Dreaming of the Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 2) Page 8

  His twin was in a mood. He’d been a mood for weeks. In fact, said mood had stolen Jack’s usual savor faire, turning him almost. . . god forbid. . . serious.

  “I need you to listen now,” Jack said slowly but articulately. It always amazed him the way Charles recovered from a previous night’s madness. Just the night before Jack had had to race from his home to their club to talk Charles and his two bottles of empty champagne down off the roof. Now, ’twas as if there was nothing amiss in the world entire.

  “I always listen,” Charles countered as he stalked back to the fencing strip, took an opening stance and began working an attack pattern. He didn’t pause in the delicate work as he added, “When you actually manage to say something worth listening to.”

  Jack ignored the quip. Last night, he’d let slip that he’d met a fascinating woman. Charles of course had had to insist that it meant he was about to swing in the marital noose. How right his brother had been. It was tempting to evade, but Jack drew in a deep breath and decided to launch straight into the predicament which was the mother of all predicaments. “The woman. From last night.”

  “Was she attractive?” Charles queried as he thrust and held the position.

  “Charles,” Jack gritted, “We discussed this last night.”

  That stopped his brother who turned his head just enough to look Jack in the eye. “Did we, indeed?”

  Jack scowled and tugged at his cravat, pulling the folds loose till they draped down his shirt front. Standing idly by whilst his brother worked out his demons was adding to his ill mood. Perhaps Charles was correct, perhaps he needed to join him, even if he might become a walking pincushion. “We did,” he said, even managing to sound blithe about it. The blitheness vanished as he recalled, “You even suggested we bed her together.”

  Charles’s face remained unperturbed as he asked plainly, “Did we?”

  “No!” Jack thundered then attempted to collect himself by carelessly eyeing the low slung teak ceiling. The last thing he needed was for Charles to start giving him hell over his ridiculous balls which had somehow managed to take control of his brain.

  “Well, I bedded someone,” Charles admitted casually. “Several some ones I believe.

  “You usually do.” Jack tugged off his superfine wool coat and green brocade waistcoat, leaving them in a pile by the red velvet wall.

  Immediately, the servant scampered forward and began folding. Apparently, it was the poor fellow’s lot in life, laundry.

  “So do you,” Charles pointed out.

  Well, he couldn’t argue with that. He’d had a merry time sallying from bed to bed, enjoying women, drinking to excess, and avoiding the responsibilities that he would ruin so thoroughly if he dared to take them up.

  Jack went to the set of rapiers hanging on the wall and selected another cavalry sword, heavy in weight, but perfect in proportion.

  He took the hilt into his hand, the pommel protecting his fingers and headed for what would no doubt be a ball shrinking experience. It didn’t matter that few would dare to clash blades with him.

  Charles was the best sword’s man in London. Some claimed in Europe. He faced his brother, easing down into the balanced squat of a fencer’s stance. “You didn’t bed her. Nor did we bed her. Just so we are absolutely clear.”

  Charles saluted him with his sword then took his own stance. “Then you did.”

  “No.” Balancing his weight forward, Jack kept his eyes trained on his brother’s eyes. He and his twin had enough of a connection that the eye contact wasn’t necessary to anticipate one another’s actions, but when pointy blades were in play, he took every precaution.

  Charles parried, the blade singing forward, straight towards Jack’s chest. “Occasionally, they prove a good game. You’ll find her again.”

  Jack danced back, his feet light, and his own blade riposting his brother’s strike which led to a mad flash of sword blades. As he was forced back, he hissed, “I did find her.”

  “Good for you,” Charles said as he led a series of strikes that had Jack flying back along the dueling strip. “Is that all?”

  “No,” he ground out as he riposted again and again, barely deflecting the strong blade driven by his brother’s enviable skill. “She’s my wife,” he flung.

  Charles faltered in his footing and very nearly skewered himself on Jack’s sword. He scrambled back and lowered his own rapier. “Repeat that if you please?”

