Deveric was breathing hard by the time he and Lightning returned to the stables. It hadn’t been enough to race Lightning to the brink of his capabilities; at one point, when he’d realized the horse was tiring, he’d leapt down and run as hard as he could through the woods, pushing his legs almost past their endurance. It had felt exquisite to pound it out, the confusion, the anger, the desire, the yearning ...
It was strange to feel that much at all. Over the years, he’d polished his days and his interactions to avoid emotion. Such was expected of a man of his position, but beyond that, it felt safe, it felt good, it felt necessary to keep everything contained, regimented, tucked away. Avoiding pain was so much better than experiencing it. A Claremont retains control over emotions at all times.
Then again, as Emerlin had pointed out one evening last month over cards, locking out emotion to block out pain also meant locking out pleasure.
“I find pleasure enough in cards, in horses, in passing time here with you fine fellows,” Deveric had said, gesturing around the room at White’s.
“Shallow pleasures, perhaps.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“I hope so.” Emerlin’s blue eyes had locked with his over the table. “Surely this can’t be all there is.”
“Oh, ho, ho,” Arthington chortled. “Do tell, Em. Have you figured out the meaning of life?”
Emerlin glared at them both. “Weren’t you urging him to stop avoiding life not five minutes ago?”
“What I meant was, he should seek out pleasure. No doubt the fine ladies at the White House could draw him out of his shell.” Arthington waggled his eyebrows in comedic fashion, wrenching a slight grin from Dev.
Emerlin threw down his cards in disgust.
“What? Don’t tell me you, too, have forgone the divine pleasures of the flesh?”
Em’s cheek quirked up in a devilish grin, those dimples out in full force. “You know me too well for that, friend.” He looked over at Deveric. “I just meant, I hope there is a grander plan to life, a destiny, if you will, awaiting me. I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m getting bored.”
“Bored?” Deveric sipped from his brandy. “Perhaps we should head to Tattersall’s tomorrow and pick out a new racer for you. A filly of that type always pleases me.”
“Not that kind of bored. It’s as if ... as if ...”
“Something’s missing?” Arthington’s face grew serious.
“Yes. I just don’t know what.”
Arth’s words had hit Dev like a blow to the gut. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, the emptiness that had overtaken him. Days felt routine, nights endless. He enjoyed Freddy, of course, but sometimes the boy reminded Dev too much of all he had lost, all the suffering he had caused, and Deveric had to shut it off. To avoid.
Guilt ate at him for how little time he had spent with Frederick of late. He’d once sworn not to be like his father, to always openly show his love for his children, despite what anyone else might think. Before he’d realized how destructive love could be, at least. Or not love, perhaps—he hadn’t loved Mirabelle, not in the way a husband ought to love a wife.
Connection. That’s what led to destruction. Had he not sought, had he not needed physical connection with someone, Mirabelle would still be alive. And Louisa never would have died.
Yes, better to remain with friends and avoid that kind of intimacy altogether. Love hurt. Loss was excruciating.
And yet ... was this all there was? He’d studied his brandy, desperate to keep his friends from noticing his sudden somberness. He didn’t need more questions.
“Me either.” Arthington had taken up his cards again, shaking off the intense moment with a toothy grin. “Unless it’s a blonde chit with big, you know, brains.” They all knew of Arthington’s fondness for well-endowed, flaxen-haired women.
“You wait,” said Deveric, grateful as always for Arthington’s light-heartedness. “’Twill be a brunette, a flat-chested one, who’ll snare you someday.”
“The horror!”
The men had chortled and continued on with the game. Several rounds of brandy ensured no other maudlin conversation made an appearance that night.
Thinking of big-bosomed blondes brought one in particular to mind now. As he removed the bit and bridle from Lightning’s mouth and handed the reins to a stable hand, his mind roamed freely over one American widow’s body. If only his hands were roaming, too. Cool down, Dev, or walking is going to become quite difficult.
After the stable hand removed the saddle, Deveric checked Lightning’s hooves for stones, and then took up the grooming brush, pulling it in long, even strokes over Lightning’s sweaty sides. The stable hand could have done it, of course, but Deveric always enjoyed the task. It was only fitting he give back to his faithful horse, Lightning, who always gave his best for Deveric.
If only his wife had done the same. Mirabelle had preferred to leave him alone so as not to disturb him, she’d said. He’d known, however, what she hoped was that he not disturb her. Connection was not something she had needed—at least not with him.
Some had urged him to take on a mistress, find love elsewhere. Many men of his station did, of course. But he’d seen how his mother had suffered over Samuel Mattersley’s public indiscretions, had heard her weeping and railing at his father’s portrait in his absence. Deveric had sworn never to do that to a woman.
