Julian nodded toward Gareth, who’d loaded up a series of silver platters on a tray and was getting ready to head to the terrace with them. Cocktails, he’d assured Julian, had already been served, and he had no reason to think they’d discussed anything other than the Kilroy collection of Staffordshire figurines. It was a topic Duke could talk about for hours.
The configuration of the house wasn’t ideal for meal service, since it took several flights of stairs to get from the kitchen to the formal dining room. The opulence probably more than made up for cold soup, and it would be difficult to concentrate on eating anyway, what with so many portraits of stuffy aristocrats staring down at the table from their wallpapered heights.
Kilroy and Kate were supposedly dining al fresco on a terrace off the dining room, where the sun had set and a calming twilight was settling in. Even Julian had to admit it was romantic. A wrought-iron balustrade was all that separated the cozy table service for two from the formal gardens off the front of the house. A seemingly endless array of geometric bushes and roses went off in the distance, a gravel path broken only by a cherubic fountain or two. There was a fish pond, Julian knew, farther out on the lawn. As teenagers, he and Peterson had once dropped a bag full of tadpoles into it, a prank that wasn’t nearly as productive as they’d hoped, since instead of goldfish, the pond was full of oscars, which promptly ate every single one of the creatures they’d collected.
Gareth coughed discreetly at the open french doors to the terrace, walking through only when Duke made a gesture with his hand. Duke was, fortunately, seated looking out over the grounds, his back to the door. It gave Julian enough time to slip past one of the doors and conceal himself behind the fronds of a potted palm.
Okay, not conceal, exactly. It would take a whole forest of palm trees to hide all of him. But it was enough to give him the illusion of anonymity, especially since the only light on the terrace was a large candle in the middle of the table. If Kate looked up, she might happen to see a tall, dark figure waiting by with a wine bottle in hand. Nothing more. One more servant among so many.
“Cook has prepared duck confit for the evening. It’s her specialty.”
“Thank you, Gareth,” Kate said warmly as Duke waved a dismissive hand. Julian was only able to catch her briefly in profile, since the back of Kilroy’s big, meaty head was blocking his view, but she seemed serene. Like she was enjoying a rich meal in a rich house with a rich man.
Which she was.
Gareth offered him a wink before stepping back into the dining room. He would wait, he’d promised, a few feet away, ready to take over at the first sign of disaster.
“Your house and grounds are very lovely,” Julian heard Kate say as she took in the overwhelming array of culture and money all around her. “Do you live here…with your parents?”
Julian thought he detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice, and he couldn’t help his own smile from spreading. If she only knew the extent to which Kilroy lived off his parents’ wealth. The man hadn’t worked a real job a single day of his life.
“Oh, no. Not at all,” Duke lied glibly, reaching out and placing a hand on top of Kate’s. “They live here with me.”
“And what, exactly, is the difference, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t mind at all. You can ask me anything.” Duke brought her hand to his lips. Irritation, mingled with anger and a little bit of disgust, flipped in Julian’s stomach. “My father isn’t well. All of this—the house, the properties in Europe, the business—have been passed down to me, and my parents spend most of their time taking in the healthy Mediterranean air. When they come to town, they stay with me, of course.”
“Of course,” Kate murmured.
Julian waited for her to say something about her own family, but Duke didn’t ask, and she didn’t volunteer. He liked to think the silence that descended over the table immediately after was awkward. Awkward and heavy and totally working against Duke’s favor.
“You know, I’m half tempted to beg permission to have my group’s event here,” Kate eventually said between bites of her dinner.
Julian wished she would. It would solve quite a few of his problems, even if the idea of such proximity between his enemies wasn’t exactly comforting.
“Not that you’ve offered, or that you should, of course.” Kate’s words were rushed. “I’m just saying…it’s nice.”
He could hear the embarrassment in her voice—he’d recognize it almost anywhere. It was a sound he enjoyed, rendering her voice a half sob, as if she could barely believe her own audacity in some of the things she said.