  Jack dashed his free hand over his sweating brow and the servant scurried forward holding out a linen towel. Jack shook his head at the mouse of a man and even though his face creased in disappointment, the little fellow trotted back to his corner.

  “You heard me,” Jack breathed roughly. He twirled a wrist, a wry grin twisting his lips. “My duchess is in town.”

  “Cordelia Eversleigh, nee Basingstoke has shown her famous face?” Charles pursed his lips in consideration. “Or should I say infamous?”

  Jack narrowed his eyes, a knot tightening in his stomach at his brother’s ominous declaration. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  Charles threw him a disgusted look. “The rags are full of her escapades and unnatural behavior though what these moralists view as unnatural these days astounds—”

  “Charles,” Jack cut in.

  “Hmm?” Charles blinked with about as much innocence as Catherine the Great. “Oh yes. Now, you know how much our dear grandmama will delight in our name being run through the mill yet again and on such a scale. I’m sure she’s already ordered the evisceration of Snodgrass.”

  She’d told him she was in the papers. But he didn’t read the rags and hadn’t realized the extent of the damage. Snodgrass was familiar to him. His name was an ever recurring theme but Cordelia? “It can’t be that scandalous—”

  “Scandalous?” Charles strode off the dueling strip, held out his hand, and took the towel from the servant who had already rushed forward. He used it to wipe his blade clean before placing it up on a wall hanging. “Let me simply say your wife has a certain reputation. A reputation for doing and saying what she pleases with whoever she pleases.”

  “I understand she’s unconventional,” he defended, shocked that he even felt the need to defend her. . . Even as he felt a pulsing rage at whatever she might have done with whoever. But she was a virgin and therefore had not done much. Or so he was going to choose to believe. Though it shouldn’t have mattered. He’d never cared about such a thing before. “She was raised in Egypt for God sake.”

  “Yes,” Charles pointed out, turning to him, his face hard. “And apparently in every Sheik’s tent from here to Nubia.”

  Fury blazed through him so hard, his throat nearly closed up and his vision blurred. “So, what you imply, what everyone is implying is that she is an unforgivable whore?”

  Charles eyes flared in mock horror. “Good God no. Whore is such an ugly word. I would never call any woman a whore.” He shook his head, drops of sweat flying into the air before he shoved a hand through the slightly too long black locks. “Let’s just say, your wife must be a true jewel of the free thinking and morally challenged. Just my sort. I should introduce myself.”

  “Stay away from her,” Jack ordered so fast his head buzzed with his own voracity.

  Charles stopped and gaped, as much as a man of Charles’ dark calibre could gape. “You can’t possibly be serious?”

  Jack glared at his brother, intent on making his position clear. “Was I somehow unclear?”

  Charles threw back his head and laughed, a dry bark of a sound. “Well, if that’s how you feel, I think I need to remind you of your calling. All women will bed any man who tosses them a bauble, a compliment, and a bit of—”

  “She’s a virgin.”

  “A. . . A—”

  “A virgin,” Jack said slowly, with the first degree of pleasure he’d had in this whole damn conversation. “You remember what that is?”

  “Only in the dimmest, most vague remembrance,” Charles con
ceded, “but you cannot convince me that Cordelia Eversleigh is a virgin. She’s been in the company of more powerful men than the entire Cabinet.” He pinned Jack with cynical eyes. “She’s lying to you and you’ve fallen—”

  Jack blew out a frustrated breath, ready to get to the meat of the problem. “She was examined. This morning. I was there.”

  Charles cocked his head to the side, a considerable lack of shock on his jaded face. “In truth?”

  “In truth.” Jack took a few steps forward and replaced his own sword, waiting for his brother to reply to this informative tidbit.

  “How fascinating,” Charles admitted at last, seeming to mull this over like a difficult philosophical proof.

  Jack turned back to him, realizing that his twin might not be the best source of advice, but regardless, his twin was his first line of confession. “Why?”

  “She must truly hate you.”

  “Hardly,” Jack scoffed, even if she herself had said something very similar to his face.

  She barely knew him and hate required a great deal of energy and then there was the way she had responded to his advances this afternoon. Hate was not in that woman’s repertoire.

