Page 18

T he clock in Westcott’s gentlemen’s club struck the quarter hour past eleven when Nathaniel entered the less-than-reputable back rooms. He’d dined outside, in the respectable part of the club, but he knew he had to take his mind off his troubles, and in London, there was no better place to do that than Westcott’s back rooms.

Unlike the upper-class clubs such as White’s, Brooke’s, or even Bootles’, this club had one of the notorious back rooms. And like all such rooms, this one reeked of stale tobacco and secrets, where gentlemen of questionable morals came to drink brandy that tasted perpetually of smoke and speak of things that would never see the light of drawing room conversation.

He knew places like this well, as he had spent many hours in them both in London and in Edinburgh.

“Over here,” Julian called, and he slipped into an upholstered chair across from his friend.

“You look as out of place as a nun in St. Giles, my friend,” Julian chuckled and regarded him with the languid amusement of a cat who had cornered a particularly interesting mouse.

The man possessed an infuriating ability to appear utterly at ease while delivering the most pointed of observations, and tonight was no exception.

“It has been a while since I frequented this place,” he admitted.

“Frequented the place? You haven’t touched a single woman in weeks,” Julian drawled, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler with practiced indolence.

Nathaniel stretched his leg, affecting the same careless pose that had served him well in the past. He had to look nonchalant and act it. “I would remind you that my uncle passed away. There is a mourning period to observe.”

“Oh, now you are concerned about mourning periods? That wasn’t the case when you decided to ignore it all to find a husband for your uncle’s widow,” Julian replied.

“That is different. They hardly knew one another. I cannot be seen acting in ways that are unbecoming of a duke so soon after my uncle’s funeral.”

“And yet, here you are,” Julian replied.

“Because you invited me. I thought we were taking dinner at White’s.”

It was true; he had been a little put out when Julian decided to change the location of their dinner from White’s to Westcott’s, knowing fully well what would transpire afterward.

How was it that he had once loved such places?

He was never the sort to be reckless. He did not gamble away his funds, nor did he seek out young ladies to scandalize; however, he did, on occasion, frequent clubs like these, where young ladies sought attention.

Sometimes for the benefit of connection, sometimes for the benefit of funds.

The women at places like these knew what they wanted and what the risks were.

And he had not been a stranger to these places. Yet, he had not felt a desire to come here for a long while now. Not since he’d arrived in England. There had been too much going on. Too many distractions to contend with. Well, one.

“Have you grown bored of the ladies?” Julian asked, drawing him from his thoughts.

“No, but perhaps more selective,” he replied with a shrug and took a sip from his glass.

“Selective?” Julian’s laugh was soft and entirely too knowing. “Nathaniel, you’ve never been selective about ladies. You collect women like other men collect snuffboxes—frequently and with little discrimination.”

The barb found its mark, though it was not entirely accurate. He had his fair share of notches in his belt, but he was not a rake. At least not in his own estimation. Instead, he lifted his glass in a mock salute. “How flattering of you to catalog my conquests with such… enthusiasm.”

“It’s not your conquests that interest me,” Julian replied, leaning forward with predatory grace. “It is the sudden and complete absence of them. Tell me, does this newfound celibacy have anything to do with a certain dowager duchess who resides within your walls? One named Evelyn?”

The name hung in the air between them like a challenge. Nathaniel felt his jaw tighten involuntarily, a reaction he cursed even as it occurred. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Julian’s eyebrow arched with theatrical precision.

“Since the moment that particular young lady took up residence under your roof, you have ceased your usual pursuits entirely. No flirtations at the opera, no dalliances in dark gardens, no scandals whatsoever. That, my friend, is what I find truly ridiculous. Whenever you came to London before, you were an uncontainable beast.”

“That is taking it a little far,” Nathaniel said, for this was truly an exaggeration.

“Well, perhaps not a beast. But you could have rivaled our good Lord Byron.”

“Hardly,” Nathaniel said and drained his brandy in one burning gulp, using the moment to school his expression into something approaching indifference.

“I’ve been occupied with protecting her reputation.

Someone must ensure she doesn’t fall prey to the sort of libertines who frequent establishments such as this.

That is all. My appetite for entertainment and the ladies remains unchanged. ”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, and from Julian’s knowing smile, his friend was entirely aware of the lie.

“Prove it,” Julian said with silky smoothness, settling back in his chair like a judge pronouncing sentence.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If she means nothing to you beyond the burden of guardianship, then prove it. Go charm some willing lady. Seduce someone. Be the charming prince we all know and love.” Julian’s smile turned razor sharp. “Unless, of course, you find yourself… incapable.”

The challenge struck home with the precision of a rapier thrust. Nathaniel rose from his chair with deliberate casualness, his movements betraying nothing of the turmoil roiling beneath his carefully maintained exterior.

He would show Julian. All their lives, they had jested with each other, challenged each other, and he’d always risen to the occasion. He would this time as well.

“Very well,” he said, his voice carrying just the right note of bored indulgence. “If it will satisfy your apparent need for entertainment.”