“I wish I could offer it to you,” Duke replied calmly. “But it would defeat everything if you gave up like that. Don’t you think?”
Everything? What everything? Stubborn, relentless perseverance done solely to make his life difficult? Julian swatted at one of the leafy fronds in irritation.
Both Kate and Duke looked up at the sound, but Duke merely said, “Is that you, Gareth? We could use more wine,” before returning to his plate. Kate, however, looked straight at him, not identifying him but definitely curious.
Julian gave a low cough, his signal to Gareth they needed to make a quick switch for the wine service. But no Gareth stepped forward.
He coughed louder. Still nothing.
This was clearly not the masterminded plan he’d thought it was going to be.
“Give it here, man. I’ll do it myself if you’re going to wheeze all over it.” Duke held out an insistent hand. At that moment, Kate sat upright in her chair. Julian didn’t need the glint of the candlelight or the sudden break in the clouds, revealing the rising moon, to tell him it was recognition that colored her face such a bright shade of red.
He thought for a moment she might cry out or faint or do one of those awful things women from those Regency books of hers did for fun. But she didn’t. She actually leaned back and cracked her knuckles, her eyes never wavering from Julian’s form.
“Yes, Gareth. Wine would be lovely.” There was a challenge in her voice that resonated with him as if she were spouting dirty pillow talk. “Why don’t you pour us some?”
Julian stepped out from the palm tree so that he was standing only a few feet behind Duke’s chair. Without allowing his gaze to waver from Kate’s, he brought the wine bottle up to his mouth, gripping the cork with his teeth. He pulled the cork out with a flourish, full pirate style, and spat it to the ground below. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he took a hefty swig, a few rivulets of the expensive red wine dribbling down his chin.
Before he could go any further with his demonstration, a pair of hands yanked him from behind. He could hear Gareth’s low hiss as the man grabbed the wine bottle from his hand and pushed him back in the direction of the dining room.
Duke turned around at the sound of the commotion, but Julian was fully hidden by that time, and all he saw was a flustered Gareth holding the bottle, wine dripping off the edge.
“What is wrong with you tonight?” Duke demanded. “Miss Simmons here would like some more wine.”
“Of course, Mr. Kilroy. I beg your pardon.”
Kate held her glass up with a smile, a one-sided toast meant solely for Julian’s eyes. A smarter man might use this opportunity to leave, to consider himself out one of the battles, though still wholly invested in the war. But a smarter man wouldn’t have been caught in this situation in the first place, so it was a moot point. Besides, Julian was never one to back down from a contest, and that was precisely what Kate was offering him, leaning back in her chair like she was suddenly the duchess.
Gareth tried to grab his arm and pull him away when he left the terrace, but Julian wouldn’t budge.
“I’ve got this, Gareth,” he whispered. “I’ll take all the blame if I get caught. You can go back downstairs.”
Gareth didn’t move right away, but Julian refused to back down.
“On my stepfather’s honor.”
They both knew it wasn’t a v
ow Julian made very often. With a shake of the head, Gareth eventually handed him the wine bottle and shuffled away. “You owe me, kid.”
Slight murmurs of conversation wafted in through the open door. Kate leaned over the table, intensely interested in something Duke was saying, but every so often, her eyes moved to the dining room. She was looking for him.
Well, he wouldn’t disappoint. Without any hesitation, he strode to the doorway and rested against one side, the wine bottle once again in hand.
Kate saw him right away and redoubled her efforts at charming her dinner companion. “My friend, Jada, has been dying to know what it is you boys wear under your kilts.” She ran a finger over the edge of her wineglass and licked her lips. She was on high gallop, this woman. Having once been the recipient of the full force of her seduction techniques, he knew damn well how effective they were. If he hadn’t walked in to overhear her uncovering her plot on the phone with Jada when he’d gone over to her house, he had no doubt he would have given up Cornwall Park to feel her lips on his just one time.
