Chapter 11
The hand that clapped down on Damian’s shoulder held for a good long moment. “What are ye doing with Andromeda? Be plain.”
Damian did not shirk nor quail under the duke’s hard stare. Rather, he studied the Scotsman for a several seconds then said without reserve. “I’d like to marry your sister.”
Somehow, the duke had managed to get him alone in the corner of the drawing room under the pretense of looking at a particularly old map of the Ottoman Empire.
Clyde choked then dropped his hand from Damian’s shoulder.
Instead of anger, fury, or defiance, the duke’s face softened into pity.
“Och, man, I feel for ye.” Clyde lowered his hand, then shook his head. “Indeed, I do.”
Damian scowled at the man he was beginning to feel was a friend, once more. “I’m not dying. No need for such sympathy.”
“Aye there is.” Clyde pinned him with a determined look. “She willna have ye.”
Damian forced a smile, though inside, he felt a strange tremor of unease. “That terrible, am I?”
“No,” the duke denied quickly. “In fact, I could see her choosing ye.” He shrugged his massive shoulders under his fine coat. “I thought. . . Well, it matters no’ what I thought. But I’m telling ye now, she willna have ye.”
Damian wondered what the devil Clyde was on about. The man was clearly trying to put him off in a kind way, but it wasn’t going to work. “But if I were to ask, you would approve?”
Clyde’s gaze narrowed slightly. “Would it matter?”
“I’ve no desire to run off with your sister,” Damian assured him quietly. “I do not suffer from idiotic ideas of love and I’d prefer to keep you as a friend.”
Clyde sighed. “A business arrangement then. I canna hate ye for it. Liking is as good as loving. And ye two do like each other. Perhaps it’s even better. All those emotions. . . They lead to dark ends.”
“Not always,” he disagreed. Love could be a very pleasant thing if it was achieved. It was rarely achieved though. That he could acknowledge.
“Often.”
Whatever decision the duke had made about passionate love appeared unflappable. So Damian didn’t any waste breath in the attempt to convince Clyde otherwise. That would be for someone else. Another day.
“You would approve?” Damian asked again. Wanting certainty. “Of a marriage between us?”
“Aye,” the duke replied without reserve. Angus looked across the room at his sister then back to Damian. “I like ye better than most men. And I’ve a feeling ye’d leave her to her own devices most of the year.”
“I would,” he acknowledged. Summer was a difficult place in the East. He could return to Scotland or England to be with her and then she could have rule of the roost when he was away in the winter.
Clyde sighed. “Poor devil. Ye’ve cast yer lot in with the wrong woman.”
“She abhors marriage so deeply?” he asked, surprised. She seemed such a vital person, no bitterness to her at all.
“It’s no’ my tale to tell and I doubt she’ll ever share it with ye,” Clyde whispered. “So, ye shall have to suffer in ignorance. But at least, ken this. It willna be because she finds ye wanting. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is something beyond yer ken and control which will keep ye apart.”
That last cryptic line sent a deeply unpleasant wave of thought through him.
Clyde walked away, a smile pinned to his scarred visage. Damian wondered what could have set her so entirely against marriage.
Her husband? Had he been an evil man?
Though he wished otherwise, it wouldn’t surprise him. Too many men had twisted souls and took their demons out upon their women. It happened in every corner of the world. And it was shameful.
Tugging at his deucedly uncomfortable coat, he hated evening kit, he turned his gaze to Andromeda.
She stood near the pianoforte, her lips curved in an amused smile as she listened to a young, blond-haired woman who was holding her husband by the arm.
In fact, said young, blond woman and her husband had been nauseatingly arm in arm for the entirety of the gathering.
He wondered what they would do when it was time to go in to dinner. They couldn’t hold hands over the dinner table, now could they?
Even so, he found himself transfixed. He enjoyed watching the simple pleasure Andromeda clearly had in their conversation.
What would it be like to have her as a companion for life? Never boring. Of that, he was certain. In fact, he was certain it would be pleasant. Very pleasant, indeed.
He made his way across the room and gazed down at his black-haired vixen. “Introduce me, if you would?”
“Of course,” she replied brightly before she gave him a wicked look. “Lord Peterboro may I introduce Lord and Lady Hart.”
“Hart?” he echoed. “You can’t be serious.”
“It is not as sentimental as one would think,” Lady Hart said, laughing.
