Chapter Thirteen

 

“Wha’?” Grayson sat up in his huge bed—which he’d once dubbed the small country of Carnalia—and looked around him. There was usually one, two, or even three women sprawled upon the ducal sheets with him (not under the sheets; he never shared that way), but this morning he was alone.

He looked down at his erect member and didn’t like that it was doomed to wilt. He never had to pleasure himself these days. That was someone else’s job.

And something else was wrong. He winced, but his head didn’t pound from too much drink.

Why not?

Then he remembered … that female, the blasted Sherwood girl, Lady Janice. She’d changed everything with her arrival at Halsey House. He’d finally gotten the Yankee chit to strike his rear end with a horsewhip with just the right amount of wrist action so that the sting was pleasurable. And as for the two sisters, he was ready for them to depart. The younger one cried every time he wanted all three women at once. And the older sister wasn’t attractive enough to bed in daylight, which was his favorite time to rut.

He’d been on the verge of sending the two siblings packing, but he couldn’t now. There was the snow, of course. But the primary reason they must remain was that he feared one of them might seek petty revenge by blurting out the truth to Lady Janice: not that he was wicked—which he could deny if he had to—but that he couldn’t finish off any coital activity without wearing a certain diamond necklace he’d picked up in Venice. Supposedly, it had belonged to one of the former czar’s concubines.

That would be a much more difficult story to fob off. It was too interesting, too detailed, to be entirely false.

Of course, it was entirely true. He looked longingly at the necklace on the dresser—unworn last night. Word certainly couldn’t get out in London. He’d become a laughingstock.

He chuckled. Even he thought his fetish amusing. He might be wicked and indulge his sexual appetite in an unusual way, but at least he had a sense of humor. Not that he let other people know. It was much more exciting to let them be afraid of him.

Entirely naked, he slid out of bed. “Prescott!” he called.

A mere second later, his valet opened the bedchamber door, a silk banyan already over his arm.

“Where’s Lady Janice?” Grayson asked him as he held out his arms.

“In the breakfast room,” said the valet as he wrapped Grayson in the royal blue fabric.

“Is she being as obstinate this morning as she was last night?”

Prescott never made eye contact as he tied the banyan’s belt in a smart knot. “According to the footmen, she’s very agreeable.”

“Agreeable? Hah.” It was only Grayson that she said no to, and he didn’t quite understand.

He stalked over to the looking glass and smoothed back his hair. He wasn’t a fool—some females recognized that men lusted after the unattainable and so threw up obstacles at every turn, but this young woman was carrying the age-old strategy to the extreme. He’d had a difficult time not laughing the night before when she’d said she hated all of Shakespeare, but no one else seemed to recognize her game.

Yarrow and Rowntree—the idiots—had fallen for it. For her.

They wanted her.

Grayson did, too. But only because he believed that she really was here to see his grandmother and that, despite her toying with him, she didn’t give a fig for him.

Good God, why didn’t she?

He was handsome, and he was a duke.

He didn’t like when people didn’t crave his company.

At first he’d been annoyed with Lady Janice for ruining his preferred country routine—ride, wench, drink, play cards, and wench—but she intrigued him enough that he was willing to forgo his regular schedule and instead focus on her. She seemed very clever indeed, apart from her foolish nay-saying. How amusing it would be to bed her.

But she was off-limits, of course. Her stepfather wouldn’t stand for Grayson’s ruining her—not unless there was a wedding involved, which was the last thing on his mind.

So as of that morning, he was undecided what to do, other than to observe her a bit more, see what he could see, lust after what he couldn’t have, and wonder why he didn’t appeal to her.

“Sir Milo Falstaff is here,” said Prescott as he shaved him.

Grayson opened his eyes. “Is he? It’s about time.”

“Yes, he got snowed in at the village. He managed to make his way over here this morning on his Arabian. He’s in the stables now.”

“He’d stay there all day if he could. Are Yarrow and Rowntree awake?”

“Yes. In fact, they just walked out to see him.”

Grayson hated being left out of anything. It went back to the days of his childhood, when no one appeared to notice him at all—at least after his mother died. “Hurry up, then,” he told the valet.

Ten minutes and an empty stomach later—Grayson really did hate being left out and so skipped his usual toast and coddled eggs—he and his hounds were in the stable block with his so-called friends, sycophants all. It really began to wear on one, to have to endure the false joviality of desperate men and women both.

