Chapter 5
Olivia, the Duchess of Huntsdown, seized a scone, her third, and smothered it with strawberry preserves. She sighed with happiness, contemplated the confection as though it was one of the greatest things in this world, then took a massive bite.
Andromeda watched her friend eat with amazement. Olivia was one of the few people she knew who could eat, and eat, and eat without the slightest effect on her figure. But Olivia was exceptionally trim. A racehorse came to mind. Andromeda’s walking habit kept her in fine condition, but never, not in a month of Sundays, could she eat like Olivia and not become positively rotund. And even in her best condition, she had curves which could never be called racehorse-like. In fact, the fitter she was, the more pronounced these particular curves became.
It was the bane of her existence.
She nibbled her slice of cake then took a sip of tea.
“Whatever are you thinking?” Olivia asked, putting her scone down for a short moment. “You’re not usually so contemplative. At least, not any longer.”
Months ago, she’d been a quieter, fiercer woman. An angrier woman with a deep dislike of men. But time with good friends and company had softened her hard heart.
Olivia’s eyes widened and she leaned forward, her green silk gown sliding over the petite chair. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
“I have no idea what ye’re speaking of,” she said as flatly as she could, downing another gulp of tea.
Olivia picked up her scone and bit as she rolled her eyes.
Still, it was difficult to ignore the way she’d felt standing next to the notorious lord. She’d felt absolutely alive and as if anything could happen.
There was nothing predictable about him and it was remarkably refreshing. She’d felt compelled to be completely frank with him.
Now, she had no idea what to do.
They had not arranged another meeting.
He had bid her politely adieu, though he’d given her a rare smile as he’d bowed.
It had been a strange one. As if he’d just survived one of the oddest experiences of his life. Which seemed entirely impossible given the continents he’d seen. Surely, he’d had conversation with more quirk than theirs?
“You like him,” Olivia declared, undeterred. Then she added, “Despite his gruffness.”
“Yes, well it’s difficult no’ to admire someone so passionate,” she defended, shifting on her seat, desperate to not show how very much she’d admired him. In fact, it was his very gruffness that never came from cruelty that appealed to her.
That blunt growl of his very clearly came from a deep need within him that drove him to be perfect. Perfect at whatever he chose to do.
“I’d wager he’s very passionate.” Olivia waggled her brows. “Very, very passionate.”
Andromeda plunked her delicate cup down on her saucer with a clack, risking damage. But she was perplexed. “That is no’ what I meant.”
“No, but it’s rolling about somewhere in the back of your mind. And that’s a part you’ve kept dormant for far too long if you were to inquire it of me,” Olivia said with neither salaciousness nor judgement. “I could see the attraction between you.”
That stopped Andromeda. It never occurred to her that she could be visibly attracted to a man. “Ye could?”
“Most definitely, but he’s an odd fish.” Olivia let her own cup rest gently on its saucer before she sallied, “I’ve heard he’s quite a monk.”
A laugh burst from Andromeda. She couldn’t contain it. “No’ that it matters to me, but how very disappointing to so many women, I imagine.”
“Quite. No doubt, half of the married women of London are beyond consolation.” On a serious note, Olivia added, “Devotion to his deceased, beloved is what seems to inspire his chastity.”
“Oh. Well, no one should find disappointment in that at all. How can I no’ admire him more for it then?”
“Because it means he’s beyond your reach and it does seem to make him only more delicious to the ladies of society. A prize to be won and all that.”
Andromeda snorted, desperately trying to ignore the blaze of jealousy barreling through her at the idea of scores of women after him. “Och, that’s disgusting. As if he were a prized wild stallion to be brought in and broken. And, to be plain, I do no’ have any desire to reach for Lord Peterboro.”
Narrowing her eyes, Olivia paused in her consumption of a smothered scone. “So you say. But you are not a cold woman, Andromeda.”
It took a good deal of will not to wince or allow herself to be thrown back to a memory. No, she couldn’t bear to be thrown back to a time in her life that had nearly shattered her spirit. So, instead of protesting with undo ardor, she said, “I’m no’ so certain.”