“No?” he asked, despite himself. “Your affection seems to match your name.”
Lord Hart, a tall man who had the appearance of the battle hardened, grinned before he looked down at his wife. “It hasn’t always. We loathed each other once.”
“I find that difficult to fathom,” Damian drawled.
“Oh, but it is true. We laid waste to each other at every opportunity.”
“They were legendary,” Andromeda confirmed. “But they married some time before ye returned.”
“And now, we are making up for lost time,” Lord Hart said softly.
Damian cleared his throat, rather surprised by the blatant emotion on the couple’s faces. In his experience, English people didn’t show their affection so unabashedly. It was. . . Refreshing.
He narrowed his eyes. Lord Hart. “Are you, by chance, the Duke of Huntsdown’s brother?”
“I am,” Hart confirmed. “Always outshining the poor fellow, don’t you know.”
The clear teasing note was also matched by definite pride in his older brother.
“You campaigned abroad.”
“We did,” Hart said, his face losing its good humor. “All the Hart brothers. A rarity. But we felt the great importance of standing up to a would-be dictator.”
“I admire you for it. . . If you can believe that anyone in any part of Europe is actually free.”
They all looked askance at him.
Andromeda poked him ever so carefully in the ribs with her elbow.
“Am I standing too close?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “No, but ye are on dangerous ground.”
“Am I?” He looked from face to face before him, stunned. “Surely, Lord Hart has mind enough not to believe all the codswallop shoved down his throat by Horse Guards.”
Andromeda’s eyes flared. “Lord Hart, please. . .”
Before she could say another word, Hart raised his hand. “It’s quite all right. Peterboro is correct. There are things which have been done that. . . Well, I do not care to recollect them. All are tarred by darkness. But we must keep striving to fight it. Even here, we must not be ruled by those who would build our empire on the backs of the unfortunate.”
“I can’t argue that,” Damian replied, even as his mind drifted back to India. Back to blood and hell and a people decimated by the army he served. The iron smell of blood filled his nostrils and he blinked.
“Damian,” she whispered. “Are ye unwell?”
Stunned she would call him his given name, he blinked. “I beg your pardon. What is amiss?”
“Ye look. . .”
“I think Lord Peterboro would like a drink before dinner,” Lord Hart cut in.
To his astonishment, the other man took his elbow and began walking towards the hall. Much to his surprise, he allowed it.
It was not often that he allowed himself to be maneuvered. But in this particular case, he went with Hart.
The last thing he desired was for Andromeda to think his belfry was raging with bats. She already knew he was odd. Unhinged would surely be too much.
They headed out into the gallery where at least two dozen banners hung from the towering walls. Banners from the clans that had flocked to Clyde’s war cry over the centuries. The air was decidedly cooler and, for once, he welcomed it as it caressed his face.
War. It was the nature of man, it seemed. And yet, he hated it.
“Outside, I think.”
To his astonishment, Hart grabbed a brandy decanter from a table by the fireplace large enough for a man to stand up in. He then continued his dedicated pace.
Slipping through a side door, they were suddenly out on the ramparts, overlooking the loch.
Sea air battered them from all sides. The first pricks of glittering stars danced in the sky turning from butter and lavender to the deepest purple.
“Deep breaths, old man,” Hart said firmly. “Deep breaths.”
He took the wise advice and did, indeed, take in several.
“Saw a few things did you?” Hart took out the crystal stopper and laid it carefully on the stones which separated them from a plunge down to the keep.
“We should go back into dinner,” Damian stated coldly, unwilling to bear his soul to a stranger. Even an exceptionally pleasant one.
“Dinner will wait,” Hart countered, taking no offense. “Or they’ll start without us. Clyde’s not married to ceremony.”
“Your wife—”
“My wife is the most resourceful woman I know,” Hart cut in, full of pride. “Harriet could rule England. Far better than our mad king or his fat and dissolute son.”
“Have you met the Prince of Wales?”
Hart’s face hardened. “He’s done a few good things. The arts and architecture have advanced with him and I salute him for it. The rest?” Hart snorted. “He’s an idiot. And he’s spending our country into ruin. Or he would if Parliament let him.”
“I’ve seen where that coin comes from, you know. The money to pay for his perfume.”
Hart eyed him carefully. “Not a pretty sight, was it?”