He surveyed the room with the calculating gaze of a practiced seducer.

Near the far wall, a vision in emerald silk had positioned herself with artistic precision upon a velvet chaise.

Lady Catherine Hastings—widow, beauty, and notorious for her appreciation of handsome young lords with flexible morals.

Her golden curls caught the candlelight like spun fire, and her mouth, painted the color of ripe cherries, curved in invitation when their eyes met.

She would never be seen like this out in the world; she would never have dared.

But in this place, she was someone else. She was free. None of the gentlemen who came here would dare breathe a word of who they had seen within these walls. Not if they had any hope of returning.

In here, silence and discretion were sovereign.

Nathaniel approached with the fluid confidence that had opened more bedroom doors than he cared to count. He lowered himself into the chair beside her with practiced grace, allowing his gaze to sweep over her form in frank appreciation.

“Lady Hastings,” he murmured, his voice dropping to the intimate register that had proven so effective in the past. “You grow more radiant with each passing season.”

She laughed, a sound like silver bells touched with sin. “Your Grace. I heard you had come back into town from Edinburgh. You live here permanently now?”

“I do,” he replied.

“It has been too long,” she purred. “And yet, as sad as the circumstances of your return have been, I am glad for them. And how deliciously unexpected to find you in such surroundings. When I heard you had returned to town but did not come, I had begun to worry you’d taken up holy orders. Or worse, a wife.”

He smiled then—the smile that had undone countless hearts and unlaced even more stays. “I assure you, my lady, my interests remain decidedly earthly and I remain unattached.”

“You do? No duchess on the horizon? I thought I had heard…” He placed his fingers on her lips, silencing her.

What followed was a masterpiece of practiced seduction.

He complimented the elegant arrangement of her curls, the exquisite cut of her gown, even the ridiculous little spaniel that trembled in her lap like an animated powder puff.

She responded with gratifying enthusiasm, leaning closer until her perfume—something heavy and cloying with jasmine—filled his nostrils.

Her gloved fingers found his knee, tracing patterns through the fine wool of his breeches with scandalous familiarity.

He had performed this dance a hundred times before. He knew every step, every gesture, every breathless word that would lead inevitably to a darkened carriage or a conveniently empty withdrawing room. The script was as familiar as his name.

Yet as Lady Hastings’ fingers crept higher and her voice dropped to a husky whisper, Nathaniel found himself…

absent. Physically present but mentally miles away, as if viewing the scene through thick glass.

Her beautiful face began to blur at the edges, her melodious voice fading to meaningless sound.

Instead, unbidden and unwelcome, other images crowded his mind.

Evelyn curled up in his library chair, her dark hair escaping its pins as she lost herself in some book.

Evelyn rolling her eyes at his theatrics with exasperated affection.

Evelyn in the gardens at dawn, fencing barefoot in the dew-wet grass, unaware anyone could see her due to the lateness of the hour and the seclusion of the back gardens.

He smiled as he thought of it. She didn’t know he could see her from the top floor, practicing, perhaps in preparation for another battle.

His mind was full of Evelyn. Evelyn, furious and magnificent, her chin tilted in defiance as she delivered some perfectly reasonable observation that nevertheless turned his world sideways.

The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow. He felt nothing for the lovely creature beside him—nothing but a vague, distant appreciation for her undeniable beauty. Where once there would have been desire, anticipation, the delicious thrill of conquest, there was only… emptiness.

And filling that emptiness, like water rushing into a broken vessel, came the image of storm-gray eyes and a mouth that tasted of honey and defiance.

He stood abruptly, nearly overturning his chair in his haste. Lady Hastings blinked up at him in startled confusion, her carefully arranged seduction crumbling into bewilderment.

“Is something amiss, Your Grace?” she asked, her voice pitched higher with uncertainty.

“Yes,” he said, his voice rough with the force of his revelation. “Very much so.”

He turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving behind whispered speculation and Julian’s knowing laughter. But he heard none of it over the thundering of his own heart and the terrible, wonderful truth that pursued him into the London night.

He was utterly, completely, and irrevocably ruined. Evelyn had ruined him. How had this happened and when? Exactly when had they crossed the threshold from enemies to whatever this was?

No, this could not be. She was nothing to him. Nothing but a burden.

But even as he thought it, he knew it was not true. She had become so much more. But how could he tell her? She despised him. After all, hadn’t she looked almost relieved when they’d been interrupted the night before? Yes, he was sure she had.

She wanted nothing from him but her freedom, and he was not going to make things more complicated by confessing feelings he was certain were not reciprocated.

He had to get this foolishness out of his mind and fast. There was so much he had to do now that he was a duke.

He had to get the estate in order, make alliances in the House of Lords, and much more.

What he didn’t need was to fall in love with the woman his uncle had married and left a widow in the space of a laughably short period.

The rumors already bubbled under the surface; he knew it from the way people looked at him sideways. They would only get worse. No, he had to get Evelyn out of his house—and the sooner, the better for all involved.