Page 8 of For the Love of Clover (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #4)

CHAPTER 8

C lover hardly slept. That punch to his granite hard abdomen, the way his strong hands folded over her fingers, and his breath on her neck was a triple assault to her fading wisdom. She spread her arms wide, gazing up at her pale-pink canopy, and wondered if Hugo Darrington’s bed was longer to accommodate every inch of his six-foot height. She turned her head on the pillow and imagined his criminally long eyelashes dusting his cheeks while he slept.

She had always been attracted to him but had never thought this far. It was the conversation with Addy and Evelyn that had her seeing him in places he did not belong. Honestly, she had never considered a man in her bed. Husbands and wives did not share a room. Lovers, she could not attest. But spouses, as far as she knew, stayed in their own suites.

She rolled over, sighing a morning sound, and reached for the little drawer in the table next to her bed. She ripped the bottom portion of a well-used sheet of paper and retrieved a short pencil. “Number one,” she said to an empty room. “Ask Evelyn if she and Rochester share a room.” She had questions. Her friends had answers. She suddenly felt fortunate that Addy and Evelyn married before she did. It saved her from having to wait for marriage to find the answers to her uncomfortable personal questions. There were still things she wished to accomplish before settling her life on one human being with the authority to shape her future. Hadn’t Stratford done enough of that himself? If her brother’s strictness were any indication of what she could expect from a husband, she’d as soon stay unmarried for a while longer.

“Number two. Ask Evelyn about the pugilist club. Number three. Ask Darrington for an invitation.”

“To what,” her maid asked as she unceremoniously entered the room, her dark-blonde hair coiled in a braid under her lace cap. Miss Esther was nearly four inches taller than Clover, thinner, and delicately pretty.

“Nowhere.” Clover flung her legs over the side of the bed and shoved the little piece of paper back in the drawer. Mentally, she made a note to keep paper and pencil handy.

“Mr. Jennings gave me a package for you.”

“Oh? From who?”

“The card just says a friend,” Esther said, turning the small rectangular box in her hands. Esther had been with her since her come out. Hiring her had been one of her mother’s last assignments, and the maid was dear to Clover because of it. Esther was ten years her senior and as trustworthy as they came.

From where Clover sat, she could see nothing fancy or unusual about the delivery. “Probably something from Evelyn.” She took it from Esther and set it aside.

“You’re not going to open it?”

“Later.”

“Perhaps it’s that invitation you were speaking of.”

“Doubtful.” Clover picked up the box again and gave it a gentle shake. “Doesn’t rattle. I think it’s the ribbon I lent Evelyn before she wed. I’d almost forgotten about that.”

Esther said no more but went about laying out Clover’s dress and accouterment for the day. Every chance Clover got, she let her gaze settle on the plain brown box. The jittering tingle spreading through her stomach made her wonder if it wasn’t from Evelyn after all.

Could it be from him? Would Darrington chance sending her a gift? And why? A good reason to wait until Esther left the room. She trusted her maid, but the thought of it being something unexpected gave her pause.

Clover skipped breakfast, sat on her bed, and untied the black silk ribbon. The notecard simply read: From a friend . The corners of the box fit snugly together. The longer she fought with it, the more apprehension overwrote her imagination until her nerves were raw. Folded tissue paper and a business card from Hatters were tucked inside. She gently pinched back the tissue, savoring the moment on one hand and afraid to look on the other. Her breath caught, and her mouth hung open at the sight of the most beautiful lace gloves she’d ever seen. Her hands shook, and the paper rattled as she picked up each glove and tried them on. They smelled fresh, like new bolts of fabric and something else. She took them off and brought them to her nose, practically inhaling them. She caught the striking scent of cinnamon.

She put them to her nose again.

And bay rum.

She gently laid them back in the box, popped the lid on, and tossed it on her bureau like it was on fire. It had to be Darrington. She’d all but ruined her gloves in the maze when they went through the hedges to the secret garden. Only he would have such information, condemning as it was. She paced in front of her bureau, biting her thumb and stealing glances at the box. Why would he chance sending them here?

Because it’s where she lived.

True, they could still have been from Evelyn. She rushed to her nightstand. The torn paper barely had enough room for one more addition. “Number four, call on Evelyn in Mayfair.”

Usually, Darrington would take out his anxiety at Strong’s. He blamed the mirror on his dresser for the change in venue. This morning, when he checked his shave in the looking glass, he tried to imagine a black eye, a swollen lip, a bruised jaw and couldn’t bring himself to be thrilled at the prospect. Forget he was better than that. It had been ages since his face had taken a beating.

Most importantly, Strong’s had rules for pugilist exercises. Namely, no battering of heads or faces. After all, most men who used the club as a gymnasium also attended the Season. A half-moon might intrigue the right woman, but most would be appalled at a black eye.

He had a feeling that Clover was not one who would mind. Then again, why the hell did he care?

