The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (12 page)

“My Lord Summerfield, it is with great regret that I must inform you your brother is accused of cheating at a gentlemen’s game of cards,” Mr. Aimes said, dispensing with any greeting.

“That is a highly contemptible accusation, sir,” Will said calmly. “I hope you are prepared to prove it.”

“We are witnesses, my lord,” another gentleman said, inclining his head. “Mr. James, at your service. I observed Mr. Summerfield marking a card.”

“As did I, my lord,” the third man said. “I am Sir Phillip of Batencourt. When I examined the deck of cards, I discovered several of them had been marked.”

Will glanced at his brother. “Did you mark cards, Joshua?”

Joshua snorted. “Is this a court? Do you expect me to incriminate myself?”

“I expect you to deny it,” Will said evenly. But his heart was racing.

Joshua shrugged and fell lazily onto a chair, one leg crossed over the other. His hair was mussed, his collar crooked. He had all the markings of a man who had been out all night, and his defiance and indifference were outrageous.

“What do you want of me?” Will forced himself to inquire of Mr. Aimes.

“Satisfaction, my lord.”

“Do you suggest I second my brother in a duel?” he asked flippantly, but it certainly brought Joshua’s head up; he looked anxiously from Will to Mr. Aimes.

“I had hoped to avoid such a tragedy, but if you refuse to make good on your brother’s cheating, then I shall have no recourse but to demand such satisfaction as that.”

Will looked at Joshua from the corner of his eye and shrugged. “It is an accepted remedy to such a crime,” he said idly.

Mr. Aimes looked startled. “It…it is a last resort, my lord. Surely there is something short of that to which we might agree.”

“Very well,” Will said, and tried to hide his disgust as he walked to a French secretary and opened the panel, withdrawing a ledger. “Perhaps,” he said as he dipped a pen in ink and quickly wrote a bank note for fifty pounds, “this might be something short of that.” He sprinkled a little sand on it, then waved the bank draft dry before turning to Mr. Aimes. “I thank you for bringing my brother’s behavior to my attention,” Will said crisply. “If that is satisfactory, I assure you he will be dealt with in the harshest and most appropriate manner.”

Mr. Aimes glanced up, surprised by the amount. “I think this will suffice.”

“You have done my ailing father a great kindness by bringing Joshua home and allowing us to address it,” Will said. “You have my word that our family will deal with this incident in a most discreet manner, and, I should hope, you will extend my generous father the same courtesy.”

Mr. Aimes took Will’s measure for a moment before extending his hand. “You have my word.”

“Thank you,” Will said. “Farley, see them out, will you?” he asked the unobtrusive butler.

He waited until the men had left and Farley had shut the door behind them before looking at Joshua. Joshua avoided his gaze and stood. “Well, then, if that is done—”

Will caught his arm. He heard Joshua’s sigh, saw the unrepentant look on his face, and Will could not help himself. He hit his brother square in the jaw, knocking him flat on his arse. Joshua cried out and put a hand to his mouth, saw the blood on his fingers from a cut on his lip. A murderous look washed over his face; he scrambled up and lunged at Will, his arms swinging.

But Will was larger and stronger than his brother, and grabbed his arms, pushing him back, toppling him over a chair. They rolled across the floor, arms flailing at one another until Will pinned Joshua to the floor. He glared at his brother, his jaw clenched, as Joshua tried vainly to kick him off.

“Why?” Will demanded, and let go, coming to his feet to tower over Joshua. “How could you dishonor your father so?”

Joshua came unsteadily to his feet and shrugged. “I do not care to lose.”

Rage exploded red hot in Will. “What in God’s name is the matter with you, Joshua? Do you mean to see yourself hanged?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Joshua spat.

Will surged toward his brother, his instinct to put his hands around his throat. Joshua tried to escape, but Will caught him and threw him up against the wall, knocking over a small gueridon with a marble top. He held Joshua there, their faces only an inch or so apart. “If you disgrace this family again, I swear I shall hang you myself. You are a dishonor to your father, to your sisters, to your name!” he said angrily. “I confess I cannot fathom what has you so bent on destruction, but you are well on the path of seeing it done, sir!”

