“I wouldn’t put it in those words.”
“No, you’re far too polite for that.” His grin widened as he shook his head in mock contrition. “Dear me. I can certainly see why the esteemed Lady Selina Balfour wants nothing to do with me.”
“I didn’t call myself esteemed.”
“But people do esteem you, Selina.” He dropped the grin like a lead weight. “People esteem you in a way they do not esteem me, and – if I’m perfectly honest – I suppose that is why I…”
The carriage came to a halt. Malcolm frowned, closed his mouth abruptly, and looked out of the window. “Here we are. The Loxwell residence.” He pursed his lips and considered Aunt Ursula. “How best to wake her?”
“I’ll do it.” Selina gave her aunt a gentle shake. “Auntie? We’re home.” She settled her face into a smile as Ursula snorted and harrumphed her way back to the waking world. “Let’s get you that glass of sherry.”
“Dear girl,” said Ursula, patting her hand. She nodded approvingly at Malcolm, too. “Dear boy.”
“Auntie, His Grace the Duke of Caversham is not a dear boy.”
“Oh, do let Lady Ursula call me what she likes.” He was smiling, just as falsely as Selina was, though with twice as much verve. “I haven’t been anybody’s dear boy in years.”
Selina only realised how shallow her breathing had been when she and Ursula were handing their wet coats to the butler and the door was firmly closed behind them. She closed her eyes a moment and took a deep breath, wishing she could wipe the memory of the carriage ride from her mind. She rather suspected she would be reliving that unexpectedly frank conversation through the early hours of the morning.
Her brother put his head out of the drawing room door as Aunt Ursula toddled off in search of a change of clothes and her long-awaited sherry.
“Was that Caversham’s carriage that brought you home?” Alexander asked, looking at her curiously.
Selina shook the last of the rain from her hair and joined him in the drawing room. “One of our horses threw a shoe. I never suspected Caversham had a talent for chivalry, and I was right. He was just about to tell me precisely why he so dislikes me when we reached the house.”
Alexander gave her a sympathetic frown. “It must have been a terribly awkward journey.”
Selina let her eyes drift to the window, where the back of Malcolm’s carriage was just visible through the haze of rain as it rounded a corner.
Part of her was still inside that carriage, finding – too late – the words to respond to his accusations of dislike, and she wished it were not.
“I’m afraid I’ll be seeing more and more of him as the Twynham election approaches,” she said. “It’s almost enough to make me give up the scheme entirely.”
“But not quite,” Alexander guessed, with a wry grin.
“No. Not quite.” She turned back to him, smiling triumphantly. “I won’t be beaten, you know. Not by anyone. And especially not by the Duke of Caversham.”
6
“You’re looking cheerful, Caversham,” remarked Lord Louis, as he drained the last of the claret in his glass and motioned a nearby footman to supply him with another. Malcolm sipped his own drink slowly. He was not intending to have more than one; a card party was no place to lose one’s powers of judgement. The ton’s obsession with gambling could ruin a man in the space of an evening. Even one in possession of a fortune as large as Malcolm’s, though that would admittedly take a concerted effort.
Louis had no such qualms. He was a man blessed with an indulgent father and no property of his own to lose. Already half in his cups, he raised his freshly filled glass to toast Malcolm’s smile and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I’ll wager I can guess what’s got you looking so pleased with yourself.”
“Unless it’s the sunny outlook of the Twynham by-election, you are mistaken.”
Louis frowned. “That’s terribly dry, Caversham. I thought you’d had some luck at last with…” He lowered his voice, attempting an air of mystery. “That other matter we discussed.”
“I have no other matters at hand.” Malcolm prayed that, for once, Louis would learn to take a hint and stop talking. The last thing he wanted was his private business drunkenly dissected in public.
Particularly not at the Earl of Streatham’s card party.
“Lord Streatham!” cried Louis, as their host approached. “What a marvellous evening this is!” He slapped Streatham on the back with his meaty hand. “And you are looking very well, I must say! Marriage suits you!”
“It certainly does.” George Bonneville, Earl of Streatham, had returned from his honeymoon with a sunburned nose and a sparkle in his eyes that Malcolm did not recall being there before.
“Have you met the new Lady Streatham, Caversham?” asked Louis, his cheeks glowing with what was either enthusiasm or an excess of wine. “She’s the wonderful girl who writes such polemics in the London Chronicle.”
“I met her once or twice as Lady Anthea Balfour,” said Malcolm. “Not yet as Streatham’s countess.”
And what a surprise it had been when Streatham landed her. Malcolm had always thought of Streatham as a devil-may-care, insubstantial sort of fellow. He had spent his days idling about Europe until Anthea met him, married him, and launched them both into the heart of the nation’s political scene by penning a series of acerbic articles for the Chronicle.
It seemed the lady wished to do some good in the world, and her husband had transformed under her influence.
“I never took you for an avid reader, my lord,” said Streatham, his handsome brows quirking upwards. Louis laughed, not at all offended.
“Lady Streatham makes it all sound so dashed entertaining, that’s the trouble! I’ve never had much of a head for business, but when she writes about this tax or that riot, it’s all as thrilling as a night at the theatre!”
Pride glowed in Streatham’s eyes. Malcolm felt a strange tug of jealousy as the earl accepted the