A look of pure pity softened Olivia’s face. “Just because your marriage was passionless doesn’t mean that you are.”
Pity. It was the one look she truly loathed. Still, Olivia had known hardship. So, she didn’t mind her friend’s sympathy too much.
Could the duchess be correct? It felt almost too dangerous to contemplate. “Once. . . Once I was filled with such longing but that died long ago.”
“There is still a spark,” Olivia said firmly, giving her a determined stare over her teacup. “And it can be fanned into a raging bonfire. I promise you.”
“I will have to take yer word for it.” She glanced down, her hands nearly shaking at the very idea of allowing a spark to rage into a wildfire with Lord Peterboro. For she was certain that anything he did would be more of an inferno than a mere flame. “I’m no’ certain I am willing to find out. For I’d either have to have a paramour or remarry.”
Olivia hesitated. “Many widows do.”
“My mother did,” she replied simply, wishing in many ways she could talk to her mama now. “She had many, many affairs. She wasna happy for it.”
Olivia leaned forward and touched Andromeda’s hand. “But she was different.”
“How?”
“She was deeply unhappy was she not, from the beginning? She bolted.”
“From my father?” she asked. “Oh aye. He could have induced anyone but a saint to do so but, then, she did it again and again. She could never find contentment.”
Her mother had been so lovely, so magical. As a little girl, she had adored her mother’s embrace, her soft scent, her kindness in the wake of her father’s glacial hardness.
Realizing that there was no easy path to convincing her, Olivia appeared to choose the most simple. “With the right person, it is very enjoyable, you know.”
“Many ladies seem to say so.” Andromeda nearly squirmed on her brocade chair. The conversation sent her to the edge of her comfort. For the very idea of getting her hopes to blossom again was too unthinkable. “I just. . . When I picture it, I have difficulty no’ thinking of the accounts.”
“The accounts?” Olivia echoed.
She scowled, trying not to envision it. “I used to do the house’s accounts in my head, making the numbers come out correctly whilst. . .”
Olivia gasped. “It was that awful?”
“It wasna painful,” she rushed. “But it wasna pleasant.”
“I’m so very sorry,” Olivia said kindly.
She shrugged, not truly knowing what else there could be to say. “I think many women suffer the same lot and simply get on with it.”
“I hate to agree with you, but I think so, too.” Olivia shook her head, her dark curls dancing. “So many women seem. . . Well, passionless. As if that part of them has been completely severed.”
“I think I shall have to be content to be his acquaintance,” she announced.
“Perhaps his friend?” Olivia inquired. “I’m sure he is in need of more.”
A slow smile pulled at her lips. A friend. What a novel idea. One she liked very much.
“How does one pursue a friend?” she asked.
Olivia raised her teacup, “Oh, I have a few ideas.”
“Have you seen Rockford, yet?”
The punch that sailed past his face allowed Damian to swing around. He quickly delivered a sharp jab to Blakemore’s bare, lower back.
“No,” Damian growled as his knuckles hit hard flesh.
Blakemore was a lord who had not gone soft as most did.
Damian had avoided Lady Gateshead’s question. He did, indeed, attend Gentleman Jackson’s. Somehow, it struck him as strange that she’d looked at him, and the few Greek statues in the room, and quite rightly noted that he must exercise like a madman.
The Greeks were passionate athletes. Every part of their life was shaped by endurance.
He’d taken a leaf from their book a long time ago. To his shock, it seemed as if she had, too.
Ladies didn’t partake in five mile walks. Especially not in the rigors of the Highlands. He could only imagine the vistas she traversed, goat-like.
Such a woman would be able to keep up in the Valley of the Kings.
His head blasted back as Blakemore landed a solid hook to his jaw.
“I do beg your pardon, old boy,” Blakemore drawled, bobbing on his toes. “Seems as if you wandered off to dreamland.”
Cracking his neck, Damian forced himself to focus on Blakemore dancing around the boxing ring, waiting for him to resume the fray.
Neither of them required the instruction of a master. It had become quickly apparent that they were equally matched. Something that he was damned grateful for at present. He needed a good pounding. . . Otherwise he might think of pounding of a different kind.
