Page 93 of The Rogue’s Embrace

As much as Rupert would have liked to spend all his time post-homecoming wooing Cece—or teasing her until she lost her temper, which was just another form of wooing in his mind—the duties of his title couldn't be ignored.

"I feel as though I'm a year behind at university, listening to the debates in Lords,"

he lamented to Reese as the two of them walked from the Palace of Westminster to their club farther up Parliament Street.

"It must be a baptism by fire,"

Reese said sympathetically, though his brow was knit in a frown as they stepped around pedestrians heading in the opposite direction and made their way to The Tower Club's door.

Rupert laughed humorlessly. "I did everything I could to keep abreast of the situation while in South Africa, but news travels damnably slow across that sort of distance."

Their conversation paused as the door attendant let them into the club and they strode along the echoing, marble halls to the private sitting room they and their friends had commandeered as their own.

Freddy was already there, reading a book, drinking tea, and looking even more threadbare than the last time Rupert had seen him.

Fergus had managed to gain entrance as well, although that had taken a colossal effort on Rupert's and Reese's part.

The secretaries of the club hadn't been keen on admitting an Irishman, even if he was teetering on the brink of inheriting an earldom.

Harrison Manfred, the Marquess of Landsbury, and John Darrow, Viscount Whitlock, were there as well, playing chess in the corner.

"All you really need to know to appear informed in the House of Lords,"

Reese continued where their conversation had left off once they were seated comfortably in leather armchairs as a footman fetched their tea, "is that nothing at all is getting done at the moment because of The Irish Question."

Fergus glanced up from the letter he was writing at the small table under the window, his green eyes lighting with interest.

"How so?"

Rupert asked. He thanked the footman as he was handed his tea, then took a biscuit from a plate on the table between his chair and Reese's to dunk.

Reese took a sip of his tea before answering. "The Home Rulers are so intent on having their case heard and bringing the matter to a vote that they have obstructed business in Commons time and time again with filibusters."

Rupert grinned. "Irishmen talking until they drop? I'd like to see that."

"Yes, well, none of them are actually Irish, and it's a damned nuisance, if you ask me,"

Reese said.

"I beg your pardon?"

Fergus stood from his letters, walking over to face Reese with his arms crossed confrontationally.

Freddy lowered his book and looked as though he might tackle Fergus if he assaulted Reese in any way.

"I don't mean to offend you, O'Shea. Truly, I don't. But even you must admit that these Home Rulers are preventing other, important issues from being discussed in Parliament."

"If Commons wants to get on with things, they should vote on Gladstone's proposed Home Rule bill and move on,"

Fergus insisted.

"If only it were that simple,"

Reese sighed, rubbing his face.

"Why isn't it simple?"

Fergus pressed on, his posture tighter.

Rupert glanced between his two friends, feeling as though he were watching a boxing match. Both were absolutely the best of men, but each had had entirely different upbringings and experiences.

Reese looked as though the last thing he wanted to discuss was his opinion on Home Rule. Even less so when Harrison and John stopped playing chess and turned to listen to the debate. But Reese sighed and said, "I'm not one of those who believe the Irish are incapable of governing themselves, you know. Yes, that belief is insidious. I deplore the men who see your fellow countrymen as somehow subhuman. The suffering your people have undergone is staggering, and I wish there were something I could do about it."

"Then do something,"

Fergus said. "Let us have our own parliament and govern ourselves."

"If only it were possible,"

Reese went on. "The entire empire is at stake. How can we expect to maintain the respect of our various, far-flung colonies and continue to govern them if we are seen as unable to govern our closest colony of all?"

"Perhaps you should stop thinking of Ireland as your colony and start thinking of us as a sovereign nation,"

Fergus suggested, anger infiltrating his tone.

Reese looked genuinely alarmed. "Ireland as a sovereign nation?"

He posed the question, but before any of them could answer it, Freddy unceremoniously blurted, "Rupert, how are your efforts to win back Lady Cecelia progressing?"

Rupert was so grateful for the chance to diffuse what was on the brink of turning into a war between two of his closest friends that he felt no guilt at all in answering in an overly loud voice, "Splendidly."