Nevertheless, Grayson indulged them, knowing that at any moment he could toy with their lives and ruin them completely. He was a good man for choosing not to. His mother would have been proud, or at least relieved—so he liked to tell himself.

As a groom brushed Milo’s black stallion, Grayson noted with jealousy the man’s muscular back and bulging thighs. He was a prime specimen of manhood, the same servant Grayson had taken to task the day before in front of Lady Janice. Funny how he’d not noticed him before. He must have stayed out of Grayson’s way in the stables.

Grayson would fire him as soon as the snow melted. No one on the estate was allowed to outshine the duke. That only made sense, of course, so he didn’t feel guilty in the least. The title must be propped up, revered, respected. He was doing his share.

“There was a lovely barmaid I had to part with this morning in Bramblewood,” said Milo.

“Good thing you got in a last romp.” Grayson pulled out a cheroot, held it up, and waved it back and forth. “What are you waiting for, groom?”

The servant paused in his brushing.

“Yes, you,” Grayson said.

It felt so good to have power.

Just don’t lose it.

God, he hated his father’s voice. Grayson was practically haunted by him. He’d been the most vile, cold father a boy could ever imagine, and Grayson had been so relieved when he was near death—until Father had told him he wasn’t the real duke and that some rotten bastard was roaming the earth at that very moment who was the actual Duke of Halsey, and that Grayson would have to take up his father’s pursuit of him, whoever and wherever he was, and be rid of him.

It was such a miserable burden to endure, day in, day out.

How would he be rid of this supposed duke if he was ever to find him? Grayson wasn’t a murderer, for God’s sake. He wondered if his father was crazy enough to ever kill someone over a title and properties, and sometimes Grayson thought he might have been.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

So Grayson preferred to ignore the entire problem, pay lip service to it by occasionally rattling the nerves of those nuns at St. Mungo’s Orphanage, where the trail of the real heir had run cold years ago.

No wonder he drank and wenched incessantly when he was in the country. He frightened nuns. And at any moment he might lose everything, if this missing duke ever appeared.

The home estate was the only place Grayson could let go. In London, he had to pretend to be a sober, high-minded peer of the realm. Indeed, his glittering life there would have been quite amusing if he hadn’t had this diabolical secret.

While Grayson’s hounds milled about, the groom laid the brush on a wall, strode to the coal stove, and lit a small but tight twist of straw. He then approached Grayson with a purposeful stride and applied the flame to the end of his smoking stick.

Grayson inhaled, glad that he wasn’t a stable hand. “We have to be on our best behavior for the time being,” he muttered round the cheroot clamped in his teeth.

After a moment, the end of the cheroot began to glow, but before the groom could retreat Grayson blew a plume of smoke in his face.

Yarrow and Rowntree chuckled.

The servant refused to blink, and nothing registered in his eyes beyond a calm neutrality. Bastard, Grayson thought when the man sidestepped him and put the straw out in a pail of water. He took all Grayson’s fun away.

“Why must we behave?” Milo squinted at him.

God, the baronet was ugly. The only reason Grayson put up with Milo was because he was unsurpassed at selecting prime goers for purchase.

“There’s a decent chit in residence.” Grayson hid it well, but he was always restless, like Milo’s Arabian. “She’s here to see Granny. And she intends to stay a full month.”

Milo laughed. “For the love of God, Halsey, do you really expect us to be like choirboys? We’re snowed in. There’s nothing else to do but eat, drink, and be merry. Can’t you put her on a sleigh to the dower house and let her molder away there, arranging the library for you or some such thing?”

“No.” Grayson scowled at him. “She intrigues me.”

“This is a first.” Milo exchanged smug glances with Yarrow and Rowntree.

“Not that way.” Grayson’s tone was cold. “I’m not the marrying sort. But I’m not going to bed her, either. She’s of good family. You’ll behave. I won’t have you damaging my standing among the ton by acting like degenerates in front of her. I won’t tolerate her carrying tales back home. Is that clear?”

“But why do you care what anyone thinks, Halsey?” Milo said. “You’re a duke. You can do anything you want. The King does. He’s a reprobate, and everyone knows it.”

