“Do you have a particular lady friend?”
The young man blushed. “I’m hopeful, sir.”
“Well, get the young lady some trinket in recompense for all your hard work.”
“You already pay me handsomely, sir.”
“But not handsomely enough to buy jewelry at Grey’s,” Fitz said with a grin. “So buy her something with my blessing, and I’d suggest you add some pretty inscription. Women like flowery sentiments I’ve found.”
Chapter 6
FITZ SPENT THE afternoon at Tattersalls buying new bloodstock, followed by drinks and cards at Brooks’s with those of his friends still in town. And despite his activities-all quite normal and unexceptional-images of Mrs. St. Vincent kept looping through his mind. Erotic images of the most lascivious nature that persisted despite every effort to dismiss them.
He should ignore her attraction and his carnal urges. At base, it was probably more about their skirmish over the property-about winning and losing-than anything else.
Women never offered him challenge. That he wished to subdue her was perhaps male instinct at the most primordial level-sex, the ultimate submission. Or primal motive aside, he might simply be reverting to type. Mrs. St. Vincent was beautiful and tantalizing; why wouldn’t he want to fuck her?
The large amount of brandy he’d imbibed may also have contributed to his salacious and urgent desires.
Although, he wasn’t drunk.
He didn’t get drunk.
But that he was increasingly fixated on whether or not the lady was a screamer could not be denied.
About to raise on a winning hand, he abruptly gave into his impulses and set down his cards. “I’m out.”
“Why? It’s still early.” Lord Bedford waved toward the mauve twilight visible through the windows. “The ladies at Madame Rivera’s are barely out of bed. Might as well stay.”
“You can’t leave now, dammit,” Avon muttered. “There’s no one else can match me drink for drink.”
Fitz handed his markers to a flunkey who had materialized at his side. “I have a meeting to attend.”
Everyone at the table stared at him dumbfounded.
“What? Is that so unheard of?”
“It is at this time of day,” Freddie said with a jaundiced glance. “So who’s the lady?”
“No one you know,” Fitz replied, rising to his feet. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”
“Dammit, Monk, tell us her name,” Freddie insisted while a buzz of queries erupted around him: “At least give us a hint, Fitz. She must be bourgeois; everyone is gone from town. Does she have friends? Of course she has friends. Don’t keep the ladies for your eyes only. It’s not fair. Don’t we always share?”
Reticent to his friends’ lively inquisition, Fitz only said, “Fair or not, this lady is for
As Fitz walked away, a flurry of conversation echoed in his wake. The Monk always had been more than willing to share his lady loves, his exhibitionist tendencies not only well known but also much admired. In the insulated club world in which the privileged nobles of Fitz’s acquaintance had been raised, making love was often perceived as male sport. And spectators were part of the amusement.
As for a challenge, the rank heresy made them speculate that this female was either illicitly young or some wife locked away by a jealous husband. They couldn’t conceive of any other circumstances that would challenge The Monk’s seductive skills.
Naturally, bets were made as to which was the case.
Immune to his friends’ speculations, intent only on personal gratification, Fitz made his way home. After bathing, he partook of another brandy while his valet helped him dress for the evening.
“The dowager duchess will be in town tomorrow, sir,” Darby said, holding out a fine cambric shirt. “On the eleven o’clock train.”
Fitz shot a look over his shoulder. “Are you sure? I thought she was in Paris.” Setting down his glass, he slid his arms through the sleeves and slipped the shirt over his head.
“According to Stanley, Her Grace tired of Lady Montrose’s company. As anyone would, I expect, sir.”
“Agreed. Thank you for the warning,” Fitz noted, sliding the pearl studs into place down his shirtfront. “I’ll make sure to be home for lunch. See that we have those strawberries Mother likes.”
“All is in order, sir.” Darby held out a white silk waistcoat and waited for the duke to tuck his shirt into his trousers. “The cook is busy making the sweets the dowager fancies, the blue suite is being aired, and the dog bed is in place under the windows.”
Fitz buttoned up his trousers. “And little Pansy will run all our lives once again.”
“Indeed, sir,” Darby grumbled as he slipped the waistcoat over Fitz’s shoulders. “It’s more a mop than a dog if you ask me.”
“But Mother’s dear mop,” Fitz said with a grin, fastening the self-covered buttons down the front of his waistcoat. “So we shall do our duty, eh, Darby?”
“Yes, sir.” He held out Fitz’s evening coat.
“How long is Mother staying?”
“Stanley didn’t know.”
“Hmm…” Fitz regarded himself briefly in the cheval glass before taking the ironed bills Darby held out to him and shoving them into his trouser pocket. “Then I must be on my best behavior for an unknown period of time.”
“Just make sure you’re home by the time the dowager duchess arrives,” Darby sardonically replied, realistic about the duke’s style of entertainments.
Picking up the glass of brandy, Fitz quickly drained it, handed it to Darby, and said, “Don’t wait up for me.”
“Would you care to leave an address should I have to fetch you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back before Mother arrives.”
“Just don’t forget.”
“I’m warned, Darby. But I’m only off for an evening stroll. There’s a possibility I may return shortly.”
“Care to make a wager on that, sir?” the valet drily said.
Fitz grinned. Darby had been his valet since childhood. “Excellent. I hope you’re right. I am facing a veritable minefield of distrust tonight.”
“I expect you’ll find your way through, sir.”
“Your confidence inspires me,” Fitz waggishly replied.
“Don’t forget the jewelry, sir.” Darby nodded at the sparkling objects on a nearby table. “I expect those baubles will clear your path right quick.”
“Ah, yes… thanks for the reminder.” Fitz slipped the items in his coat pockets, patted them lightly, and grinned. “I suddenly feel a run of good luck.”
“Lady Luck generally comes through when you get that feeling, sir.”
Fitz gave Darby a considering look. “You’re right. Say, why don’t you take one of these in honor of the fortuitous occasion? We’ll have the inscription changed for Sarah. Here, take this one.” He pulled out a glittering slither of rubies. “She’ll like it.”
“No, sir.” His valet held a palm up. “Really, it’s not necessary.”
“Take it. I insist. Rubies aren’t really right for Mrs. St. Vincent’s coloring anyway. She has reddish hair.” Fitz held the bracelet up to the light and shook his head. “Actually, they’re completely wrong.” He stuffed the bracelet into Darby’s jacket pocket. “And remember to go to sleep early tonight. You know how busy tomorrow will be with Mother in residence.”
A moment later, Darby was alone, only the duke’s retreating tread audible as he made his way toward the main staircase. Pulling the bracelet from his pocket, Darby studied the sparkling jewels. Another item to add to his wife Sarah’s collection. With the duke’s liberal generosity over the years, he and his wife could have retired long since.
But the boy needed taking care of; he had from the first.
