Tempted by a Lady's Smile (Lords of Honor #4)(9)

Westfield respotted the red ball at the top of the table in the black spot and positioned his cue. “My father certainly has an idea who the future Duchess of Somerset will be,” he muttered. He struck the cue ball and Richard’s ball, in a canon shot, which earned him two points.

A pall descended over the room, and Richard collected his drink and took a slow swallow. Having suffered the loss of his own father, and also having a similarly close-knit family as Westfield’s, he knew the pain Westfield was surely in. Richard took his shot. “Who is the fortunate young lady, then?” he asked, infusing dry levity into his tone. For when presented with the topics of death and dying and a gentleman’s impending marital state, the latter was always safer.

“The Duke of Wilkinson’s daughter.” He cast a wry glance at Richard. “Though I have no doubt, he’d have me wed any respectable young lady at this point.”

Again, the spirited creature bolting through the duke’s property slipped into his mind.

A knock sounded at the door and they looked as one as it opened, and a liveried servant stepped inside. The bewigged footman sketched a bow and then cleared his throat. He opened his mouth and then closed it, looking over to Richard.

“You can speak freely,” Westfield said with a frown.

The servant nodded. “My lord, His Grace has been seized by another fit.”

In an uncharacteristic show of agitation, Westfield raked a hand through his hair. “You’ve summoned—”

“Dr. Hanson. Yes, my lord. His Grace is asking for you.”

Westfield gave a jerky nod and then started for the door, but paused and cast a glance back at Richard. “I am sorry—”

“Go,” he urged the other man. “This does not matter.” The passing of Richard’s father had cemented the inanity of the world in which they lived—a world where summer parties were thrown, and guests donned smiles and schemed to wed powerful peers—all while the world was crumbling down upon a family. “See to your father.”

With that, Westfield rushed off and the servant pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Richard alone. Collecting his snifter, he strode over to the rich, mahogany sideboard and grabbed a bottle of brandy, then carried the glass and the crystal decanter over to the high crimson-and-gold winged chairs.

Richard settled into a seat. He downed the content of his glass and then pulled the stopper from the bottle. He proceeded to pour himself another snifter. Cradling the glass between his hands, he stared down into the contents.

Perhaps he should return to his family’s country party. In accepting Westfield’s invite, he’d grasped at the excuse presented which he might give his brothers and not really thought of anything more than avoiding all sights of Eloise with Lucien. His lips pulled in an involuntary grimace. How very pathetic, indeed. For the truth was, he could not avoid the reality of his circumstances and, more, the reality of Eloise, given the sheer nature of his birth connection to the man Eloise had gone and married.

Nor, if he were being truly honest with himself, did he wish to forget her. Eloise had been, at one time, as close as a sister. At first, there had never been a hint of anything romantic between them. His early relationship with the delicate lady had never extended beyond fishing and racing through the Kent countryside. It had been a friendship that was comfortable, calm and familiar.

And when she’d left for London, in search of a husband, his own low sense of self as that second son of a viscount had quelled all truth on his lips. Instead, he’d stood by and watched her marry another, thinking with the love he carried for her that she was deserving of that title and position; all things he could never give her as a title-less horse breeder.

For ultimately, women always craved more. His lips quirked up in a humorless smile. The sprite racing about the duke’s properties was proof of that. Most craved wealth and power and prestige. Just as Lady Nameless had proven earlier that evening.

Richard downed the remaining contents of his glass and reached for the bottle resting at his feet.

*

Later that evening, Gemma slipped out of her guest bedchambers and closed the door quietly behind her. She peeked down the hall. Finding it blessedly empty, she snuck past door after door.

Even in the still of the night, with no hint of guests about, her heart doubled its beat. Following her discovery at the steward’s hands that evening, the risks in seeking out Lord Westfield reared, more real than they’d been before. To be found gallivanting about the duke’s property and sneaking about his home, unchaperoned, would result in immediate ruin. Fortunately, Gemma had long escaped Society’s notice and was afforded certain freedoms. This, however, would result in the height of scandal from which no lady could recover. If she was found pursuing the marquess… A little shiver shook her frame, and she thrust aside the dire musings. Why, if that were to happen, she might as well don red and declare herself a fallen woman.

And what if you were discovered kissing the nameless steward, all the while shamelessly hungry to know more of that man’s embrace?

She forced her ragged breath into a semblance of calm and thrust that coarse stranger from her thoughts and, instead, focused on the most imminent threat. Gemma turned the corner and slammed into a solid wall. Her scream died on her lips. “Emery,” she blurted.

Her brother stood with arms folded at his chest eying her with the proper degree of suspicion. “Gemma,” he drawled. “What are you doing wandering about at this hour?”