For a man who wasn’t even a peer, Milo never knew when to shut up.

Grayson took a few steps, grabbed him by the lapels, and yanked him close. “Vice is never as gratifying as when it’s performed in secret,” he hissed. “And the pleasures of depravity sharpen oh, so sweetly when one also has the adoration of innocents and the approval of men of good character, as I do. You won’t endanger that.” He threw him off, and the baronet stumbled backward. “You’ll endure. And you’ll do it with aplomb. Think of it this way: a little self-denial will make your next descent into base indulgence that much more satisfying.”

There were several beats of tense silence—Grayson was good at causing those. Only the groom seemed oblivious. He lifted the rear left hoof of the Arabian and peered at it.

“Aren’t you done yet, groom?” The man irked Grayson, like a splinter in his finger.

“In a moment, Your Grace,” the servant said without looking up at him. But it wasn’t out of deference. It was because he was so intent on examining that hoof.

Another reason to fire the man. He was too insolent by half.

“Who is this high-and-mighty female altering our plans?” Milo polished his fingernails on his jacket.

“The Marquess of Brady’s daughter—Lady Janice,” said Yarrow.

“Lady Janice?” The baronet’s dour face registered astonishment, which was odd.

Grayson’s pulse quickened. “Why are you shocked? You’ve heard of her? None of us have.”

“All we know is that she’s the middle daughter of the Marquess of Brady,” offered Yarrow.

“I know who she is.” Milo murmured. “Most know only of her older sister, Lady Chadwick. But there’s a rumor.…” He trailed off with a chuckle.

“Spit it out,” Grayson ordered.

Milo scratched his temple. “The Mayfair magpies—and my mother is one of them—are well aware that Lord Chadwick’s brother, Finnian Lattimore, broke Lady Janice’s heart before he left England.”

“I’d not heard that,” said Rowntree.

“Nor I,” said Grayson. “I remember Lattimore well. A handsome ne’er-do-well.”

“Most gentlemen wouldn’t know the story,” said Milo. “We don’t keep up with women’s affairs of the heart, do we? Especially women who don’t command a great deal of attention on the social scene. As his brother married her sister, who’d ever suspect anything tawdry? But”—he looked round the company with a lascivious leer—“there are others who say the story between Lattimore and Lady Janice is even uglier than most people are aware.”

“No,” said Yarrow, his eyes alight with glee. “Uglier could only mean—”

“Oh, yes,” answered Milo. “Some say he plucked her cherry before he sailed.”

The men—save Grayson—burst into whoops of laughter.

He felt a cold satisfaction. He hadn’t realized he’d put her on something of a pedestal for defying him, but he had, obviously. His relief that she wasn’t any better than he was strong.

“The wily little vixen.” His smile was patently false. “Here she defies me at every turn—as if she were a duchess and I were nothing.”

“That’s the brazenness of a strumpet for you.” Yarrow shook his head.

“Hold on.” Milo raised his hand. “The general feeling is that it didn’t happen. The marquess never would have let Lattimore get away with it. Nor would he have given permission to Chadwick to marry her sister.”

“Lady Chadwick is a paragon of virtue,” said Milo.

“And a remarkable beauty,” added Rowntree.

“But this little-known rumor about Lady Janice lingers”—Milo gave a sly chuckle—“as all scintillating rumors do.”

“So there’s more to her than meets the eye.” Grayson blew a smoke ring and watched it hang lazily in the air. Beyond it, the groom led the Arabian to a nearby stall. “I like the overlooked girls. The wronged or rejected ones. They’re odd ducks, but on the whole they’re grateful for a little slap and tickle”—he broke up the ring with his finger, a crude representation of his lascivious intentions that made the other men grin—“especially if they think it might lead to marriage.”

“Humph,” said Yarrow. “Lady Janice has an unusual way of showing she’s looking for a wedding ring. She was an outright bitch last night, turning down your offer of strawberries and sparkling wine. And then saying no to looking at your telescope.”

Milo chuckled. “Perhaps she had another sort of ducal telescope in mind?”

Grayson curled his lip at the guffaws that ensued. He never liked being upstaged, especially at the expense of his own dignity. His telescope would put theirs to shame, he was sure. “You seemed mesmerized by her last night, Yarrow.”

