Page 21 of For the Love of Clover (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #4)

CHAPTER 21

R arely had Hugo woken up to a beautiful woman beside him. Not that he hadn’t been with some vainly gorgeous women. He’d just rarely stayed the night with them. This felt fresh and new and somehow lovelier than he had expected. With one arm behind his head, he examined the room around him. Dark wood furnishings, teal blue curtains, and a bed which matched were not the colors he imagined Clover would choose. If there had been time, he would have had the rooms redecorated, which caused him to ponder the things he did not know about her.

What was her favorite color? Did she like pets? Had she ever envisioned herself living year-long in the city? There was no denying she was a passionate woman, and chess was a game she loved to play, although she clearly hadn’t had a challenging partner in some time. Hugo learned her strategy quickly, and if she were to win the game, she’d need to change her tactics.

Even through the heavy beige and brown carpet, the cold of the coming winter chilled his feet. The fire had been lit last night, but since she hadn’t gone to bed in her room, it had not been tended and had gone out long before he woke. He scouted for a taper and tinderbox, grabbing his banyan on the path to the small hearth. He had chosen this particular home to rent because it boasted hearths in the most important rooms. Burning coal didn’t suit him as well as a blazing fire. And he liked the foyer with its striking, smoky gray Baroque marble tile. It made a good impression should he need to entertain.

He had not considered having a wife who might wish to amuse herself with women’s luncheons or meetings with charity organizations. His knowledge of marriage was limited, though his parents were still alive and well.

Mostly well. His father was eccentric and talked to himself. But Philip Darrington hadn’t always been that way, according to Hugo’s mother.

A not-so-delicate yawn sounded behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder. “You’re awake. You can call for your maid. I simply wanted to light a fire so your feet would not suffer the same shock of cold mine did. The carpet helps, but it’s not enough.”

“I don’t mind the cold.” She flipped the covers back, and he had a nice, shocking view of her breasts chilled to a peak against the muslin of his shirt. She tried to roll up the sleeves, but they weren’t having it. She placed a foot on the floor. “Good Lord, it feels like we completely skipped October.”

“It’s this house. It’s warm enough with the fires lit. I imagine you’re used to things done differently.”

“Why? Because I’m the daughter of a duke? Or sister, as it were, now?”

“Frankly, yes. I live like a bachelor most of the time.” He slanted a look toward the ceiling. “This room, for instance, has not seen a woman’s touch. I look forward to seeing what you can do with it.”

“It’s not important. I’m not as pampered as you might think.”

“Hm. Are you pampered enough to expect a turn about the park today?”

“I’d like that,” she said. The statement lacked excitement, but he blamed it on the early hour. Most ladies and gentlemen of the ton rose later than eight o’clock.

“I’m glad you’ll have a friend close by this winter. It can be a little uneventful after the crowds flee for their country seats.”

“You mean Evelyn?”

He nodded. “I’ll wait for you downstairs whenever you’re ready.” He tried not to look overly long at her, but her hair was temptingly tangled.

“You’re smiling like the Cheshire cat.”

“It’s nothing. Just your hair.” He circled his head with his open hand for emphasis.

Immediately, her hands went to her hair, a most womanly gesture.

She slanted a half smile and an adorable grimace. “Better?”

“It was perfect before. But if you’re asking if your exercise in post preening was successful, the answer is no.” He chuckled. “Thankfully. I’ve always preferred it as if you wrestled styling it and failed.”

He decided the wait had been worth it when he caught a glimpse of her on his arm, parading the inner walkways of Hyde Park, dressed in cornflower blue with a matching wool cloak. They walked in silent camaraderie as if they shared a secret, nodding to the few passersby until he caught a few choice words from a not-so-gentlemanly gentleman. There was little hope she didn’t hear it. He wouldn’t have thought broad daylight would bring the sort of discouraging word that coarse gentry spewed only in private. The words matched those in the betting books, the fool mumbling them under his breath as they passed, avoiding eye contact with Hugo, and Hugo needed no better excuse.

“Excuse me, darling.” Hugo left Clover’s side for a private moment with the man. In truth, he wanted to lay the man low, to plow his fist into his aristocratic nose and leave the bridge between his eyes displaced. His hands were clenched tighter than his jaw, and it took everything in him to keep his voice even and steady. A blast of cold air invaded his flaring nostrils. “A word if you will?”

