duty calls.’
‘I understand,’ she said, then laughed. ‘I must not disrupt your routine.’
‘Touché!’ He took her hand to raise her to her feet, then solemnly kissed the back of it. ‘Goodnight, cousin.’ And then he was gone.
She stood for a moment, looking at the back of her hand where his lips had briefly touched, wondering why the mark of it did not show; it had made her feel so hot, almost melting. Sighing, she made her way up to her room, where she went through to the boudoir and sat down at the desk. Drawing a sheet of paper towards her, she picked up a quill, dipped it in ink and then stopped. The flowing phrases she had rehearsed in her head refused to come. Her mind was blank. No, not blank, for it was filled with what had happened that day, from getting up that morning; breakfasting with Lady Myers, who chatted about the Duke as if she had known him for years; to the carriage ride and her arrival at Belfont House; the welcome of Lady Harley, who pretended not to notice the paucity of her luggage; and then the sumptuous dinner and her conversation with the Duke. The Duke more than anything filled her mind.
He intrigued her. One minute he was arrogant and over-bearing, the next trying to put her at her ease. He obviously did not think a great deal of her ambition to be a writer; he was probably one of those men who decried educated women. He had called her a blue stocking which was palpably not true; she was not learned. She could not converse in Latin or Greek, though she could chatter to her heart’s content in French, German and Italian. She knew only a smattering of mathematics and architecture, but she prided herself on getting on well with people. But the Duke wasn’t ‘people’, was he? He was different. He made her heart thump and her hands shake and yet she would not admit she was afraid of him.
Why had he never married? The romantic in her began to weave stories of unrequited love or unfaithful lovers. He had murmured about dukes falling in love as though he wished it were possible and knew it was not. Must he marry to oblige the family with an heir and nothing more? Did he enjoy the work he did for the Regent? Did he have to do it? Was his wealth and prestige dependent on it? Why did she think that was unlikely? Because he was proud, she answered herself, too proud to demean himself to anyone, not even a future king. Would that pride make a broken love affair harder to bear? She laughed softly at her own foolishness; why did she imagine he had been thwarted in love? He had been born and bred an aristocrat, one of the top one hundred, and ever since her mother’s father died, he had known he would be the next duke; it was his manner to be distant, nothing more.
It was no good sitting there being fanciful, nor to try to write; she was too tired to work. She put down her pen and moved into the bedroom to prepare for bed. Perhaps tomorrow she would feel more like it. Tomorrow she would go through her notes and that would start her off. Climbing between the sheets, she turned down the lamp and shut her eyes. Tomorrow…
The Regent was having one of his interminable receptions, showing off his opulence, being the jovial host, making jokes, flirting with the ladies, and James, keeping watch in the background, wished himself anywhere but where he was. He would rather be talking to that dowdy cousin at home than standing here, pretending to enjoy himself. It was strange he had never heard of her before now, yet he had little doubt, and Harriet none at all, that she was who she said she was. From what she had told them, his uncle had not approved of her mother’s choice of husband and Lady Myers had hinted that Lord Langford was a wastrel and a gambler and that, after his wife’s death, Sophie had been forced to work to keep them both. What father worth his salt would allow such a thing? Not that Sophie had complained, had not said a word about it, pretending it was the demise of her father that had forced her to seek sanctuary with her mother’s family. It could not have been easy for her to do that, being proud and wanting very much to be independent. As if writing a book, even if it found a publisher, would achieve that for her!
‘What, all alone?’ a female voice said at his elbow.
He did not need to turn to know who had spoken. Not only did he know every nuance of her voice, every seductive drawl, but, being observant, he had seen her crossing the room towards him, though he had given no indication of it. Ellen Colway had a tall, shapely figure made taller by the huge trio of feathers that adorned her pink satin turban. It matched her gown, which was draped so close to her figure it left little to the imagination, though he did not need imagination when memory served him better. She had firm rosy flesh and she knew how to seduce a man, even one as tightly in control as he had imagined himself to be. He had enjoyed her for a time, but her charms had already begun to pall when she deceived him with his cousin. That he could not condone.
It was not so much her perfidy that hurt but the fact that Alfred was a jackstraw, still attached to his mother’s apron strings, who spent his time gambling, tolerated by the ton because he was heir presumptive to the Belfont dukedom. What Ellen would want with the fellow, he could not think. She surely did not expect him to become the next duke in the foreseeable future, if ever. He did not intend to remain a bachelor all his life. He would marry when he found a suitable bride and in the fullness of time would beget his own heir. Alfred could not prevent that.
He turned towards her, a sardonic smile on his face. ‘Lady Colway, good evening.’
She smiled back, not at all put out. ‘So formal we are, your Grace. Can it be the company you keep? I hear the Regent is a stickler for protocol.’
‘Perhaps it is the company you keep, my lady.’
‘Oh, you are not going to prose on about that, are you? I have told you it was nothing. I was miffed with you and wanted my revenge. I did not expect you to make such a mountain of it.’
‘Then you do not know me very well.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, sidling close to him, ‘I know you very well indeed, every inch of you…’ The voice was seductive and at one time might have had him running with her for the nearest bed, but all it did now was make him laugh.
‘And I, Ellen my dear, know you very well too, not just your beautiful body, but your ugly mind.’
She sprang from him, eyes flashing angrily. ‘How dare you! If Clarence were to hear of your insults, he would call you out.’
‘Would he? He had his chance a year ago and did nothing and from that I deduced he did not care. I have never cuckolded a man in love with his wife, and as you were known for your affairs…’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.
She returned close to his side and took his arm. ‘Oh, James, do not let us quarrel. Clarence is not worth it and Alfred certainly is not. I came to invite you to a little soirée tomorrow evening. Clarence is still in the country and there will only be a handful of guests. After they have gone home we could be alone…’
‘I am afraid I am promised elsewhere.’
‘Then you will be the loser,’ she said, her vanity stung by his rejection. ‘I bid you goodnight.’
‘What is it they say about a woman scorned?’ Richard murmured, coming up behind him as he watched her cross the floor towards Alfred. ‘You have made an enemy there, my friend.’
‘What can she do? I am not the first, nor will I be the last, and if she makes a public brouhaha of it, her husband will no longer be able to ignore it and will have to do something to stop her excesses. I do not think she will want that.’
‘You may be right.’ He paused. ‘Does that mean you have found a new light o’ love?’
‘Not at all. A man does not have to be on with the new the instant he is off with the old, does he?’
‘Then