Of a supple body beneath his, arched in passion.
Or of a black-haired, Highland woman wandering the vast, arid valleys of Egypt by his side.
He shook his head, rushed across the ring, and darted right. Just grazing Blakemore’s abdomen, the lord quickly vaulted back.
They danced around each other for several rounds, landing solid hits. Sweat dripped from Damian. He dodged and eased his balance from foot to foot as he looked for openings and avoided a pummeling.
He could hear bets being made from the side. But as the time went by, it became clear there might not be a winner on this day.
And frankly, as they headed into what might be called a hypnotic state, he began to think of her. Again.
“Cease,” he called. He’d come here to get that woman out of his thoughts. Not create new fantasies about her.
Blakemore hesitated, clearly longing to go in for the kill. But he was not willing to do it if Damian’s heart was no longer in it.
Lowering his fists, the politician gestured for them to leave the ring.
“No!” a man lamented from the sideline. “Not a draw. Bloody impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible,” Damian informed the sorry sot. “I can assure you of that.”
“There are more things in heaven and hell, Horatio,” Blakemore quipped as he picked up a piece of linen.
“Something like that,” Damian agreed as he, too, grabbed a square of white linen and quickly swathed his brow and shoulders. “Though I never cared for Hamlet.”
Blakemore’s eyes widened in horror. “Never say so.”
“Macbeth has always been my favorite.”
“Of course,” Blakemore said dryly. “An ancient, dead king.”
Damian laughed. “It never occurred to me. But you’re probably right.”
“Of course, I am,” Blakemore replied grandly. “I always am. Perfect, didn’t you know?”
He groaned. “Give me an answer to my dilemma then.”
Blakemore whipped on a perfectly tailored shirt, charcoal waistcoat, and dark blue topcoat. “I already have,” he informed Damian during the process of donning layer after layer of clothing.
Damian stared at his own pile of not so perfectly kept clothing and resigned himself.
English clothes were restrictive. It was something he’d forgotten and the current fashion was particularly obscene what with shirt points jabbing into necks, cravats garroting one, and breeches attempting to squeeze the manhood out of one.
Sometimes, he longed for a robe and the sort of covering which allowed his limbs to move easily. . . Then again, it was a good deal colder here.
He wondered how the Scots managed, virtually bare nether bits and all that.
Tough, like the desert people. That’s what they were.
“And what solution was it?” he asked, hoping Blakemore would leave it.
“The Scot.”
He ground his teeth together. “I don’t think she wishes to remarry.”
“She may not. But you’re not most men.”
“I can’t offer her a good deal.”
“You can.”
Blakemore stared at Damian for effect. “Lady Gateshead values the unusual.”
He groaned. “I’m a conversation piece, is that what you’re intimating. That I would make a good dinner on dit? Or she could go about town saying that she’d caught the wild man?”
Blakemore leveled him with a hard stare. “Yes.”
“Is she so very shallow? She didn’t strike me thus.”
“No, she’s not shallow at all. But that is your most appealing quality. I had to tell you something.”
“You are an arse.”
“We are a pair.”
“We are,” Damian agreed.
“It feels. . . Off.”
“First of all, I had no idea you were not a rational man. I adore a good romantic. We should have more bleeding hearts in this world.”
“I didn’t punch you in an ungentlemanly manner a few moments ago. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I duly note your sensitivity on this subject.”
Damian fought a growl.
Blakemore shrugged. “Look, you need blunt. She has it. Your only other recourse is to be beholden to a patron. Is that what you wish?”
Damian shuddered. Patrons were dangerous. They could make demands and it would be difficult not to fulfill them. He’d seen other honorable men backed into corners because a wealthy lord fancied something exotic. He’d seen it from India to Italy. It was the nature of mankind to use one’s power.
“I never thought to be a fortune hunter.”
“We’re all hunting something, Peterboro. Never forget it.”
He longed to proclaim such a statement overly cynical. Experience told him otherwise.
“Lady Gateshead it is, then.”
“You’re not going to your funeral, old boy. She’s a stunner.”
Yes. She was, both mentally and physically. And deep in his heart, he knew that that was what he was afraid of.