Page 25 of Courting Scandal With The Duke

O ne did not invite a mistress to attend the theatre with one’s friends.

Xavier stared into the fire opposite his study desk. The afternoon had turned cool, and flames danced yellow and red among the coals. Almost the red of the gown he had seen her in first.

Geranium.

Such a reckless woman.

Nor did a gentleman invite a single lady to his box, even if she was a widow, unless his intentions were honourable. He would not, for example, have invited Miss Simon and her mother, unless he was on the verge of making her an offer.

He could just imagine the triumph on Mrs Simon’s face were she to receive such an invitation. Or indeed on the face of any of the mothers of debutantes who had been thrown at his feet this Season. What of Miss Lowell, Barbara’s aunt? Would she have expectations ?

Indeed, what would the ton make of such an invitation to the Countess? The betting books at White’s would go wild.

What on earth had he been thinking? He had not been thinking with his brain, that was certain. His small head had been in control.

Lust made a man stupid.

It had certainly made his father stupid enough to risk his life. And he had suffered the consequences.

Xavier had no intention of following in his father’s footsteps. He had not made a point of circumspection all these many years just to fall prey to the first temptress to cross his path.

Xavier ran the pen’s feather through his fingers, tapped it against his cheek, a soft irritating tickle of sensation.

Damn it! What did he care what the ton thought? He had issued the invitation and he would not back out.

But nor would he be trapped by a scheming woman.

He would invite Lady Cowper to bring along the other two young ladies she had recommended, and their mothers. After all, Barbara had been on Emily’s list.

Yes. That would work. Problem solved. Nothing particular about such an invitation at all.

Barbara might not be best pleased with the arrangement, but he had informed her others would be invited.

It would do.

He cast his pen aside.

He would have Perry send out the invitations first thing in the morning.

His butler scratched on the door and entered .

‘The carriage is waiting, Your Grace.’

‘Still raining, then?’

‘I am afraid so, Your Grace. Pouring, in fact.’

‘Very well. Thank you.’ He had intended to walk to the gymnasium, but since he had several places he intended to go afterwards, he ordered the carriage put to.

He was glad of it too when he made the dash from the carriage into the gymnasium on Old Bond Street.

The burly old porter greeted him with a cheerful grin. ‘You are in luck today, Your Grace. His nibs is in a feisty mood.’

‘Good.’

While some gentlemen preferred to get their exercise practising with a button-tipped rapier at Angelo’s next door, Xavier preferred the physicality of boxing.

There was an element of risk. A fellow could actually get hurt if he didn’t concentrate. A bloody nose or a black eye soon woke a chap up. And Xavier was known for doing a bit of damage of his own.

He always came away from a session at the gymnasium feeling calmer, more in control.

Lately he’d been feeling as if he was headed down a slippery slope and losing his grip.

The hall was crowded at this time of day, gentlemen intently watching those fighting on stages either from the ground or from the overlooking balcony. Arguments regarding form. Shouts of encouragement lingering with the smell of stale sweat and tobacco smoke. An all-male preserve.

He stripped down and sat on a bench to await the next available sparring partner, watching a couple of likely lads flourish and weave and bob.

Someone sat beside him. ‘Your Grace.’ His accent was light but recognisable.

The Count of Lipsweiger and Upsal. Was he to meet the fellow everywhere?

‘Count,’ Xavier said, not taking his gaze from the battle in the ring.

‘Please, call me Charles.’

‘Xavier,’ he said, still focussed on the match.

Charles held out his hand and Xavier shook it.

The smaller man sparring looked outmatched, being light and with shorter reach, but he was fast. He ducked beneath the other fellow’s arm and hit him flush in the face.

‘Good hit,’ Xavier muttered.

‘Very good,’ Charles agreed. ‘You are an aficionado of this sport? You will box?’

‘I find it good exercise,’ Xavier answered as he always did.

But it was more. It helped him remain in command of emotions that sometime grew too big for him to contain. Emotions that might lead to doing things he would regret later.

A few solid punches to his jaw or chest, or gut, seemed to set him back on the right track.

Master of his thoughts and actions.

No reckless, thoughtless, ill-considered acts. Like becoming to enamoured of a certain Countess.

‘Do you box?’ he asked Charles .

The young man shook his head. ‘I like to watch, and wager. But no.’ He gave a charming grin. ‘My face is my fortune. I like the ladies too well to ruin it.’

