Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke (13 page)

That actually seemed a fairly accurate assessment, except perhaps for the knowing everything bit—though he had enough resources and spies in other households to at least make a decent attempt. “But your opinion has changed, I assume?” he asked aloud.

“Amended, I think. I didn’t know you were witty, for example. Nor did I have any idea that you were being herded toward a marriage that you’d been avoiding. And I never expected to think of you as a … friend. Which I do, unless you’re merely being kind to a stranded houseguest and I’ve overstepped and offended you.” She kept her gaze on the nearing row of shops. “Have I?”

That was the word he’d been seeking to explain her to himself. “Friend.” It wasn’t quite encompassing enough, because he didn’t wish to lick any of his other friends’ naked skin, but it had a … a feeling to it of warmth and kindness and humor that fit her—them, together—quite well.

“I’ve never met a female I would call a friend. Un—”

“Oh. Well, that’s fine, then. I didn’t—”

“Shut up, will you? I was about to say ‘until now.’ I like the idea. As long as the kissing and sex is still allowed.”

“Very much yes.”

SIX

“You can maneuver those stones into place from a sled?” Adam asked dubiously, looking up from the large sketch spread across his desk to the trio of men standing across from him. The Jones brothers, stonemasons and—evidently—engineers.

“We can’t sink supports into the riverbed like we could in summer,” the largest of the three said, his heavy wool cap still clutched in his hands. “The ice would form around it and smash it to pieces.”

“Don’t ye worry, Your Grace,” another of them, Tobias as he recalled, contributed, jabbing a stained finger at the drawing. “Our da’ made the last repairs just the same way. All we need’s a few days of good weather for the mortar to set. To be safe we’ll reinforce the whole damned thing with timber till spring, when we can cement the bloody stones in place till Doomsday.”

“That’s quite a guarantee,” Adam returned. “Get on with it, then. Put whatever supplies you need to my account. It’s sixteen days until Christmas, gentlemen. I want that bridge repaired before then.” It was bad enough, having to choose a wife based on a month’s acquaintance. Doing so in less time was unthinkable.

After they left, Adam returned to the desk to sink into his chair. He’d sent for the Jones brothers an hour after he’d reached the bridge collapse, and they’d spent the subsequent five days coming up with what actually seemed a rather solid plan for repairs.

Five days ago he’d been furious that his holiday plans had collapsed just as strikingly as the bridge. A month trapped at Greaves Park with only his sister and a duke’s bastard for company while he watched the clock tick toward the moment he lost half his holdings had seemed the worst torture Satan could devise. Even if this hadn’t been the last few moments of his twenty-ninth year, he was a man who required social interaction, anything to … keep him from his own thoughts, he supposed.

Five days later, his frustration had faded considerably. It wasn’t that he was smitten with his one houseguest or that he’d forgotten the need for the others, but he did enjoy Sophia’s company. Greaves Park had never been a peaceful or a happy place for him, though it was certainly the grandest of the Baswich properties and the ancient family seat. The latter was why he came every year. And the former was why he tended to invite everyone he could convince to leave their own extended families and properties for the holiday and come join him.

He stirred his finger over the three pence Sophia had paid him for the mare Copper, as per their agreement. A smile touched his mouth. He’d been many things over the years—a rake, a manipulator, a villain, occasionally a friend—but he’d rarely been surprised. Sophia White surprised him. Almost constantly.

The door clicked open. “I assume those filthy men were here about the bridge,” Eustace said, gliding into the room. “Thank goodness. How long until civilization returns?”

“A week to ten days, give or take,” he returned, shuffling the coins into his hand and placing them in the top drawer of his desk. “I’m still uncertain why you’re so eager to see my potential brides arrive. I thought you’d be happier having control of half a million pounds’ worth of properties and a viscountcy and an earldom going to your son.”

“Then you presume incorrectly. I am content to wait until you’ve proven whether you’re able to live up to the one decent thing Father ever asked of any of us. You’re seen as the head of this family, and I’d prefer to avoid any whispers or snickers as to why that might change in February.” She straightened. “Especially if those tales are going to involve that … female. Which they’re likely to, as what proper lady wants to see her prospective husband hanging about a Tantalus girl? Especially that one?”