“What do you care?” Joshua shouted, and shoved with all his might, knocking him back a step or two. Glaring at Will, he straightened his coat and said, with great vehemence, “My life is no concern of yours, Summerfield! We were perfectly happy here until you returned and began to change everything!”

“What in bloody hell do you mean?”

“No one asked you to come home,” Joshua said acidly.

Will blinked with shock. “Is that what bothers you? You resent that I’ve come home?”

“I resent you, yes,” Joshua said. “You’ve no right to come home after all this time and push us aside as if we are nothing.”

“I’ve not pushed anyone aside—”

“I was the eldest here!” Joshua exploded. “I was the one who looked after our siblings and our father!”

“The place was a shambles when I returned!” Will bellowed. “Is that your idea of looking after things?”

“I did the best I could under the circumstances! The funds were tied up in your name, but you were off to God knows where while we languished! And when you came back, you never showed me even the slightest courtesy! You never inquired as to what we had done to survive! You dismissed me the moment you walked through the door!”

It was suddenly becoming clear to Will; the mistake he’d made began to seep into his brain. He’d come home assuming Joshua was still a boy. Will could hardly be faulted for his perception—the place had been in terrible disarray, and Joshua had already earned a black reputation for gambling and whoring. Worse, he was dragging Roger down the path of debauchery along with him, and Alice and Jane had been terribly neglected.

No, Will had seen nothing but disaster all around when he’d come home. He never really saw Joshua at all. He suddenly understood what a grave mistake that had been. “Perhaps you are right,” he said, trying to smooth it over. “Perhaps I did not give you your due—”

“Don’t speak to me of due,” Joshua said sourly. “I do not answer to you, Summerfield! I am the son of the Earl of Bedford in my own right, and I do not need, nor will I seek, your permission to live!”

“Mind you have a care when you speak, Joshua,” Will said low. “You may be his son, but I am his heir. Not you. Your livelihood will one day depend on me.”

Joshua’s gaze darkened. “Are you threatening me?”

“I am warning you. Behave like a gentleman, and there will be no issue between us. Continue down this path of thievery and whoring, and you will find yourself cut off and displaced from here, heed me. I cannot change what has happened to Papa or what happened here before I came home. But I can do everything within my power to ensure you do not bring another mark against this family.”

If looks could kill, Will would be lying dead. “Have I your permission to leave, my lord?” Joshua asked, his voice dripping with rancor. “To sleep? To piss in a pot?” He whirled about in disgust, stalking from the room before Will could answer.

When he’d gone, Will was suddenly spent and sank onto the settee, covering his face with his hands. He was not prepared for this—a little less than three months ago, he’d come home to an ailing father, but he’d never in his wildest dreams thought he’d have to step into his father’s shoes.

He didn’t know how to step into his father’s shoes. Things that seemed obvious to him were lost on his siblings. He could hardly pretend to be a parent or a guardian to them—he was appalled by them. He had absolutely no idea how to change their behavior, and it seemed as though every time he tried he was met with resistance and resentment.

Joshua, of all of them, stretched Will’s reason and comprehension to the breaking point. It was almost as if he wanted to hang, and damn if Will knew how to stop him. Joshua and Roger were both aimless, and Will had done his best to steer both brothers toward suitable occupations—a naval officer’s commission for Joshua and a chance to see the world. Perhaps the clergy for Roger and a parish he might call his own. Both brothers had scoffed at his suggestions.

Will sighed wearily and slowly leaned back, staring up at the elaborately plastered ceiling. What he wouldn’t give for his father’s counsel. Unfortunately, the most he could hope for was a flicker of agreement in the old man’s eyes when Will told him what Joshua had done, and even then, Will could never be entirely certain of his father’s agreement.

How odd it was, Will thought, to be in the bosom of his family and feel so terribly alone. It was that strange feeling of being shipwrecked again, and he wished only for comfort, a kind word, a soothing caress. When an image of Phoebe Dupree’s lovely face appeared in his mind’s eye, he didn’t so much as blink.

The image of her naked and moving beneath him was not exactly the sort of comfort he needed, but it was certainly the sort of comfort his body craved. He closed his eyes and imagined Phoebe Dupree dancing the dance of the veils, just like the one he’d seen in the Levant. He imagined her hips swaying, her eyes blazing with desire for him as she removed the veils, one by one, dropping them at his feet and slowly revealing her body to him.

