apologies. I’m afraid I wasn’t quite myself.”
“So I noticed.” He didn’t have to know Townsend well to realize the man had completely lost his mind for a moment. “What happened?”
Townsend’s gaze snapped to West, growing bright all of a sudden. “You were there. You heard what Pippin said.”
Actually, he hadn’t heard exactly what the man had yelled. “He taunted you somehow.”
“He called me a milksop.”
That was it? “I’ve been called far worse,” West said.
“To your face?”
By his own mother. “Yes.”
Townsend’s frame sagged. “What did you do?”
“I laughed. What else can one do?”
Townsend’s eyes narrowed with indignation. “Call the person out.”
West studied him for a moment, thinking he might have one of the shortest tempers he’d ever encountered. “I suppose you could, but unless you’re the Marquess of Axbridge, I don’t recommend you try that. Actually, he doesn’t do the challenging, so never mind.” West shook his head and turned back to the topic at hand. “What sort of advice are you seeking?” He was now relatively confident it had nothing to do with sex, for which he was thankful.
With an exhalation, Townsend’s frame drooped once more. “I suspect that today’s occurrence might have cast me in a poor light. What can I do to safeguard my reputation?” His use of the word “might” made it sound as though he wasn’t sure there’d been a negative effect.
West folded his arms over his chest. “Well, what�
�s done is done. You need to recognize that you acted rashly, and you need others to know you recognize that. Starting with Pippin. He apologized on the court. You did not. Have you rectified that?”
“Why should I?” There was that flash of mild temper again.
“Because you threatened him.” Did he not see that he was in the wrong? “If you hope to court Miss Forth-Hodges you’ll need to apologize.”
Townsend blanched. “You’re right, of course. I’m afraid I can be a bit…passionate sometimes.”
That was one way of putting it, West supposed.
“I shall apologize before dinner,” Townsend said, sounding a bit resigned. “I don’t want to ruin my chances with Miss Forth-Hodges. I appreciate your counsel.”
West walked the viscount to the door, glad that at least Miss Forth-Hodges could entice him to behave as he ought. “If I may offer another piece of advice? Try not to take life—or yourself—too seriously. Find joy wherever you can.”
Townsend turned and gave him a thoughtful stare. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
West opened the door and watched him leave before closing it once more. He went back to the desk and immediately thought of the duchess again. Shoving her to the recesses of his mind, he sat down and drafted a short missive to Miss Breckenridge. Satisfied, he folded it and called for Seaver, who immediately left to arrange its delivery.
West stared at the crumpled paper on the corner of the desk and narrowed his eyes. Magno cum gaudio was the Clare motto—with great joy. West had adopted this as his personal creed. What good was this life if you didn’t make the most of it?
This was precisely what he hoped to convey to Miss Breckenridge. She needed joy in her life. And he was damn well going to give it to her.
All during dinner, Ivy had tried not to send too many glances toward Clare—West; could she really call him that?—but it had been difficult. He was too damnably attractive. Garbed in a black coat with a dark green waistcoat, he was the epitome of a well-dressed gentleman. As the ranking person in attendance, he sat next to Lord Wendover and was doted upon by everyone around him. He was the epitome of an Untouchable.