He was that weak.
Watching her now, Julian noticed for the first time that Kate was dressed up. Up, as in she was aware of the social requirements of dating a man like Duke Kilroy III. Dress, jewelry, hair. It was all right there, smacking him in the face with its glittery perfection.
As if feeling Julian’s sudden shift of attention, Kate crossed her legs, allowing one foot to kick deliberately in his direction. Silver heels, thin and delicate and completely unsuitable for anyone who intended to walk, glinted up at him, beckoned for him to run his hands along her calves, exploring the smooth lines of her muscles.
She was mocking him.
With her footwear.
Kilroy didn’t seem to notice as he leaned over the table and offered up a disgustingly nasal laugh. “Well, now. What we wear under our kilts is a highly guarded secret we men don’t like to discuss.”
Julian held back a snort. Kilroy wore support hose—the kind old ladies wore to weddings. Groin control, he called them.
“I’m half tempted to show up at your little Games and sneak a peek.” Kate was practically purring at him.
“I wish you could come.” Kilroy’s voice was filled with equal parts conceit and condescension. “But I know how you feel about the Fauxhall Gardens. I don’t want you to have to sacrifice something so important to you.”
Kate looked straight at Julian. “What a gentlemanly thing to say. It’s a downright shame they didn’t put you in charge of the Games in place of that ogre.”
Kilroy stiffened, his hand clasping the wineglass with sudden tension—a sentiment Julian shared. “That it is, Miss Simmons. That it is.”
“Speaking of ogres,” Kate continued, swiping at a few loose strands of hair. “How is it you know Julian? I find it hard to believe that a man like you would be on such good terms with him.”
“We’re not on such good terms. Julian isn’t a nice man. I don’t think you should deal with him any more than you have to. I don’t know what sort of garbage he’s been trying to feed you, but the truth is I’ve held the record for the local Games for years, and he’ll stop at nothing to take it from me.”
She laughed, tinkling peals full of mockery. “You make it sound like you guys are part of a plot to destroy the world or something. It’s just a game.”
Duke didn’t say a word in response. Julian knew the feeling—he was probably struggling between a desire to be polite and a desire to shake her until she realized what this meant to them. The SHS wasn’t just anything. Why couldn’t she understand that?
“So what do you mean, anyway, about him not stopping at anything? A Barry Bonds scandal? Cheating? Blackmail?” Her voice dropped ominously with each word.
Duke steepled his fingers and looked off in the distance, his pause so dramatic it almost subdued the crickets chirping in the background.
“It’s too soon to say. But all of those are possibilities when it comes to Wallace. Be careful with him. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Kate looked up. Julian hadn’t moved at all during their dialogue. He’d just listened. Watched. Tried to understand what it was Kate was attempting to get out of this evening.
On the surface, it seemed like her goals were aligned with his—gathering information. Plotting. Deceiving. Manipulating. A few more days of this and Julian would hardly be able to recognize himself anymore. But she looked so at ease sitting there, sipping wine against the backdrop of the formal gardens, smiling charmingly and dangling that damn silver, high-heeled shoe from her polished toes, he wondered to what lengths she might go to make those romantic notions of hers last for more than a few balls and gardens a couple of times a year.
“I don’t think Julian will hurt me, if that’s what you’re implying,” she said softly.
“Then you don’t know him very well.”
“Oh, I know enough. I know he’s overbearing and masterful. I know he cares about the Scottish Highland Games so much that common decency doesn’t even factor into his decision-making. And I know he’s very, very wrong if he thinks a few changes to my invitations and one of the worst attempts at spying I’ve ever encountered are going to stop me.”
Duke whipped around then, but Julian was too quick. He’d seen the flash of mischief on Kate’s face and dove to the side, out of sight of the terrace. His breath came quick and heavy, and he half expected Duke to come stomping into the room, demanding to know what was going on. But the tinkle of Kate’s laughter and the clatter of china indicated their romantic meal for two was going to continue unabated for at least a few minutes more.
