Chapter 10

Lord Charles Eversleigh’s Townhouse

The next day

One o’clock in the afternoon

Or thereabouts

Jack squinted against the dawn light piercing through black brocade curtains then oh-so-carefully lifted his head from the green silk chaise-lounge across from his brother’s towering explosion of a bed.

He immediately regretted the action.

Charles had promised to prove a distraction for the evening and he had most definitely succeeded.

Gambling with the Chinese for half the night, drinking, and listening to the most ear splitting quarter tonal music had left him near eardrum less, and probably brainless. And that was before they’d slummed their way down to the docks to drink with a few sailors and a fair share of buxom and brash doxies.

The bed before his gaze moved and Jack blinked, convinced that he was still drunk. A usually pleasant sensation. But nothing had been terribly pleasant since his wife had come to town.

Then he realized it was the forest green bedclothes which were moving and not the mahogany four poster decked out with gold silk hangings and long peacock feathers. The peacock feathers had come from a fan he’d pilfered from a dancer two years ago. A night he’d never live down. Charles had hung them as a challenge to himself apparently. No debauchery was ever too. . well. . . debauched.

A blond head popped out from the bottom of the bed and then a slender arm dangled over the edge. Moments later, a red head joined the blond one. . . and then a black haired girl, their long locks sliding and tumbling as they slid around at the bottom of the bed. The covers rolled and shook like a shining sea of fabric over their bodies.

Jack propped himself up on an arm and wondered in an Aquinas fashion, not how many angels could dance on the head of a pin, but rather how many women could fit in his brother’s bed?

It always struck him as fascinating the difference between himself and his twin when it came to women.

He bedded women for the pleasure but also a specific end, the continual proof to himself that women were fickle creatures and a trap he would never fall into. His brother on the other hand, reveled in them and seemed to love each woman he met in his own way, even if he did send them all off with a light kiss and a handful of extra flash.

The giggles began as they always did when more than one female congregated. Soon four women were sitting up right quite unashamedly baring four different sets of bosoms ranging from voluptuously large to delicately pert.

It was a lovely sight. Usually, he would have strode forward and taken part. . . Ironically, he found himself thinking instead on his wife’s breasts and what category they might fall into, delicate or voluptuous. . . Something most likely in-between. From what he could tell, her breasts seemed perfect. Certainly more perfect than any of these ladies of the night.

This line of thought terrified him and simultaneously made him wish to jump up and vacate the room to find said wife and spend time with her bosom.

Charles slowly pushed himself up at the top of the bed and sat himself against the carved headboard in a sort of wrecked ease. A dissipated sultan who leaned over to the side of his bed and pulled a long black cigar from a silver box, lit it with a match and reclined, his eyes half lidded and his mouth a smirking line. He drew in a long puff then as he exhaled he said, “Jack, how could you leave all these ladies’ pleasure up to me?” He reached out and casually stroked the blonde’s arm, his fingers tracing small circular patterns along the pale flesh. “You quite abandoned me on the field of battle.”

A general murmur of disagreement came from the girls and they began to wriggle toward Charles to show him that in no way had he proved himself unequal to the task. He held up a hand, keeping them at their distance. “My dears, I thank you for your company, but alas, all good things must end.”

He crooked his finger towards the blond who crawled forward. Taking her chin in between his thumb and forefinger, he gave her a soft kiss. “Thank you, darling.” And then he gestured for her to get off the bed.

Which of course she did in a rather dreamy state, a loopy smile on her lips as she wobbled off and a few moments and parting kisses later, the other women joined her. A veritable parade of naked, well pleased women.

They all pattered out into the hall, their clothes in various states about their body. Charles was an odd sort who treated ladies like whores, and whores like ladies and sometimes let the lines bleed to a point where it was impossible to tell who was a lady and who was a whore.

But it could never be said that Charles was cruel to women. He liked them too much to send them packing with a terse nod, no cab fair, and an empty stomach.