“Weren’t we all, to some extent?” Rowntree said. “I’d like to know why no one has told the marquess or his sons of this vile rumor. Surely, they’d have sent her to a convent by now.”

“Lattimore’s long gone,” Milo said. “Why bring it up and risk a bullet to the heart? Her brothers and father are all magnificent shots.”

“She’s here to see my grandmother.” Grayson took a long draw on his cheroot. “Or so she says.”

“She must be,” said Yarrow. “She doesn’t like you, Halsey. That’s all there is to it.”

Grayson stared at him without speaking for a few seconds. “You’re like a clucking hen. Let’s put you in a gown and a turban and send you to a ball to natter on with all the matrons.”

Yarrow clamped his mouth shut.

“I must agree with Yarrow that Lady Janice isn’t fond of you,” said Rowntree with a shrug. “Sorry, old boy.”

Grayson scoffed. “Do you think I care whether this castoff likes me?”

“When was the last time you had a female who didn’t have designs on you, Halsey?” asked Milo.

“Never.” Grayson shrugged.

“Good God, I would marry you if I were a woman,” Yarrow said. He always recovered easily from Grayson’s insults.

Their laughter rattled the nearby horses enough that several of them whinnied. The groom reappeared and busied himself with some tack while Grayson’s hounds sniffed his breeches for horse dung, their favorite scent.

“Whether the rumor is true or not”—Grayson looked round at them all—“I’ll have her. I must have an answer. It will make good sport.”

“It shouldn’t take long,” said Rowntree. “Even good girls have ambition.”

“A hundred pounds that the story’s valid,” said Milo.

The mood became quite spirited.

“I’ll take that bet,” answered Yarrow.

In the end, it was two against two: Grayson and Milo would bet that Lady Janice was already a fallen woman, and Yarrow and Rowntree wagered she’d still be virgin when Halsey bedded her.

There was another round of smug laughter.

“Heaven help you if you get caught,” Yarrow told Grayson. “Brady won’t care that you outrank him. He’ll kill you.”

“I haven’t been caught yet, have I?” With the tip of his shiny black Hessian boot, Grayson pushed away a cat stupid enough to come to greet him amid the hounds.

“You haven’t,” said Rowntree, “and even if she did squeal, who’s going to believe a young girl over a duke, especially as she’s already followed by a whisper of serious scandal?”

“No one,” said Milo. “A girl nearly on the shelf is a pitiful creature. She’ll go to any length, even telling stories, to gain attention.” He gave a dramatic sigh.

More chuckles.

“If you get her with child, you can blame”—Yarrow looked around—“one of these Lotharios, eh?”

He pointed to the junior grooms now filling up a stall with hay. Both of them looked severely embarrassed as the four gentlemen laughed.

“When are you going to marry, Halsey?” Yarrow asked.

“That little niece of yours is how old?” Grayson replied testily.

“Fifteen.” Yarrow sounded eager. “Only a few more years until her debut.”

The fool. He couldn’t even sense the scorn in Grayson’s voice. “I’d as soon have your blood mingle with mine through marriage as I’d ask for the smallpox, Yarrow.” He allowed his usually elegant tone to contain a savage edge. “Don’t ever speak to me about the cursed connubial state again. None of you. I’ll marry if and when it suits me.”

“Is that so?” said Milo. “I just saw that fribble Henry Gordon at Court, and he asked after your health, as he always does.”

“He’s a swine,” said Grayson. “And I told you—”

“I didn’t mention marriage, Your Grace,” said Milo lightly. “But if you stick your spoon in the wall, believe it or not, there are those who believe your third cousin will make a fine Duke of Halsey with his lace cuffs and preponderance of rings.”

“Over my dead body.” Grayson shuddered.

“Exactly.” Milo bowed. “Good-bye, gentlemen. I’m not staying. No point.”

“You can’t be leaving.” Grayson disliked the baronet, but it secretly pained him when anyone believed his company wasn’t sufficient.

“Indeed, I am,” said Milo. “There’s that barmaid in Bramblewood.”

“But it’s starting to snow again,” Rowntree said.

“I’m aware of that.” Milo sniffed. “I’d rather be stuck with her for a few days than in this dreary place, even with His Grace’s good whiskey. Groom!” he called the man over. “Saddle up Ormond again.”

“He’s into a bag of oats, sir,” the groom replied.