When he’d kissed Eliza, she’d responded eagerly to his embrace. She’d not been frightened, had in fact pushed him for more. She seemed as aware of him as he was of her, sparks flaming between them whenever they were in the same space. Their attraction was mutual, he was sure of it. But would she turn away from him, be repulsed by him as Mirabelle had been, if things went farther in the bedroom?
His heart tore at the thought, of seeing the desire in those deep sapphire eyes turn to rejection, even as his pulse raced and parts of him throbbed at the image of Eliza underneath him. Perhaps most men were unconcerned with whether or not the woman found actual pleasure, considering it a triviality. But it mattered to Deveric.
He liked Eliza. Truly liked her, as well as longed for her more than he’d ever longed for any woman.
Was it possible he could find true emotional and physical satisfaction with her?
He paused in the grooming of the horse, a sudden thought hitting him. This Cat of whom Eliza spoke, she wrote stories. Love stories, Eliza had said, had she not, stories in which men had come to life for this Cat, men meant to be suitors? Eliza claimed only that she’d wanted to come to England during this Regency, but Deveric felt she was concealing something, something more. He’d thought at first it pertained to her claims of being from the future. But maybe ... Had this Cat written a love story for Eliza? For Eliza to come here, to be with him?
And if so, did this mean Deveric was a fictional creation?
The idea was so preposterous, he actually snorted out loud. Lightning turned his head and nickered in response.
“It’s not you, old chap,” Dev murmured, dismissing the idea. He was no more fictional than Lightning was a unicorn. Of that, he was sure.
But could this Cat have chosen him, somehow, as Eliza’s destiny? Were they, could they be ... soul mates? He’d never believed in the idea, had figured it for emotional rubbish best left to poets and actors. And yet, the idea sparked a hope he’d never felt before. His insides were on fire, every inch of him burning for it to be true, to be a possibility, at least. For life, for God, to let him atone for his sins, to give him something to believe in, someone to live for.
Good God, what was wrong with him, indulging in such ludicrous, maudlin fantasies?
“It’s me. I’m as mad as she is, thinking someone would come back two hundred years from the future, just to love me.”
To love him? When had love entered the picture?
Lightning whinnied.
“That’s right. It’s all a bunch of—” He sighed as Lightning released the contents of his bowels. “Well, yes, but I didn’t need such a graphic demonstration.”
He handed the brush to the stable hand. One advantage of being a duke was not having to deal with horse manure. “Finish grooming, and then muck out that stall.”
The lad nodded and ran to comply.
Deveric strode toward the house. Between the smell of the manure and the sweat he’d worked up that afternoon, he needed a bath.
Entering the house, he bade the servants to draw one. He’d had a tub installed in the dressing room off of his main chamber several years ago, which drained right down out of the house—a miracle of modern plumbing. He often soaked for great lengths of time, letting the heat and salt ease the aches and pains of the day.
Striding up to his chamber, he glanced across the hallway. The door to his wife’s chamber was closed. Was Eliza within? He stood for a moment, a vision of her in his tub springing to mind, with her blonde hair down and eyes welcoming, those luscious blue eyes that had pulsated when he’d pulled back from kissing her that morning. She hadn’t wanted to let go, and he hadn’t wanted to let her go.
His breeches grew uncomfortably tight. It was astonishing to be led more by his cock than his head. A gentleman of good breeding maintains control over his physical person at all times.
As if he could control it, this response to that damnable American. She’d thrown his whole life in chaos.
Opening the door to his chamber, he stomped in and flung it shut. The servants rustled about in the adjacent room, and he could hear the sounds of pouring water. Good. They were fast today.
He pulled off his cravat and then sat down on the bed to remove his boots. His valet, Myers, entered the room to assist him, carefully setting the boots aside while tsk-tsking at the scuffs. Deveric allowed him to remove his riding coat and then sent him away. He knew Myers wished to perform more services. “But, Your Grace, a valet is to serve in all ways,” the man often lamented. Dev had never enjoyed others dressing and undressing him, though. Many of his friends gave no thought to parading about in front of servants. They were part of the wallpaper. But not to Deveric. Not when he was naked.
Pulling off his shirt and breeches, he laid them to the side then peeled off his smalls. He looked down. Apparently, his mind was still on Eliza. Hopefully, the bath would, er, soften him a bit. Walking into the next room, now empty of anyone, he climbed into the water, hotter than most people could stand, and slid down into it with a large sigh.
He’d let the water wash all thoughts, all those damnably tempting images, of Eliza James away.