“Me?” The man had the audacity to insult Hugo’s intelligence.

“I’m guessing you know who I am?”

“Indeed, I do. You’re the man who got lucky with Clover.”

Hugo struck first and second and then caught himself on the upswing that would have indeed taken the man’s jaw out. Hugo choked the man’s collar and pulled him close for a dangerous warning. “You will leave, good sir, or I’ll pummel you right here instead of waiting to challenge you properly in the ring. Then again, I’m guessing by your inexcusable vulgarity that you don’t do properly very well.”

“You’ll not get me in the ring,” the man ducked away, picking up his hat as he spoke. “I’m not stupid enough to join you there.”

“Lovely. Guns before dawn, then?”

“No,” the coward blustered.

“Hugo,” Clover said, tugging gently on his sleeve from somewhere behind him. “He’s not worth it.”

“No, he isn’t. But you are.”

“You see, she’s not even fazed by such a jest.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Clover said as she stepped from behind Hugo.

The fool grunted and coughed, and Hugo just smiled with a sinister tilt of his mouth. “Mr. Trundle.”

“The correct address is Lady Clover, I believe. Or Mrs. Darrington in case you weren’t aware.”

Mr. Trundle looked nervously from Hugo to Clover, who stood proud, lovely, and frightening as hell like any good duke’s sister. She was fortified with title and money, the two most important factors in this godforsaken city.

“You look as if you might be sick. So allow me to finish for you. If you know such a foul thing as to be aware of the betting books, then you must have placed a wager of your own.”

Hugo slid her a glance.

“Now, I am a woman, so the rules of such intelligent games as wagering on frivolity like raindrops on windowpanes escapes me. But I do believe, if I have it correctly, you owe my husband a sum of money. Do you not? I believe they’re called winnings.”

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Again, that’s Mrs. Darrington. Or, of course, Lady Clover. My brother is the Duke of Kingsley, but even my untitled husband outranks him in the ring. So, I say again, you must owe my husband money. You may have your bank write up a draft and deliver it yourself.” She linked her arm through Hugo’s. “My husband will be waiting at Strong’s. You can either show up there with a banknote or answer the challenge in the ring. I’d place a wager on the game, but I’m not sure anyone would be foolish enough to set the odds.”

Mr. Trumble visibly swallowed. “I’ll see to it, Lady Clover.”

Hugo blasted him with a cold, piercing stare.

“Uh, Mrs. Darrington,” Mr. Trumble said as he backed away in a perpetual bow.

Clover bowed her head regally. She’d been born to play this game, and Hugo enjoyed every irreverently improper moment. The rush of excitement stirred his blood even in the crisp autumn air. The trees were losing leaves like a balding man, and it smelled like churned wet earth, like something new, fertile, and refreshing. Or maybe it was the jasmine and honeysuckle he kept getting a whiff of coming from his wife’s hair. He wanted her again, but he wouldn’t impose himself on her until she gave him a clear indication that she wished it. It was as if they were courting after the vows, which left him to wonder again whether this attraction would have led to this place. He couldn’t shake the mystery. Or perhaps it was the control of it that he had such a difficult time resolving.

“This reminds me of the Pleasure Gardens,” she said, strolling easily beside him. The backdrop with hues of red and gold burst around the blue of her cloak as if the park worshiped her. “Do you recall?”

“So long ago, it’s difficult to put a finger on it. Remind me.” He teased her, enjoying the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips before she replied.

“Well, first I accosted you, and then you held me against a tree,” she said as she grabbed his hand and took three skipping steps to a large Elm. “I was pressed against the bark like this.” She replayed the position for his amusement. “And then you placed your hands on either side of me so I couldn’t get away.”

He chuckled, rubbing his chin with his fist. “What a terrible man.”

She nodded. “Like caging a tiger.”

“Or tigress. I might agree with you there.”

“Oh, so you do remember? I was giving you the benefit of your aged brain in case you’d become forgetful.”

He stepped toward her, resting his forearm beside her against the trunk. “I remember now. You kissed me.”

She gasped. “I wouldn’t dare try.”

His gaze fell to her mouth. Such a game to play so far from home and a warm bed. “I wish you would.”

She gave a shy smile, a sure sign that she’d lost control of this game.

Briefly secluded from view of the few couples taking the air, Hugo bent his head and kissed his wife lightly. “You are welcome to kiss me back or initiate it anytime you please.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” she murmured as if she could do no more. “Would you invite me to play chess again?”