Grayson eyed the man’s strong jaw and noble brow and thought it a waste of good looks.

Milo sighed. “I’ll wait a few minutes.” He turned to Grayson. “Can you spare me a valet?”

“Absolutely not. If you want one, you’ll stay here.” Grayson could be sulky when he wanted to be, which was often.

“Fine,” Milo told him. “I’ll take this groom.” He indicated Luke. “You won’t be needing him.”

“I can’t be spared, sir,” the servant said right away.

“Oh, yes, you can.” Grayson waved him on. “It’s not as if we’ll be taking any horses out.”

“But, Your Grace, I’ve been administering the daily poultice to Plutarch’s lame leg.” The groom’s tone was cool.

Who the devil did he think he was, defying him? “Someone else can do that.” Grayson didn’t bother looking at him.

“And I’ve been overseeing the new mare’s feeding schedule,” the groom insisted. “She’s only just beginning to cooperate.”

Grayson reluctantly swiveled his gaze to his. “I can replace you in a bloody minute,” he bit out. “Now get going.”

“You’re a good man, Halsey.” Milo slapped him on the back.

And Grayson believed he truly was.

“When will we come back?” the damned groom had the temerity to ask Milo.

“You’re asking me?” Milo gave a short laugh. “What do you care? You do as you’re told.”

“I only want to take care of the horses properly.” The groom put his fists on his hips. “I know them best.”

Good God, he was bold—Grayson wanted to explain his defiance by calling him a dolt, too, but he obviously wasn’t. “You’re not coming back,” Grayson told him. “You’re done.”

The groom’s eyes registered a flicker of surprise. “You’re firing me, Your Grace?”

“Yes.” Grayson was shocked to see that the man was still calm and unflappable. “What do you not understand about the word done?”

The groom was quiet a moment. “I don’t recommend you do that,” he said quietly.

Grayson waited for him to add Your Grace.

But with a dawning sense of incredulity, he saw he’d have to wait for a very long time.

“You’re vastly entertaining,” he lied. Truth be told, he found this encounter highly stressful. “I’ve never heard of a groom refusing to be fired. Tell me why I shouldn’t. I want to share it with my friends at White’s next time I’m in Town.”

He waited for his friends to laugh, which they did. But it was forced. No doubt it was because this groom was behaving in a way no groom they’d met ever had. “Do you think you’re that good with horses?”

The man’s mouth became a thin line. “I am that good with horses. But I’m also that good with maintaining security here, Your Grace.”

“You and security.” Grayson gave a short laugh. “You mentioned that yesterday. I don’t need a lowly stable hand looking after my estate. I’ve got an overseer. I have my tenant farmers. I have my stable master.”

“He obviously has delusions of grandeur,” said Lord Rowntree dryly.

“Not delusions,” said the groom, looking round at them all. “The estate needs protection, and no one can shield it better than I.”

“From what?” Grayson asked him.

“From threats, of course,” the servant said plainly.

“Threats?” Grayson laughed out loud, and his friends joined in. “You really are deluded, aren’t you? Like Granny. Perhaps it’s something in the water. Next thing I know, you might think you’re His Majesty and declare war on my nearest neighbor.”

But there was something in the groom’s face … something that caused the hair on the back of Grayson’s neck to rise.

The man with the hero’s face tossed the rope in his hand to the ground. “It’s your choice, Your Grace. I’m a former boxer. I had to learn to anticipate strikes before they came. And I’m telling you now … you can choose to ignore possible danger, or you can guard yourself against it. I’m willing to stay here and watch over things for you. Or I can go.”

They locked gazes, and somehow … somehow Grayson sensed a connection between them—an equality that made no sense, that offended his sensibilities yet also felt genuine.

It was so rare that he felt any authentic link with another person.

“His zeal to defend Halsey House is almost endearing, Your Grace,” said Milo. “You should keep him on. I’ll return him when I feel like it, and no sooner. Do you hear that, young man?”

“I do,” said the groom, his eyes still on Grayson.

“You can stay,” Grayson told him. “But you’re hanging on by the skin of your teeth. And don’t forget it.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

And when the man moved away, Grayson felt it like a stab in the heart: he was the one actually hanging on by the skin of his teeth.

Pity he’d no one he trusted enough to tell.