He allowed a smirk. “Of course not. But her husband might once I tell him what she’s done,” he argued.
“Oh, please don’t,” she begged her eyes still wide.
His brows furrowed at how frightened she looked. At least tears no longer brightened her eyes. “You are not angry with her?”
The air seemed to leave her all at once. “Ever since my husband died, Cousin Julia—Lady Comber—has been one of the few who has continued to pay calls on me. To ensure I haven’t joined my husband from the sheer boredom of mourning,” she explained with a sigh. “So, yes, I will be cross with her, but I will ensure we will still be friends once she has heard my complaints.”
Randolph considered her words and allowed a sigh. “Comber wouldn’t raise a hand against her, nor a whip,” he murmured. “He loves her too much.”
“But he will be cross with her,” Xenobia said with a grin, rather liking his last comment. “Until she reminds him that she’s carrying his child, and then all will be well.”
Chuckling, Randolph said, “Much like my father would be with his wife, I suppose.” He remembered his father’s mention that he thought another babe was on the way. “For the very same reason.”
Xenobia noticed the change in her guest’s expression, how he seemed unsure of how he felt when speaking of his father. “Pray tell, is there a chance I might have been introduced to your father or mother?”
Randolph dipped his head. Lady Comber obviously hadn’t mentioned his relationship to the couple who lived just down the street. “I suppose there’s a chance,” he replied. “Lord Reading. Are you acquainted with him or... or with his marchioness?”
The word ‘Reading’ had Xenobia blinking. There was only one man she knew of that went by that moniker. “Your father is the Marquess of Reading?”
Randolph nodded. “He is.”
The Rake of Reading, Xenobia almost said out loud. At least, that had been the man’s reputation before he had finally, at the age of five-and-thirty, married Constance Fitzwilliam. That reputation as a rake had been well-earned. Four bastard sons and one daughter by four different women, although Randall Roderick had seen to it all were raised by good families.
She had only ever met the daughter. Despite the four years’ difference in their age, she and Rachel had become fast friends over their similar circumstances.
“I am the oldest,” Randolph said, as if he could read her thoughts.
Xenobia blinked. How had she not realized he looked like a younger version of Randall Roderick? No wonder he seemed so familiar! His father lived only ten doors down in Curzon Street. Before her husband had died, Xenobia had been a guest in the marchioness’ parlor many times. She had even visited the nursery. Held the babes and remarked on how much she wanted one of her own.
Then she realized why his coach would be parked just down the street.
Not because he had thought to save her from gossip, but because he had probably come directly from the marquess’ townhouse.
“Were you at Reading House this evening?”
Randolph wasn’t sure if he was relieved or bothered that she was familiar with his father. Given her age, it was unlikely Xenobia had ever had an affaire with the marquess, but given Reading’s reputation as a rake prior to his marriage, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities.
“I was there, yes,” he admitted finally. “I had dinner with him and his marchioness, so it was not at all an inconvenience to pay a call on you.” Despite his opinion of Constance having changed considerably over the past year, he still found it impossible to refer to her as his stepmother in conversation.
Xenobia wished she still held the book. She desperately wanted to hug it to her chest—hold it before her as if it was a shield. To pick it up from the table now would only draw more attention as her expression displayed a look of horror. “Oh, dear. I’ve just now realized Lady Comber was playing at matchmaking.”
For a moment, Randolph wished he had accepted the offer of a brandy. This was the one night during the week when he could imbibe and not be concerned about whether or not he got too drunk. “Has she been led to believe you want another husband?”
Stunned, Xenobia held back a rebuke and considered how she might answer. The question would come up the next time she took tea in someone else’s parlor—if not directly, then in some roundabout fashion that would no doubt leave her embarrassed. “I don’t know that I wish to marry again. At least, not so soon,” she finally admitted.
“If not marriage, then what would you like to do next, my lady?” he asked. From her manners, he knew she hadn’t given a thought to the life of a Merry Widow. She was far too meek.