“Considering how many of these so-called proper ladies are presently waiting across the river to begin the marital parade, I don’t think Sophia will put any of them off.” He snorted. “In fact, they could likely learn a thing or two from her.” About being interesting, anyway.

“That creature has already taken over the household, conspired with all the servants, and seduced my brother so thoroughly he doesn’t even realize he’s being made into a fool. By Friday she’ll be setting the dinner menus and changing the curtains. Something tawdry and red, I imagine.”

Adam sat back in his chair. “Do you know what a breath of fresh air is?” he asked, meeting her angry gaze steadily. “Likely not, as you spend every moment in my company attempting to flatten me. Go away, Eustace, and spit your venom somewhere else.”

“You’re the one who’s already been poisoned, twice over. And if you know what she’s about, then you’re a hundred times worse than she is.
He
preferred redheads, too, if you’ll recall. I remember quite clearly the way he banished Mother to her rooms and paraded his women about, encouraging them to put on airs and squawk like the mindless parrots they were, until everyone looked foolish but him. And I know you remember it, too. You’ve even done it yourself.”

To his surprise a tear ran down her cheek, though she faced away from him so swiftly that it might have been a trick of the light. He drew a breath, pulling back the vicious bite he’d been about to deliver. “Sophia is not a mindless parrot, nor is she after anything but her first pleasant holiday. And I am not our father.”

“You are. You just don’t see it yet, or you don’t have the insight to admit it.” She faced him again, her gray eyes snapping. “You’re better at pretending propriety than he was, but we both know it’s only a matter of time before you destroy our name and our reputation. If that is your intention, then I
do
wish you would simply decline to marry. Or better yet, die, so my Jonathan will have the dukedom, as well. At least then I’ll be able to guide him to some semblance of propriety and without the most telling reminder of our father’s … tyranny—you.” With that, she stomped out of the room and slammed the door closed behind her.

Adam shoved to his feet. Eustace had peppered him with insults and criticisms for years, but for the first time he realized that she wasn’t simply mimicking their mother; she actually meant what she said. She wished him dead. At once, so her twelve-year-old brat could take not just the majority of holdings when he failed to be a so-called proper gentleman, but the title and everything else, leaving her to rule the Baswich empire as she saw fit.

He was
not
his father. Every day he stopped in front of that portrait to remind himself of that fact. Yes, he remembered the endless queue of lovers and mistresses the duke had paraded in front of them, in front of his wife. Some of them he’d even had residing in the house with them. And yes, now that he thought about it, a majority of them in his recollection had been redheads.

But that didn’t mean he’d become Michael Arthur Baswich, and it didn’t mean Sophia bore any blame for anything. Growling, he yanked the bottle of Russian vodka from the liquor tantalus and poured himself a brimming glass. He could feel the black anger beginning to roil in his gut, fury at Eustace combined with the realization that she could very well be correct. About him.

It was only a coincidence, of course, that his one guest had been Sophia. And he would have found her warm and interesting whatever the color of her hair. Who wouldn’t? And he wasn’t married and intentionally insulting his wife and children with his affairs. Not yet, anyway. But was he insulting Eustace? He’d made an art of keeping mistresses, after all.

Their entire family had wanted their father gone. His mother had never said so openly, but he and Eustace both knew it. How could they not? And then there were the times, more and more frequent as Adam grew older, that the duchess had turned her anger and humiliation on him. He was male, after all, and the heir. The small-sized reflection of the duke.

On occasion, Adam had wished his own father dead, and then felt guilty for thinking such a thing. And then it had happened. For a week or two he’d felt relieved. The monster was dead. They could finally have some peace. But then his mother rose up from the cowering wretch that she’d been and had begun taking her years of pent-up bile out on him. And now Eustace said the very same thing to him that he’d always wanted to tell their father.
Or better yet, die.
And she’d meant it.

He refilled the glass, though he couldn’t remember emptying it. Or if he’d done so more than once already. Judging from the empty bottle, the nearly drained twin beside it, and the slur of his thoughts, he had.
Damnation.
He’d let the monster slip past his hold before he’d realized it was even awake. And now it was too late to cage it.