He took a last sip of tea, put his cup aside, and sat forward in his chair. "Not only have I turned her head with hints of absolute wickedness, I think I've managed to give her the impression that hers might not be the only attentions I could seek out."

He sounded like the worst sort of cad to brag about those things, but his words had the desired effect. Fergus stepped back, moving to take a biscuit from the side table, and Reese relaxed into his chair. The flush that had come to his face began to subside.

"You can't mean to tell me that you're deliberately making a lovely young woman like Lady Cecelia jealous, can you?"

Harrison said, stepping forward to take Fergus's place.

With the initial mission of stopping Fergus and Reese's argument completed, full sheepishness for his declaration slithered down Rupert's spine. "It's all just a bit of fun,"

he insisted. "Cece knows my true feelings."

John groaned, crossing to sit on the edge of Freddy's sofa. "I have never observed an incident of a man assuming a woman knows he's merely joking turn out in the gentleman's favor."

Freddy made a sound of agreement. "You're playing with fire if you think making Lady Cecelia jealous is going to win her back to your side."

"Maybe,"

Rupert said, "but you should see the way she flushes and how her whole body quivers with frustration when I get under her skin."

His friends hummed and murmured, making sounds of warning and amusement together. He had the feeling they were amused by his stupidity, though.

"If you really want to win a woman like Lady Cecelia back to your side,"

Harrison said, "you need to do it with flowers and hearts and poetry. Nothing I have observed of the woman says she's the rougher sort."

"She's lovely,"

John agreed with a smile. "In fact, if Rupert here hadn't already staked a claim years ago, I might have given it a go myself."

Rupert's grin dropped. "I say,"

he protested.

"That's a good point,"

Reese said. "Lady Cecelia is lovely. You'd better be careful, Rupert."

"Didn't you dance with Lady Cecelia at the ball welcoming the soldiers home last week?"

Harrison asked Reese, sending a teasing grin Rupert's way.

"I did."

Reese nodded.

"I thought you never danced,"

Freddy said, his grin growing as well.

"I don't,"

Reese admitted with a shrug. "But Lady Cecelia looked as though she needed rescuing."

"I wasn't at all pleased with the two of you,"

Rupert told him with a scowl.

Reese didn't appear to be the least concerned. "And why shouldn't I consider the possibility of making her my new marchioness? Harry needs a mother, now that Constance has passed on."

Rupert was convinced his friend was teasing, up until his last statement turned serious. Then a hard knot formed in his gut. Cece would make a brilliant marchioness and she would be an excellent mother to little Harry. Reese might even be able to summon up what was needed to give her a child of her own, although they all knew any bond of an intimate nature would be unlikely to the point of impossible. All the same, the suggestion put the fear of God into Rupert.

"Enough of this sort of talk,"

he said, clearing his throat. "You all know Cece is mine, and I would thank you to keep it that way."

To his surprise, Harrison burst into laughter and chucked him in the shoulder. "I think you're the one who needs to remember that and take responsibility for it," he said.

"Hear, hear,"

Fergus seconded, rejoining the more jovial conversation. Rupert thanked heaven that he looked as though he'd shaken off his political and nationalistic fervor.

"I'm doing the best I can,"

Rupert insisted.

"Are you?"

Freddy asked.

"You can all see for yourself,"

Rupert went on. "Mama is throwing a ball at Campbell House in two days. If you all come, you'll see just how much Lady Cecelia is enjoying this game of ours."

The others groaned in protest. Freddy picked up his book and looked as though he would dive into it and ignore the conversation. Harrison took a long swig of tea as John walked back to study the chessboard. Reese merely squirmed in his seat.

"I thought you all would enjoy a chance to come out and watch me at work,"

Rupert said, shaking his head at them all.

"Balls are such a nuisance,"

Harrison sighed. "Fortune-hunting mamas litter the events like mines."

"I have yet to go to a ball where fewer than half a dozen matrons ask me about my intentions to remarry,"

Reese agreed.

"And I have yet to attend one where my sister doesn't point out two dozen eligible young ladies for me to marry,"

Freddy lamented.