Too timid.
When she seemed confused by his query, he said, “Your status as a widow allows you a good deal of latitude.” When her eyes widened, as if she intended to scold him, he quickly added, “You can travel, for example. Move to a different town, or live in the country. Take a holiday to Brighton, or enjoy the waters in Bath.”
From the way he had qualified his question, Xenobia knew he did not ask what she wanted in order to satisfy his own curiosity, but rather to suggest she think about what she wanted for herself.
“Companionship at first, I should think,” she blurted. “Before I would consider traveling anywhere.” At seeing his gentle nod, she added, “A friend. Someone with whom to attend the theatre or a soirée. Someone to invite for dinner.”
“So, the death of your husband has left you... lonely?”
She nodded. “He was my best friend. For nearly my entire life. But after we married...” She allowed the sentence to trail off.
“Not so much?”
Xenobia once again looked as if she might cry. “I found him annoying. The boy I knew hadn’t grown into a man but rather into a... a fop,” she whispered. “There were nights he was far better dressed than me, in shoes far more ornate than mine.”
Randolph regarded her a moment as he considered his own situation with Barbara. Although he hadn’t known her his entire life—or hers—he had thought the two of them were well suited when he proposed marriage. He had thought they were happy together. To discover Barbara had not shared his sentiments had been both a shock and a disappointment.
Given her pregnancy, he had hoped she might grow fond of him once the child was born.
He hadn’t considered the alternative.
Remembering something of what he had said at the beginning of their conversation, Xenobia said, “You mentioned being married.” She held her breath, hoping the floor would open up beneath her.
Surprised by the sudden sadness that had him clearing his throat in order to reply, Randolph said, “I was. My wife died shortly after giving birth to our son, Charlie.” He winced at hearing the harsh words spoken aloud, and then swallowed hard as he tried to avoid his hostess’ look of astonishment.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Xenobia replied, her words at odds with the sense of relief she felt just then. At the thought that she had already met Charlie. Held him, in fact. “A friend, too?”
He nodded. “She was a good friend, and yet I still thought it remarkable that she agreed to marry me knowing I was illegitimate.”
Xenobia struggled to maintain an impassive expression. “But your father has recognized you as his own, has he not?”
Then she remembered how he had introduced himself. Sir Randolph Roderick. As a bastard, it was doubtful he was a baronet. The only other means of acquiring his title was if he were a knight.
“Oh, he has,” Randolph replied, and then because he was feeling rather peckish toward the man—especially because he had seen him leaving The Queen of Hearts the afternoon prior—he added, “Me, as well as three other bastard sons. From the day we were born.” When she didn’t react—he was sure he had scandalized her with the comment—he dipped his head. “Barbara seemed fine with it, but after a time—”
“Society reminded her.”
Grimacing, Randolph angled his head to one side, as if he was abou
t to say something. Instead, he finally nodded. “Every day, it seems. I could not change what I am, and Barbara seemed less inclined to accept the situation for what it was.”
“And then she died,” Xenobia murmured.
The simple words felt as if a door had slammed shut. Randolph inhaled, the scents of various flowers tickling his nostrils. His gaze darted to a vase of red roses and then to another of lilies. Both were reminders of the parlor in his own townhouse at Christmas time. Reminders of Barbara.
He was about to make his excuses and take his leave, but the expression on his hostess’ face—her eyes were wide, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just said—had him reconsidering. “I think you could do with a brandy, my lady. I know I could use one.”
“Oh, dear,” she replied. “I think you may be right,” she added as she moved to stand. Randolph held out a staying hand. He rose from his chair in an instant and quickly moved to the sideboard where the crystal decanters of various liquors were lined up on a large silver salver.
As Randolph reached for the brandy, he wondered if the decanters had been touched since Dunsworth’s death.