If he knew his brother, there was a feast of fantastic proportions waiting for the woman of questionable origin downstairs, and the servants would treat them all as if they were the daughters of princes, no matter how they behaved or what hideous accent came out of their otherwise skilled mouths.

It was something to be admired in his otherwise unstable brother. For years, he’d attempted to live with the same sort of wild abandon as his twin, succeeding most of the time. But he’d never quite been able to escape his father’s ever looming declaration that he was a horrific disappointment.

Charles hauled himself off the bed and swung on a black velvet dressing gown, puffing on his cigar. “So, why didn’t you join in the fun?”

Jack avoided the question for as long as possible but knew total avoidance was impossible with his twin. He shoved a hand through his hair. “I- I’m not entirely certain.”

“I am.”

“Bravo. That makes one of us.”

Charles stalked across the room, picked up a half empty bottle of brandy that had found its way to the floor in the previous night’s adventures, then lowered himself into the leather, brass studded chair beside the green chaise. He took a swallow of the dusky liquid then offered the open bottle.

Jack shook his head, tempted to try to cure his headache with what had given it, but even he wasn’t quite ready to wake up to brandy. The world was not come to an end just yet.

Charles shrugged and cradled the bottle on his lap like it was his beloved child, as he sat relaxed, confident and completely unapologetic for his behavior.

Jack sighed and shoved himself up to a sitting position, wishing the throbbing in his head would fade. “What is your diagnosis then?”

Charles arched a black brow eyeing him up and down with a surprising measure of derision. He pointed a finger at him, the smoke from his cigar whirling like a devil’s tail. “You are in her thrall,” he accused.

Jack thought about that absurd idea for a moment and tried to formulate a reply. He failed, supplying instead a pathetic, “Pardon?” instead.

“Thrall,” Charles repeated slowly and a little too loudly as if that would somehow make him understand. “As in she holds you in her power.”

Jack scowled then shook his head. And then wished he hadn’t as his brain rattled around within his skull. “I don’t think so.”

“Then why didn’t you come to one of those lovely young women’s dire assistance last evening?”

“Because group frolics have lost their appeal.”

Charles snorted. “Group frolics never lose their appeal. One simply refrains because they have allied themselves to a single individual which is otherwise known as monogamy.” Charles shuddered. “Monogamy,” he said again. . . and then shuddered once more before he took a very long draw on his cigar.

“I’ve known her for forty eight hours. I hardly think she has such power over me.”

Charles just smiled his half mocking smile and propped his head up with his free hand. “She’s your wife, you want her and she wants everyone else but you. You don’t see the irony in that? Or should I say appeal?”

Cordy couldn’t possibly want everyone else besides him. She’d certainly wanted him when they first met. How could he help it that as her nefarious husband, she was fated to hate him right down to his innards. “What the buggering hell is the appeal?” he demanded.

“It is the ultimate challenge, brother.” Charles leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “To get her in your bed? A woman, so fascinating, so desired and yet so unattainable. Of course you’re in her thrall.”

Jack let out a long sigh, unwilling to admit that his brother might be right and so circumvented such an admission by asking, “What exactly is it then that you suggest?”

“I told you yesterday, or weren’t you listening?”

Jack ground his teeth down, thinking that if he punched his brother there wasn’t a soul in London who would blame him. “I’m not convinced of the merits of such advice.”

“Fine then. I shall offer it once more, slowly, and then its your choice to have restricted balls or not.” Charles tilted his head to the side and explained carefully, “She’s yours. Seduce her, and then annul her, divorce her, whatever tickles your twisted fancy. . . Just ensure that you give her her freedom.” He paused then declared, “You’ll both be happy. Where’s the harm in that?”

“Happy?” he echoed then dropped his head back against the green chaise lounge. “I worry at your definition of happiness, Charles.”

“Happiness, satiation, does it truly matter?”

It should. But he’d long given up the idea of any real happiness. To make his way through this world with enough pleasure to make it bearable had all he’d ever really allowed himself to wish for after their brother, Henry’s, death.