“I have seen bodies torn by jackals for lack of burial because the famine took so many. Children crying for hunger. And still the little they had was taken from them in taxation. You have not seen hell until you have seen famine in a place like India, Lord Hart.”
Hart had the good wits to remain quiet. He handed the brandy decanter over.
Wordlessly, Damian took it and drank. He knew, through experience, that oceans of the stuff would never wash away the memories. He didn’t imbibe to forget but to share the moment with Hart who seemed not to be a total fool.
“You fought for king and country and against oppression. I fought for king and country and I oppressed,” Damian found himself saying. “How does one understand such conflicting actions? I could not. Nor could I support the brutality of our actions.”
Hart was quiet for a moment then said, “So, you quite literally walked away.”
He nodded. “Having a decent mind for languages helped.”
“I had heard about your legendary skills at Oxford.”
He shook his head. “My father hated the idea of an academic in the family.”
“Dukes can be damned difficult.” Hart blew out a ragged breath. “My father hated Harriet.”
He gaped at Hart. “For God’s sake why?”
“She’s from trade.”
“Idiots,” Damian spat. “The lot of them.”
Hart laughed dryly. “My brother, Huntsdown, is actually superior. I’ll give him that. He quite approved of Harry.”
“Clyde is an acceptable fellow as well,” he acquiesced. “Blakemore, too.”
“You see, we aren’t all complete disasters.”
He gave a tired smile. “I have little patience for those who are.”
“And why shouldn’t you?” Hart queried, taking a drink. “Some of us are diplomats and some of us are battering rams.”
“I don’t have to inquire as to which category I am to be placed.”
“No.” Hart’s lips curved into a hard grin. “I don’t suppose you do. But I am glad you have returned to England. We need more men who actually know what is transpiring abroad. In our names.”
“It’s damned disheartening. I can tell you that.” He gripped the stone rampart, allowing the cold, hard surface to bite into his hands. “Mark my words, England is going to make a cock up of Egypt. France, too. They’re going to make an absolute mess.”
“I do not doubt you. But we shan’t see it.”
“No.”
Hart cocked his head to the side. “You quite admire her, don’t you?”
“Who?”
Lord Hart gave him a pointed look.
Damian turned back to the other man, a rueful smile on his lips. “Am I so transparent?”
Hart arched a challenging brow. “I do not think discretion is your strong point.”
He harrumphed. “I’ve been told she won’t have me.”
“That’s what I thought about Harriet. She hated me. I hated her. We had a mutual bond in loathing society.”
“Did you, by God?” he said. Damian truly found it difficult to give credence to the claim.
“Oh yes,” Hart’s face became a mask of regret as he clearly thought back to a less happy time. “We’d been in love as children, well young people. My father drove us apart, but we hated each other for that wedge.”
“How the devil did you overcome such odds?”
Hart blinked, the past suddenly vanishing from his gaze. “With the help of friends and a good deal of manipulation.”
Damian stared at the other man. “Are you suggesting I manipulate Lady Gateshead?”
“Good God, no,” Hart protested with perhaps a touch too much zeal. “Never in a month of Sundays would I suggest such a thing. However, you might find that her friends wish to see her happy.”
“Why do you think I’ll make her happy?” he demanded.
“Because we saw the way she looked at you tonight,” Hart offered as he gripped the decanter then took a drink. “You two entered the drawing room as if you both were the cat with the cream.”
“What nauseating drivel,” Damian denounced.
“Ah.” Hart raised a hand. “Once, I, too, felt such disdain for love. I was determined to be a bachelor. To be unscathed by Cupid’s arrow. I think you are already struck.”
Damian folded his arms across his chest, then hesitated. He grabbed for the decanter. “It isn’t like that.”
“No?”
Taking a long drink, he repeated, “No.”
“My mistake then.”
“I’m relieved to hear you can admit it.”
Lord Hart’s mouth twitched. “If you change your mind, do let me know. Women can be damned difficult to sway without a bit of friendly assistance. I know that Harriet and I would still absolutely hate each other if our friends hadn’t—”
“Yes. Thank you, Lord Hart. Your offer is noted.”
Hart gave a small bow. “Right then. Shall we return?”
Damian gave a succinct nod of his own before he lifted the decanter in one last salute. “To perseverance.”
“And the happiness it brings,” Hart quipped.
Damian could only hope.