"Yes, but there will be a heap of first-rate refreshments,"

Rupert argued, his grin growing. His understanding with Cece had enabled him to avoid many of the pitfalls of balls and the matrimonial games that went with them, but he'd watched for years as his friends were tossed from one hungry young maiden to another.

"What's this I hear about a ball?"

Every bit of mirth in the room died as Lord Charles Denbigh stepped into the doorway, his ever-present stooge, Lord Montgomery Conrad, half a step behind him. It was as if someone had struck a match and lit the long fuse of a bomb. Rupert could practically hear the sizzle in the air as they waited for the explosion.

"My mother is hosting a ball at Campbell House next week,"

he said, rising. It was always better to face men like Denbigh on one's feet.

"I know,"

Denbigh said with a superior smirk. "My sister and I received invitations days ago."

"Then why bother asking?"

Harrison muttered, moving to stand with Rupert.

"I heard your talk just now and thought I should come investigate what sort of ball this occasion will be,"

Denbigh said.

Rupert could see the ambush, but short of making a rude gesture and showing Denbigh the door, there was nothing he could do about it. "Who knows why my mother throws her balls and events. She likes to entertain, I believe."

"I assume she'll be barring undesirable sorts from entering?"

Denbigh asked with a pointed look to Fergus. "It's disgusting how lax some people and institutions have gotten lately when it comes to inviting chattel through the door."

There it was. Another excuse to throw Fergus into a temper.

"I beg your pardon?"

Fergus asked, the new argument beginning exactly the way the last one had. Only this time, Rupert had no faith in Fergus's adversary to keep things above board.

"You heard me,"

Denbigh said with a sneer, looking down his nose at Fergus. "I've complained to the secretaries about allowing a dirty Irishman within these walls, you know."

"Thankfully, they have no intention of going back on their decision to admit him as a gentleman,"

Rupert said.

"Have they?"

Denbigh asked, arching one brow.

"No."

Rupert stood his ground. Denbigh was nothing more than an obstacle, in life and in the House of Lords, just like his father had been before him.

Denbigh looked as though he didn't believe him. "I have half a mind to forbid my sister from attending any sort of ball where dogs are present,"

he went on.

Rupert's nerves bristled, and he longed to punch Denbigh in his patrician nose. There was no need at all to ask what he meant by dogs being present at a ball, which was horrible in itself.

"What is the point of this interruption?"

Rupert asked instead.

"Nothing,"

Denbigh answered, exchanging a grin with Conrad. "We just popped in to see what sort of mess you all were making of things."

"The only mess I see is the one standing in the doorway,"

Fergus said, his Irish lilt sounding more like a growl.

Denbigh's face pinched into a deadly glare. "Watch your tongue,"

he snapped.

"Watch your tongue, my lord,"

Fergus corrected him.

Denbigh laughed bitterly. "You think some miserable patch of land in that festering hellhole of an island makes you my equal?"

"No."

Fergus crossed his arms. "It makes me your better."

Denbigh flinched forward, his fist raised. Fergus braced himself, but Rupert and Harrison stepped between the men as Reese leapt to his feet to defend Fergus as well and Conrad held Denbigh's arm. The whole rush of activity happened in one, startling instant, followed by complete stillness and silence. The tableau rippled with hatred and tension.

A moment later, Denbigh stepped back, lowering his arm, though his face and neck remained bright red. "You'll pay for that,"

he warned Fergus in a hiss.

"Will I?"

Fergus arched a brow at him, the personification of defiance.

Denbigh stared at him as though contemplating spitting on him. Thankfully, he turned and marched out of the room instead. There would have been a fight that would have ended with them all being expelled from the club if he hadn't.

It took a few more seconds for the air to clear and tempers to settle.

"All the more reason for the lot of you to attend my mother's ball,"

Rupert said, attempting to joke in spite of the anger still pulsing through him. When the others glanced at him in question, he said, "We need to stick together and make a public show of what we believe in so that men like him aren't taken seriously."

"And you think we'll all take a stand at a ball?"

Freddy asked.

Rupert stared at the doorway where Denbigh had been. "We need to take a stand everywhere, balls included."