“So, why don’t you just help her get what she’s clearly longed for all these years.”

“And what is that?”

“Why, you, of course. No doubt, she’s been waiting all these year for you to show up and claim her. Don’t you think that’s all she really wants, the ability to call herself your wife with some semblance of pride, and the knowledge she can fornicate wherever she pleases? She’ll have funds, relative freedom, and your blessing to do whatever or whomever she wants. What more could a woman want? She’s only irritated because you haven’t come up to snuff.”

Charles had a point, and she had seemed quite angry that he’d never come to collect her. Perhaps, she had had a girlish fantasy about marriage to him. It wasn’t truly his fault that the reality was so far form the dream. But he could still give her what she desired, even if it was almost a decade late.

A light knock resounded on the oak paneled door and Charles called, “Come in.”

Benson, Charles implacable and indefatigable butler strode in. “Pardon my lord, but the Duke of Darkwell is insisting he come up. I’ve told him you are not at home, but he insists—”

Footsteps thudded down the hall.

Benson’s shaggy brows bolted up towards his wrinkled forehead in horror. He whipped towards the door on surprisingly agile legs. Just as he reached the door, Darkwell strode in.

“Your Grace!” Benson protested. “You. . . You. . .”

“Thank you, Benson,” Charles sighed. “Darkwell, you better have a damn good excuse for barging in. A few minutes earlier and you would have had quite an eye full.

Darkwell rolled his eyes. “Nothing I haven’t seen before but this is damned serious, because Kathryn is put out. And if Kathryn is put out, someone is going to be beaten to a pulp.”

“What the devil could have disturbed Kathryn,” Jack demanded. “Oh, perhaps my shrew of a wife?”

Darkwell’s dark eyes narrowed.

“Oh god,” Jack groaned. “It is about my wife.”

“And your grandmother,” Darkwell said flatly.

Jack stared at him blankly for a moment then vaulted up off the couch, his head nearly bursting, but he ignored the highly unpleasant sensation which was over powered by a sudden and distressing protective urge. “Speak plain.”

“I don’t know what the fates were about making your wife my wife’s friend, but they can’t have been thinking with any sort of benevolence. You see, your grandmother, that tigress, has convinced Cordelia to hie off to your home. I’ve already been there. I wasn’t allowed to see her and you clearly weren’t there.”

“You don’t suppose grandmama tossed her in the Thames?” Charles said with a suspicious amount of glee.

“Charles,” Jack snapped.

Charles blinked innocently. “What?”

“Not now.”

“Come,” Charles stated an air of boredom to his tone. “Not even grandmama would. . . . Hmmm.”

Jack gave a tight nod. “Exactly.”

Charles sighed dramatically. “Then?”

A slow momentum built within Jack’s usually empty chest. He’d wondered how he was going to capture his own wife. Now, he knew it. “Rescue.”

“How boring.” Charles examined his immaculate nails to emphasize his point.

Jack was tempted to tear off the sheets from his brother's bed and hang him. He tried a different and most likely more productive tactic instead. “It will infuriate grandmama.”

A thing he actually hated. His grandmother had done a great deal for him, but he couldn’t leave Cordelia to the older woman’s machinations.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “You’re not doing this out of some sort of noblesse oblige?”

“Of course not,” Jack scoffed. Noblesse oblige had nothing to do with the lust and determination to see his wife in a temper. With her beholden to him, that was the only thing a woman of her temper could be. But what a glorious temper, she did have.

Charles bounded to his feet. “Fine then. Let’s be going.”

Darkwell shook his raven haired head. “You two—”

“Yes?” they cut in in unison.

“Are the devil’s own brothers.”

“Indeed we are,” Jack agreed as he strode for the door. Cordelia had waited and waited for him to collect her. Well, he was finally going to come up to the mark. A smile tugged at his lips. At last, life was looking very, very worth living.