“Again and again and again.” By the flare of her pupils, he could see the meaning was clear. Chess had just become a game of intrigue and playful strategy between tokens of flesh and blood.

The little kiss in the park had set Hugo on fire, and it apparently put his new wife in a state of shy reserve. Dinner had been a quiet affair, and the night had been even more so because he was left to sleep alone once again. Before, whenever he had thought of marriage, he didn’t expect love and devotion, but he had assumed it would come with the average benefit of a satisfied libido. Not that he wanted her to fulfill his needs exactly. He rather wanted to fulfill hers. She must have them. The woman was passionate and erotically adventurous for a virgin, which led him to think she might be frightened, and for that, he couldn’t blame her.

Bachelors learned patience from necessity and explored other options, none of which Hugo cared to partake. Not with a beautiful blonde sleeping next door with her hair mussed and wearing one of his shirts pulled open at the neck. It was pure fantasy. He didn’t know what she wore to bed, but the imprint in his mind of her wearing his shirt was a picture captured like a miniature in a locket.

He was busier than usual between the Belgravia project and the investments he had been nurturing toward new ideas in transportation with steam engines. Kingsley’s friendship was paramount in the former, but his involvement in the latter was coming to a head.

His desk was organized accordingly. He liked organization, files, and everything in its place. He moved the ink pot an inch inside the boundary of the blotter because that’s where it belonged. That’s what he was used to. A rich, dark mahogany desk. A leather chair with rollers. The maroon settee matched the curtains. The study was his world.

A flurry of cream muslin caught his eye, and he looked up to see Clover standing just inside the door.

“Are you very busy?” She tilted her head, a clear uneasiness about the question.

Hugo stood. “Never too busy for you, my dear. Come in. You’re practically standing in the hall.”

She glanced behind her and took several more steps into the study until her feet were just inside the large floor carpet. It reminded him of his inkwell. She cleared her throat. “I was wondering whether you were going out tonight.”

“Where would I go?”

“The club. I wasn’t certain what your boxing schedule was like or if you even had one.”

He could see an obvious question involving another trip to Strong’s. “I don’t have any plans tonight, and I’m not certain I can take you again so soon.”

“No, that’s not it at all. I was considering the dinner menu and thought it would be nice to serve something you like.”

What he liked was standing in front of him. Regardless, there was little truth in what she said. The lie was evident in the way she pulled at her fingers one by one, stopping on the third to spin her wedding ring around. He wasn’t sure what she was about. “Whatever Cook has planned, or you have planned, is good with me.” He pulled his mouth into a friendly, benign smile.

“I’ll let her know.”

“I never thought to leave you my schedule. I do apologize. If there’s anything you wish to do, please say so, with perhaps the exception of the Pleasure Gardens unless you take me.” Now, he smiled genuinely.

She blushed prettily, either for the reminder of the gardens or something else. The silence made her seem farther away than the twelve feet or so between them.

“You can visit with your friends anytime you wish, you know.” He rocked on his heels, his hands behind his back. “Take the coach, I’ve got the carriage, or I can have a hack hailed if I need to be anywhere in the city.”

She rubbed her lips together, drawing the bottom one through her teeth. “It’s not that.”

“You want to play chess?” There was no innuendo in the question, but as soon as her head popped up from staring at the red paisley print carpet and she locked eyes with him, he knew. “What are you trying to say?” He cocked a brow, and one edge of his mouth ticked up.

She shut her eyes, her spectacles moving up on the bridge of her adorably scrunched nose. “There were promises made.”

That announcement completely baffled him. Back to square one in the conversation. Promises? “Vows, you mean? Which ones?”

“Not vows. A promise recently made.”

He was beginning to understand. With a fist to his hip, he rubbed his eye. “That sounds a little like an invitation.”

“Exactly,” she said with a long sigh.

“Exactly what?”

Her magnified gaze, exaggerated by the eyeglasses, absently searched the room, and the finger pulling increased. “I thought perhaps tonight if you weren’t busy, you might fulfill your promise. Your next time promise,” she clarified with her cheeks fire branded with embarrassment.

“Ah, the next-time-it-will-be-better promise. Is that the one?”

She looked to the ceiling, closed her eyes, and then pinned him with a wide-eyed stare. She nodded.

“I’m not busy now. Are you?” Oh, dear God, she was precious.