  “No.” Charles smiled slightly at the idea evidently dawning within his twisted skull. “Give it thought. She’s what, twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”

  Jack gave it a moment’s thought. It was odd to realize he didn’t know his wife’s true age. “She was ten when we were married, or so I recall.”

  “You were?”

  “Thirteen? It’s been ten years since she’s come of age.”

  “So you’ve been married in bliss for fifteen years and she’s been of ripe age for almost a decade and she’s remained a virgin?” Charles lips parted in an incredulous grin.

  “Yes,” Jack confirmed grudgingly, wondering where this was heading exactly.

  “She’s clearly hot-blooded and yet she has retained her flower.” Charles reached forward and patted Jack on the shoulder. “Now, why would she do that, old man?”

  “Its fairly obvious.” His mouth tasted of bitter lemons. Discussing his wife’s flower with his twin was necessary but highly unpleasant. “The only way she could absolutely ensure the possibility of an eventual separation from me was to retain her virginity.”

  “Yet you miss the point. You’ve kept her from living the good life for quite some time. Can you imagine having to remain a virgin all this time? And if you think she’ll let you pluck her rose?” Charles face twisted with amusement. “I hardly think so. She won’t give up all her years of abstinence for a fling. Now when her freedom is nigh.”

  Jack fought a scowl. He was a great believer in logic and his brother’s was damned annoying. “I want her.”

  “If you want her, you needn’t have bothered me.” Charles leaned forward and clasped him on the shoulders, his fingers digging in with directness and the need to be absolutely clear. He narrowed his eyes. “Have her, get her with child, and when you’re bored send her to the country…”

  Charles dropped his hands down and brushed them on his trousers as if brushing himself free of the entire situation. “Though I wonder what grandmama has to say about all this. You know the old gel will have something to say. Something that will rip your guts out and make you quiver with her verbal power.”

  He wondered. Cordelia very well might be a match for his grandmother and he damn well didn’t want them meeting. “I want her but don’t want—”

  “The responsibilities of being a husband?” Charles cut in. “Like I said, have her, then send her wherever you want if the country isn’t far enough, with enough pocket money to keep her out of your way. And then. . . If she want’s a divorce, give her one. Or let the annulment go through. Don’t contest and you can still have her. I really don’t see a dilemma.”

  Charles strode to the door and paused. “Now, come with me, and lets see what there is to be seen. This fascination you have for your wife is quite disturbing.”

  “Wife.” Charles shuddered. “What an abhorrent word. Let’s not use it again. Shall we just call her your mistress for the present? As in Mistress Eversleigh?”

  And then he walked down the hall, his boot steps thudding away.

  Jack didn’t hesitate or collect his clothes. Charles kept enough garments here to last if all the tailors in London and Paris should suddenly expire.

  Charles was right. There wasn’t a dilemma. Any way he looked at it, he could seduce Cordelia. If he wished to. Now, there. . . There was the dilemma. For in seducing Cordelia, he had a suspicion he might be in over his head. And that? That was a chance he wasn’t sure he could take.

  Chapter 9

  Lady Tallaght’ Soiree

  Eleven o’clock in the evening

  Regent’s Park

  “My God these people are so. . . so. . .” Cordelia struggled to find the words that could express how insanely boring the group of ladies and gentlemen waiting to be announced just were. “Its as if they are bread pudding blanketed in a hearty sampling of bland custard.”

  “Welcome to London, my dear,” sighed Kathryn.

  “But London is supposed to be the capitol, the beacon of culture and light and. . . ” she stopped lest she list anymore adjectives. Instead, she arranged the folds of her gold brocade gown which happened to be as heavy as an elephant but was absolutely stunning what with its fringe and embossed crystal flowers.

  It had only just been completed and sent to the house this afternoon. It was perhaps the most extravagant thing she had ever seen. Well, unless, you considered a mummified arm complete with an extravagant cuff.