Just thinking of it made his cock hard. He fished the scarab out from beneath his collar and rubbed it between his thumb and finger. But it was useless—nothing would rid him of the image until he took himself in hand and banished it in the most primitive manner.

Unfortunately, that did not ease his restiveness, either. Later that afternoon, Will gave in to his body’s demands and sent a maid to Phoebe’s workroom with a message that he required her in the east salon. He had no idea what he thought to do once she arrived; he just wanted to see her.

His mood changed the moment she glided into the room—he felt much lighter in being. Phoebe was wearing a gown of blue trimmed in white that made her eyes all but leap from her face. And with those eyes, she gave him a wary look. “My lord? You sent for me?”

“I did,” he said, and sauntered to the middle of the room. He looked around at the gray walls, the dark red drapes. “What do you think of this room?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This room, Madame Dupree. How do you find it?” She looked around; as she studied the walls, the drapes, the ceiling, her brow furrowed in concentration, Will contemplated the curve of her slender neck. “I find it…quite nice,” she said, and looked at him sidelong.

“Madame Dupree,” he said with a wry smile, “you’ve not been reticent about your opinions ere now. I assure you, my feelings will not be harmed. I need your help.”

She considered that for a moment, then sighed. “In truth?”

“In truth.”

“It feels like a mausoleum.”

He nodded. He could not take his eyes from her succulent mouth. Her cheeks flushed. “The gray paint makes the room feel rather cold,” she said, and began to walk the length of the room, telling him what she found offensive. Will scarcely heard her. He followed her, breathing in the scent of lavender, admiring the way her hips moved beneath her gown. He longed to touch those hips, to sink his fingers into them and hold them as he thrust into her—

“This wooden settee, for example,” she said, twirling about and almost colliding with him. “Some upholstery would make it more inviting. And the carpet—a lighter shade would warm the room considerably.”

“Ah.”

She turned again and pointed to something—a painting, a piece of porcelain, he had no idea—as he admired the tiny wisps of curls at her nape, and the thickness of her pale blond hair, bound up in some artful twist. She moved on to the drapery as Will appreciated the flawless, smooth skin of her décolletage.

She suddenly turned toward him. “Perhaps something a bit more…” Phoebe paused. Her eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon, sir, but are you listening?”

He blinked. “Yes, of course.”

“Oh?” She folded her arms. “Then you agree with my opinions of the drapes.”

“Naturally.”

“Splendid! I thought perhaps you might be against bamboo.”

“Bamboo?” he echoed, startled.

“You weren’t listening at all,” she said, her eyes shining with the triumph of having caught him.

“I—”

“It will do you no good to deny it,” she said primly.

Will supposed that was true and smiled. He impetuously lifted his hand to her earlobe, caressing it with his thumb. “You are quite right, Madame Dupree. I confess that I find it very difficult to think of drapery when a sublimely elegant woman is standing so near to me.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened slightly. There was suddenly a current running between them—he could feel its powerful pull.

“What are you about?” she asked softly.

Will couldn’t help himself. He touched his finger to her lips. Phoebe reacted by jerking backward; but she touched the tip of her tongue to her lip. The effect was incredibly arousing.

“You remind me of someone,” he said. “An American in India.”

“An American?”

“Her husband died while they were traveling through India, and she decided to remain there instead of facing the long voyage home alone. She was a woman of certain experience, one might say.”

Phoebe caught a breath; her chest lifted with it, then slowly fell. “And what has that to do with me?” she asked suspiciously.

He shrugged a little. It had nothing to do with her, other than serving as a means to prolong their meeting. “She was lonely.”

“I am not lonely.”

“She wore a sari—”

“A what?”

“A sari,” he repeated. “It is a long piece of fabric that drapes here,” he said, using his finger to trace a line over her shoulder and between her breasts, causing Phoebe to gasp softly. “And here,” he added as he traced a line down her rib cage to her waist, and around her abdomen. Phoebe’s eyes never left his, but he could feel how quickly her breath filled her body, how quickly she released it.