Brandy Makes It All Better
A moment later
Xenobia watched as he poured a finger’s worth of brandy into two crystal glasses. He had mentioned having brothers, but he hadn’t mentioned his sister, Rachel, and she wondered at the omission. Perhaps he wasn’t on good terms with her. Xenobia sighed and then angled her head as she considered a safe subject. “What of your child?”
Randolph’s face brightened, and for the first time that evening, Xenobia thought him handsome. She wondered what he might look like freshly shaven in the morning, with his hair trimmed a bit shorter.
“Charles is just past one and quite a handful,” he said. “I expect he’ll be walking at any moment. He’s living in the nursery at my father’s house.”
“Growing up with his...” Xenobia paused to consider the relationship. “Uncle?”
“Indeed,” he said with a grin as he handed her a glass.
“Thank you. Are you able to see him often?”
“As often as I can. Usually a few times a week, and always Wednesday nights, like tonight.”
“A short walk,” she murmured.
“But a pleasant one,” he said as he leaned forward in his chair.
“Even in this wintery weather?”
Randolph lifted a broad shoulder. “It’s a bit chilly, but it wasn’t snowing when I was on my way here,” he replied. He held out his glass. “In a few days, we shall see more greenery decorating doors, and it will be even more pleasant. Now, what shall we drink to?”
Xenobia considered how to respond. “New friendships?” she offered, holding her breath in anticipation of what he might say.
A wan grin appeared and seemed to further soften Randolph’s harsh features. “New friendships,” he agreed before lifting his glass in salute. He took a sip, nearly purring with appreciation of the fortified wine.
Baron Dunsworth might have been a fop, but he certainly had good taste in liquor.
“I know I shouldn’t, but I find I do like brandy,” Xenobia said, just before the tip of her tongue touched the edge of her lip.
That little gesture had Randolph blinking. For a moment, he imagined her doing that immediately following a kiss, as if she wished to retain the flavor of it. “I find it a civilized drink,” he agreed. “Too many of my acquaintances have begun drinking scotch from up north. Can’t say I have an appreciation for the stuff,” he added with a grimace.
“I’ve heard of it, but never tried it,” Xenobia replied. “I rather imagine men of leisure appreciate all sorts of spirits, though.”
Randolph furrowed a brow as he wondered if she had deliberately put voice to a double entendre. “Not being a man of leisure, I cannot say from first-hand experience.”
Her eyes widened. “May I inquire as to your... work? Or are you referring to the horse training?”
From the way she asked, Randolph knew he had surprised her. She had assumed that as a son of a marquess—even a bastard son—he did not have to work for his living.
He didn’t—not really—but he wasn’t about to admit it.
“I am in charge of one of my father’s stables. The one just east of town,” he replied. “I train horses and arrange for the sale of those we do not need for the marquessate, usually at Tattersall’s.”
As for his other employment, he could have admitted to working for King and Country, but he knew she would ask by which office he was employed. He didn’t want to lie to the young matron, but there were some secrets he needed to keep.
“So, you were not at all surprised when Lady Comber asked if you might consider training my horse?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not at all. I would have welcomed the commission, actually, in the hope that I might secure future employment from others.”
“From my recommendation?”
Randolph was struck by how quickly she sorted his reason for meeting with her. “Or your husband’s, if you’d had one.”
Xenobia dipped her head. “I am terribly sorry about the misunderstanding. For the inconvenience this has caused you.”
Randolph finished off his brandy. “You needn’t be.”
“I’m happy to pay you for your time. For the... consultation,” she stammered.
“No need, my lady.” He noted her expression. Besides being embarrassed, she seemed at a loss as to what to say or do next. He had already determined she wasn’t an empty-headed English miss, but she surely was timid. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel as if Lady Comber’s machination was her fault.
He cleared his throat. “It’s unfortunate the Season’s entertainments will not begin for a few months, but once they do, may I expect to claim a dance with you, my lady?”