Cheeky sod. Xavier grinned and clapped him on the back. ‘The ladies like a man who can stand up for himself.’

‘Ladies like my sister-in-law, included.’ Charles laughed lightly. ‘I think you don’t take my advice to be wary.’

Xavier gave him a sharp look. Had Barbara been confiding in her brother-in-law?

He had no time to enquire further as Jackson ducked under the ropes and gestured to Xavier to join him.

‘Good luck, my friend,’ Charles said.

Xavier narrowed his eyes. Were they friends? He did not feel any great warmth from the fellow. ‘It is not a matter of luck. It is a matter of skill.’

He joined Jackson and his sparring partner in the ring. When he glanced back, the Count had left.

Xavier frowned. At some point he and the Count—Charles, he corrected himself—were going to have a long conversation.

He balanced on the balls of his feet and feinted, before landing a blow to the other boxer’s shoulder.

‘Oh-ho,’ said Jackson, ‘One of those days, is it?’

His hand flashed out and hit Xavier on his bicep, numbing his fingers.

Yes. This was what he wanted. He circled to the left and watched for an opening.

When Barbara saw the other occupants of the theatre box, she kept her smile fixed firmly in place, but it was hard not to feel let down.

Why on earth would Xavier have invited two other ladies and their duennas, in addition to his friend Pettigrew and another gentleman she did not know?

Or perhaps they were just visiting the box before the performance started?

But no, there were nine chairs in the box in three rows. Was he trying to tell her she was of such little importance to him that— Well, it certainly scotched any idea of using this event to reveal their affair.

Suddenly irritated, she turned to leave.

Aunt Lenore grabbed her arm. ‘Where are you going?’ she whispered forcefully.

‘Somewhere less crowded,’ she said.

‘You cannot leave,’ Aunt Lenore said. ‘That would be rude.’

Xavier turned from speaking to one of the other ladies. ‘Countess. Miss Lowell. Welcome.’

She peered at him. Was that a bruise on his cheekbone? The light was not good, too many shadows cast by the oil lamps… But surely that was a cut on his lip too?

‘Were you attacked by highwaymen?’ she asked.

Aunt Lenore nudged her with an elbow.

Was it impolite to notice that a man looked as if he had been in the wars?

Xavier touched his bottom lip. She had the urge to touch it too. And taste it and —

She squeezed her thighs together and relished the tingle between her legs. Their next assignation could not come soon enough.

Who would have imagined such pleasure while accomplishing one’s ruin? Perhaps she wasn’t so disappointed that it would not end tonight.

‘A sporting accident,’ he said smiling. ‘Your seats are in the front row with the other ladies and the gentlemen will sit behind. May I introduce you to Miss Redhill and Miss Graves?’

The two young ladies and their companions curtsied, giggled and tried to look interesting.

‘What a crush,’ Barbara said under her breath.

‘I thought you might like to meet some of your peers,’ Xavier said, obviously hearing her words, ‘since I have noticed you do not know very many people in town as yet.’

By design.

She intended to be in London no longer than a few weeks.

‘How kind of you to think of me.’

‘I am always thinking of you.’ He hissed in a breath and glanced around.

Clearly, he had not intended to say that out loud.

Interesting. And exciting. And wonderful. She tried to quell the rapid beating of her heart with deep, slow breaths.

But why had he invited all these other people, giving her no opportunity to fully enjoy his company?

Did he intend to hide his interest from the ton and protect her reputation?

Hmm. It seemed they might be working at cross purposes.

The orchestra struck some chords and the audience and the guests in his box settled into their seats.

Xavier took the chair behind hers. She knew it was him, she could smell the woody depths of his cologne and feel his presence like the slide of his hand on her breast. Her nipples tightened.

Never had she experienced such a visceral reaction to the mere presence of a man.

Was she too attracted to this man? It would not do to become enamoured. She shifted uncomfortably.

Someone waved from a box on the other side of the theatre. Charles? She borrowed Aunt Lenore’s opera glasses. It was indeed Charles.

She waved back.

He was seated beside a young woman she did not recognise.

Aunt Lenore took possession of her glasses and also trained them on Charles. ‘Ah,’ she said in a low voice. ‘As I suspected. Your brother-in-law is looking for a rich wife.’

‘Why would you say so?’

‘The young lady beside him is the heiress to a great fortune.’ She gave a snort of distaste. ‘A mill owner’s daughter. They have been seeking a title for the last two years. I wonder at the Count, stooping so low.’