  Kathryn snapped her sea green feather fan shut and patted it lightly against Cordelia’s shoulder as they stood very near the front of the line to be presented into the already buzzing ballroom. “Dear girl, if you wish culture and wit you must visit an entirely different set. The Demi-mondaine. Those are the best of London’s wits. This?” She flicked her fan towards the sea of inbred British, their sheep faces bored in the candlelight. “This is the ton. Anything that was interesting in them was bred out a century ago. I’m only so intriguing because my grandfather married an actress and brought a bit of fresh blood in.” Kathryn’s face softened. “And even I didn’t have a title to my family when I married my darling duke.”

  “Then why are we here?” Cordy hissed sotto voce, lifting her skirts with her gloved finger tips as she ascended another long gilded stair leading up to the archway that framed one as they entered the ball.

  Kathryn tsked gently. “Don’t you remember? You didn’t wish to stay at home. And while I could take you to a far more scandalous party, given your desire for an annulment, that seemed an unwise proposition.”

  Cordelia harrumphed, wondering at her own wisdom. “Ah. Yes.” Perhaps she should have just stayed at home, played cards and drank brandy. Yes, a bottle of brandy would have done her wonders. . . At least for a few hours.

  A mischievous grin tilted Kathryn’s lips. “Sometimes these events do have a way of becoming quite fun.”

  “Oh?” Coedelia queried. It was fascinating in an anthropological sort of way watching the ton in their mating dance, yet she wouldn’t describe standing in a crowded room with the under educated and overly privileged as quite fun. “Why is that?”

  “Because. . . You are about to be introduced as The Duchess of Hunt.”

  And just as they reached the top step and Cordelia found herself in a towering doorway overlooking the massive ballroom full to the brim with the ton and a loud booming voice announced, “The Duchess of Darkwell and The Duchess of Hunt.”

  As one, the bustling crowd stopped their chatter and swung their collective gaze to Cordelia. All conversation died down to absolutely nothing and even someone in the orchestra managed to hit a strident note in the Viennese waltz, filling the air with less than sugary tones.

  The heat of the bodies rushed towards her as did the scent of at least two hundred different perfumes. This was nothing compared to the looks of
disbelief, consternation, and outright confusion being thrown in her direction.

  Suddenly, Cordy felt she would have rather faced a bevy of tomb robbers armed to the teeth. And yet, she was here by her choice alone.

  “Keep your chin up and be yourself. They’ll be at your feet,” Kathryn whispered through a bright smile.

  Cordelia forced a matching, bold smile to her lips even as she considered running in Cinderella fashion for her carriage. Why in God’s name hadn’t she given more thought to the fact her reputation was on the verge of black and even if she had been the picture of English wifedom, her sudden appearance as a long forgotten duchess would have caused quite a stir.

  Cordy lifted her chin. She’d face these harridans and curmudgeon’s head on. Just as she done in Paris, Naples, and Budapest.

  The crowd parted like a veritable Red Sea of feathered, silk draped, and powdered waves. It parted until one woman stood at the end of the separated ton, nothing but polished oak floor between them. A woman with a presence so remarkable even Cordelia felt her innards quake. The older woman, stood, regal, powerful, her white hair in beautiful waves about her remarkable smooth face, given her seeming years. Perfect brows arched over silver eyes and her mouth was pursed in a line of disdain. She grasped an ivory headed walking stick and was gowned entirely in black. Only a diamond tiara sparkled against her intimidating form. She looked as if she ruled every person in the ball and given the way everyone had stepped back for her, she did.

  Cordelia’s heart pounded not with appreciation for her power but with the growing realization that she bore a striking though very female resemblance to her husband the duke. It couldn’t be his mother. . . Oh no. . . This had to be the Dowager Duchess of Hunt. The dowager of legend who ruled the ton with an iron fist.

  The old harridan strode forward, her face so full of hauteur, it barely seemed possible that all that power exuded from one woman. Surprisingly tall, the dowager glared down at her with eyes as unyielding as the winter Atlantic sea. Without giving precedence to the two present Duchesses, she spoke first, “Kathryn, introduce me.”