He stood with his back to the wall, surveying the several-hundred-dollar bottle of wine in his hand. It was as old as he was, dressed in a label that was probably worth more than any item of clothing he owned. Even with a Rockland Bluff Whisky sponsorship and a win at the Games, he’d never be able to afford this kind of stuff. Any of it—the fancy dinner, the luxury car, the million-dollar view.
One of the things he loved about the Highland Games was that every man was made equal on the playing field. Hard work, dedication and honor were the only things that mattered, and they were accessible to everyone, no matter what his background. That was a real battle, where the odds were even from day one.
Standing here, in a house built of old money and even older class, Julian felt his inadequacy for the first time, and it made him feel an unnatural surge of anger that had nothing to do with competition.
The conversation in the next room was nauseatingly light, something about Kilroy’s car and a race along the autobahn. Julian waited for a few more minutes, thinking they might resume discussions of the Games or even him, but it seemed Kate had already dismissed him from her mind.
He’d been a fool to come here in the first place. And Michael’s clothes itched. It was high time to leave them to their romantic devices.
But before Julian walked away, he placed the bottle of wine carefully in the doorway and offered Kate a jaunty salute. She opened her mouth, as though she wanted to say something more, but he turned and glided through the silent dining room before she could get in another last word.
Chapter Eight
Highland Land League
If it had been Julian’s plan to strike fear into her silly, feminine heart, he’d accomplished his goals. For the past four days in a row, Kate had dressed herself every morning with painstaking care. Shoes, hair, dress, makeup. She could have been in a car accident and gone to her death without shame—even her pores were cooperating, and the morticians would have been amazed at her attention to detail.
And all because she was certain she was going to turn a corner or peek her head up over a bookshelf at work to find him standing there, grinning at her, judging her.
But apparently, he wasn’t a very dedicated stalker.
Kate knew that for a fact. She’d checked around the little cafe where she’d agreed to meet Lady Lovelace and Anne, taking two unnecessary trips to the restro
om to make sure he wasn’t posing as the waiter or as one of the large, leather-clad motorcycle gang members having scones over by the front window. He wasn’t there, just like he wasn’t in the break room at work, filling the water cooler in a gray jumpsuit or standing on her doorstep yesterday morning hoping to bring her the word of God.
Look at her. That man was making her act downright ridiculous—and in all her years of adherence to the Regency Society and with her cat curled up underneath her Victorian furniture, she’d never once considered herself ridiculous.
“Don’t you look nice today,” Anne said with a smile as she slid into the booth. Lady Lovelace was right behind her, wearing a hat so large and floral it looked like someone had affixed a garden patio to her head. Of course she sat right next to Kate, pushing her into the corner of the booth with the hat’s brim. It bobbed and weaved ominously near Kate’s face.
“I hope you’ve ordered the high tea,” Lady Lovelace said, her voice low with warning.
“Yes, ma’am,” Kate felt compelled to answer. The cafe, Briar Rose, was known for its high tea, plates full of scones and clotted cream as far as the eye could see. It was also known for the women who ordered it, be-hatted and bedecked in English finery.
This meeting hadn’t been her idea. After the date with Duke, Kate was more determined than ever to get Cornwall Park for their event, and the last thing she needed was Lady Lovelace’s hysterics trying to convince her otherwise.
A smile twisted at the corner of her mouth. The date with Duke.
She usually had Jada on hold for a post-mortem after all her first dates, and it took her friend’s rough sense of humor to pull Kate up from the still, brackish waters of the current dating pool. But she hadn’t even told Jada about meeting Duke or agreeing to meet him at his house for dinner. It broke all the rules, to meet a man on his own turf, but she’d done it anyway. And it was a good thing too. She now knew Julian for what he really was.
Which was…what, exactly? Daring and reckless and comfortable with spying on an intimate dinner for two?
Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 Page 12