The ugliness roared to life, filling him to the brim, shutting out sight and sound. Who in their right mind would want to continue this joke of a bloodline? Who but some title-hungry, grasping little leech would want to marry someone who could be utterly disgusted with his own father’s behavior and yet had managed to trap himself into becoming just like the man?

He stumbled as he attempted to stand. Lurching upright again, he pulled open the door and strode down the hallway. Udgell appeared just as he reached the front door. “I’m going out,” he growled at the butler.

“Very good, Your Grace. I’ll have Evans saddle Z—”

“Move.” Adam yanked open the door himself and stalked outside.

“Your Grace, your coat!”

Ignoring the servant, barely able to hear him anyway with the roaring in his ears, Adam kept walking. Cold air blasted against him, but only on the surface. Inside he felt boiling and molten, putrid and seething. He knew better than to drink so much, but that was likely why he’d done it. So he would feel the way he deserved to.

Once he’d left the ankle-deep snow of the much-shoveled drive, he began sinking to his knees. The going was harder, but the fight suited him and he continued on. Eventually either the heat inside him would burn him up, or his outside would freeze. If either outcome stopped him from thinking, he didn’t care which happened first.

*   *   *

“I think trousers are better suited for ice fishing. Don’t you?” Sophia asked, tucking her borrowed shirt into her borrowed pants.

“I think you’ll freeze, regardless.” Milly carefully brushed out and folded the riding habit, and put it into the very sparsely filled wardrobe. “There are things worth freezing for, but I wouldn’t name fish as one of them.”

Sophia grinned. “But I’ve never been ice fishing. And it’s just out at the lake, so if I begin to freeze I’ll still have time to return indoors.”

“Unless you fall through the ice, as you’ve done once already.”

Abruptly the conversation didn’t seem quite so amusing. With a hard swallow, Sophia shrugged off her uneasiness and buttoned up her waistcoat. “I believe the odds are now in my favor. And I didn’t fall through the ice; I fell into the river after the mail coach fell through the—”

“Oh, no,” Milly interrupted.

The sharp edge to her voice made Sophia turn around. “What is it?” she asked, joining the housekeeper at the window.

A lone figure, stark black against the white of the ice and snow, stood halfway across the lake. Even from this distance, the elegant lines of his jacket bespoke a gentleman—and there was only one of those in residence. “That’s Adam.”

“He isn’t even wearing a coat,” Milly agreed, her tone worried.

As she watched, the figure sat down cross-legged on the snow-covered ice. “He isn’t wearing gloves or a hat, either.” Turning around, Sophia stomped into her boots.

“Sophia, you shouldn’t,” the housekeeper said, sending her an alarmed look. “He—His Grace—can be … unpleasant.”

“Not if he’s frozen to death.” Shrugging into her jacket, she hurried for the door.

Downstairs she found Udgell pacing in the foyer, the duke’s heavy caped greatcoat in his hands and a frown on his usually impassive face. “Miss Sophia,” he said, abruptly coming to attention.

“What happened?” she asked, noting that the usually busy front of the house seemed to be empty of servants.

“I … couldn’t say, miss.” He tucked the coat behind his back. “Do you require anything?”

“Oh, bother,” she muttered, grabbing her heavy cloak and fastening it on, then reaching behind the butler for the duke’s coat and folding it over her arm. “Give me his gloves,” she instructed, pulling on the ones she’d borrowed from Evans the groom.

“But—”

“Don’t argue, Udgell. And have a hot bath drawn in His Grace’s rooms.”

He handed over the gloves. “Very good, Miss Sophia. Shall I send anyone with you?”

“No. I’ll wave at the house if I need assistance.”

The butler nodded, then pulled open the front door. “He seemed very … unlike himself. It’s happened once or twice before, and … it isn’t pleasant.” He blanched. “And you must please never repeat that.”

“I won’t.” She had no idea what the butler or Milly meant by “unpleasant,” but it couldn’t be good. “Hurry with the bath,” she returned, remembering how very good that had felt after her unexpected dunking in the river.

This was exceedingly odd. Everything she knew of Adam Baswich spoke of a very powerful, clever man who somehow in the chaos of London managed to stay several steps ahead of everyone else. People didn’t cross him, because his vengeance was rumored to be devastating. The first time she’d seen him, when he’d first appeared at the newly opened Tantalus Club, he’d actually frightened her a little.