“You wish to dance with me?”
Straightening in his chair, Randolph regarded her a moment. She reminded him a bit of Barbara, although where Barbara’s innocence about the world had been feigned, Lady Dunsworth’s seemed genuine. “I do.”
Xenobia’s question had left her bow lips slightly parted, and Randolph’s thoughts of innocence were suddenly replaced with thoughts of what those lips would be like to kiss. At the moment, they would no doubt taste of brandy. Perhaps there would be a touch of the wine she had drunk with dinner. A hint of sweetness from whatever dessert her cook had created. The tang of salt from a tear.
It would be easy to pity the poor woman, but he was determined to see her as something more than an unexperienced widow. More than an innocent young matron.
Thoughts of what she might be like in his bed flitted at the edge of this thoughts. Would she become a tigress? Purring as he pleasured her and then pouncing when it was his turn to be pleasured?
His manhood hardened behind the fall of his breeches, and Randolph struggled to erase the carnal thoughts.
The last of Xenobia’s brandy made its way down her throat, its warmth combined with his words emboldening her. “Pray tell, do you have any evenings free for the likes of me?” she asked. “I mean, to spend like this, of course,” she quickly qualified. “Drinks and... conversation. Perhaps on nights after you’ve said good-night to your son? I fear I have become a bit of a hermit this past year, and I could really use the practice.”
Randolph stared at her before his gaze dropped to the empty glass she held. Apparently, the brandy had loosed her tongue.
And her timidity.
He allowed a shrug. “I... I suppose I could return next Wednesday evening. It would have to be after dinner with my father, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” she replied. “We can enjoy a glass of brandy, and you can tell me more about your son.” Since she had already met the babe, she was curious as to how he was getting along.
Randolph allowed a grin. “My stepmother thinks he will grow up believing he is a bird, since I’m inclined to toss him into the air so much.”
Xenobia leaned forwa
rd, her face brightening. “Oh, how delightful. I suppose his giggles can be heard throughout the nursery.”
“Oh, I think down to the second story,” he replied with a chuckle, just then realizing he had referred to Lady Reading as his stepmother.
Well, there was a first for everything, he supposed.
“At some point, he will grow too heavy, and I will be reduced to entertaining him by spinning him around as I hold onto his arms. That’s what my father was doing this evening with my brother, Robert.” He resisted the urge to blink when he realized he had referred to Robert as his brother rather than his half-brother. Glancing into his glass, he wondered from where the brandy had come.
If he knew, he would see to stocking it at his townhouse.
Xenobia’s face lit up again as a hand went to cover her mouth. “I cannot imagine it. The Marquess of Reading playing with his son.”
“It is a sight,” Randolph replied as he sobered. “One I did not experience as a child, I assure you.”
“Which means you were not rendered dizzy.”
“True,” he acknowledged, a grin once again returning to his lips and a dimple appearing in his right cheek.
Kissable lips.
Xenobia resisted the urge to blink, wondering why she would think such a thing just then. Why she suddenly imagined what it might be like to be kissed by this man, his firm lips sliding over hers until she opened her mouth to his questing tongue. Even as he suckled the pillows of her lips, she could imagine the tip of his tongue sliding over her teeth, tangling with hers, tasting the brandy she had finished, and perhaps the wine she had had with dinner.
Would he also taste the sweet dessert?
Or merely taste the salt from her tears?
She was contemplating this last when Randolph asked, “Did you wish for me to pour you some more brandy?”
Blinking away her reverie at the same moment she noted how aroused she felt, Xenobia shook her head. “Oh, no. I would be left foxed,” she replied with a grin, rather liking how her knees no longer seemed to be part of her body. There was a slight buzzing in her head, as well, a rather pleasant sensation she had only ever experienced when she drank too much champagne at balls. Her eyes widened, though, when she thought perhaps he had asked because he wanted more. “But do help yourself.”
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 16