It had to be nerves over his failing judgment to send her gloves. No notecard. He was assured they had been accepted as a gift from a friend, and no thought more wicked than that would pass from butler to maid to Clover. He hoped.

He skipped Strong’s, and with Rochester busy with a new wife and Winn busy with a new babe, Hugo decided to bleed his mind of baser things with cards at Brook’s. Forget men were generally the cause of ignoble thinking.

The sounds of St. James Street soothed him. It made him feel normal, alive, prepared. Business relationships were built over decks of cards and brandy. Friendships were cultivated over betting and good-natured ribbing. He looked forward to his usual seat where he could play brag and relax with cognac.

He settled as third at the table and was stricken to notice the fourth gentleman to join was one of the sods who’d disparaged Clover’s name in the maze. Hugo didn’t need to examine the balding Mr. Finch from head to toe. He’d done enough of that in the days following the incident. At least tonight, the man wasn’t drunk. Not yet.

“Mr. Darrington, didn’t we meet at Mrs. LaDow’s party?”

“Briefly.” Hugo didn’t see a need to expound. For one, he didn’t wish to encourage a conversation about the party. And two, he was more interested in Finch’s small talk than anything. More could be gathered from saying little and listening plenty.

“It was a roaring good time. Or didn’t you get lucky?” Finch asked.

The table laughed with the usual ribbing and daring. Hugo nodded to the dealer to start the game. “I’m not in the habit of falsely expounding on my exploits. Which is to say, the week was amusing, nothing more.”

“Nothing more? Then you did it wrong, my friend.”

Hugo eyed him with boredom as he tapped the side of his cards together on the table before peeking at his hand.

“Don’t tell me you forgot how to have a good time while you were away on holiday.”

“I was away on business.”

“For three years?”

It wasn’t quite common knowledge, but neither was it a secret that he, Winn, and Rochester had spent three years away from London and home. The reasons why were a matter of unvalidated gossip concerning a certain gaming hell, the loss of ten-thousand pounds, and the unseemly way in which Winn Markham had won the losses back. The three friends never gave the information a nod or a nay. Either would have been fodder. So, Hugo stayed silent.

“Oh, give over, Darrington.”

Before Finch could finish his sentence, the table roared. “Give over in the clover.”

Hugo’s heart stuttered. But the brag player he was, he kept his features composed. However, his fingers tightened on the cards, and in his mind, he was shoving a fist down Finch’s throat. The chant was too close not to mean something.

“With Clover is more like it,” the man sitting directly opposite said.

If there had been a question before, there was none now. “Are we gentlemen or fools?”

“When I’m drinking, I’m a fool.” That said, Finch raised two fingers, signaling a footman.

Hugo couldn’t agree with him more.

“Who won the wager on Miss Cynthia Bridges this Season?”

Good. Let the conversation fall in another direction.

“No one that I’m aware of,” a man to his right chimed.

“It wasn’t for lack of trying, I’ll tell you that,” Finch said, tossing his ante on the table.

“Not to worry, Finch, there are always horses to bet on.” The table broke out with laughter again as more drinks showed up.

“Not if Kingsley stays in London for the fall, and I have it on good authority that he might. Then, our little Miss Clover will be here, and I’m considering staying beyond the Season. The chit’s aged nicely.”

“Like a thoroughbred.”

Hugo wanted to roll his eyes. “I believe it’s Lady Clover, and it’s your bet, Finch.”

“That’s it, Darrington. A bet.”

“The game,” Hugo emphasized.

“I’m placing my bet for Lady Clover.”

“On yourself?” the man across the table asked.

“All men for themselves this winter, I say,” Finch said with too much innuendo.

“It’s childish entertainment, don’t you think?” the man next to Darrington asked. There was at least one other levelheaded soul at the table.

Perhaps it would die out, and perhaps it would not. Hugo fell silent again, but he took inventory of the table for later contemplation. Five men, including himself. He didn’t expect any wager the man put on his own prowess would likely be big enough to leave the table. The last thing he needed was for this nonsense to spread to White’s where Kingsley might come upon it.

“Are we playing cards or discussing schoolroom antics?” Hugo made a show of examining his cards. The other men did the same. It looked promising for two more hands until the alcohol began talking. He had no desire to stay. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Hugo tossed his last hand of cards to the dealer and stood. He checked the whist room on the slight chance Rochester might be there. But Rochester was more likely to show up at a billiard table than a card table. Darrington could use a game of billiards about now.

Rochester wasn’t there. Hugo leaned against the dark paneled wall, sipping a cognac and watching a game. His mind wandered to Clover, and his heart gave a squeeze. It pained him to hear such ridiculous men dishonor her. She didn’t deserve to be the talk of Brook’s, not in that way. He tapped his brain for a strategy to permanently dissuade the unremarkable Mr. Finch and his cohort Mr. Haskel, who was thankfully absent tonight, from spewing his mouth any further. Save for a beating, he had nothing. He would say no more tonight because if this man knew he and Clover had been hiding behind a hedge, this little drunk scheme of theirs would never end.