When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 9





Glass. It was an exhibit of glass. Glasses. Things out of which people drank. Why would anyone bloody care?

Lovingdon could not help but recognize that of late there were exhibits on everything. Grace had been interested in visiting this one. He would have been more entertained by cow dung.

There was a reason he preferred nightly entertainments. The day ones were numbing, but apparently very popular. He could hardly reconcile all the people who were entranced with drinking vessels.

With her arm nestled in the crook of his elbow, she said, “Of the couples here, which of the gentlemen truly fancy the lady they have accompanied?”

“All of them. A man would have to be truly, madly, deeply in love to force himself through this.”

She smiled and that deuced tiny freckle at her mouth winked. “You’re bored.”

“It’s glass, Grace. Now if it had a pour of whiskey or rum in it . . . or God, I’d even be grateful for rye.”

She laughed and he made a mental note that he shouldn’t cause her to laugh. He loved the way her throat worked so delicately, the way her lips parted in merriment, the absolute joy that lit her eyes . . . over something as mundane as stemware.

“I don’t think you’re taking this outing seriously. We’re a bit early so it’s the perfect opportunity for you to provide me with some clues as to what I should look for. But soon the Set will be descending, because everyone knows that Bertie is keen to see the exhibit, and I will no doubt be swept away by numerous suitors. So that couple over there by the blue glassware. Does he fancy her?”

“He’s here, isn’t he?”

“You’re here and you don’t fancy me. Perhaps he’s a relation. Is there anything that says he can’t live without her?”

This was an idiotic exercise. He needed to see her suitors buzzing about her in order to know which ones she should avoid. But as they were here, and she had asked—

“He fancies her.”

She jerked her head around to stare at him. “Oh, I think you’re wrong, there. He can barely drag his gaze from the glass. Surely if he fancied her, he’d be looking at her.”

“He touches her . . . constantly. Small touches. On the shoulder, on the arm, on the small of her back. That’s the big one. The small of her back. Solicitous. Every time she speaks, he leans in so he doesn’t miss a word. If he didn’t fancy her, he wouldn’t care what she said. He’d simply grunt or mutter something unintelligible, because women, bless them, don’t care whether or not we listen. They simply want to speak. As long as we offer an occasional, ‘Yes, dear, you’re quite right, couldn’t have said it better myself,’ women are overjoyed—even when we haven’t a clue as to what it was we couldn’t have said better ourselves.”


“No.” She gave him a discreet punch in the side. “We talk because we have something of import to say.”

“Something that a man generally has no desire to hear, and will hardly ever classify as important.”

She stepped away from him, anger igniting her eyes into a blue that was only seen in the heart of a fire. “Is that how you feel about me?”

No words existed to describe how he felt about her. He wanted to see her happy; he wanted her to have love. He wanted to whisk her away to a tower somewhere so she would never know the pain of loss. It occurred to him at that moment that by helping her acquire what she desired, he was condemning her to unbearable suffering. He could only hope that she would be up in years and too senile to fully experience it. Yes, a love that lasted her entire lifetime was what he wanted for her. What he could not guarantee. That realization had him speaking a bit more testily than he might have otherwise. “No, of course not. You have things of interest to say, and I never know what is going to come out of that pretty little mouth of yours.”

That pretty little mouth set into a stubborn line, and he knew she was trying to decipher whether he had just said something that was too flowery to be true. Therein resided one of the problems with giving women too much information. While most men wouldn’t agree, he knew not to underestimate a woman’s intelligence and reasoning abilities. He suspected if the gents of town discovered what he was revealing about their habits, they would hang him from London Bridge. He needed to get her thoughts elsewhere.

“I can also tell you that she is married to someone else, someone who probably doesn’t fancy her.”

She shifted her gaze over to the couple, her mulish mouth now a soft O. “They’re lovers? How did you discern that?”

“Why else would they be at such a place where they are unlikely to be seen because no cares about glasses?”

The humor was back in her eyes. “They are likely to be seen, as there are several people here, and soon there will be a good deal more. You obviously don’t appreciate the setting. Exhibits are designed as a way to expose us to the world. Here, come with me.”

He shouldn’t indulge her. To make his point, he should stay where he was, but she had piqued his curiosity. He followed her to a glass case that housed decanters in numerous shapes, all in various shades of red.

“Imagine what it took to create these,” she said softly. “Heat, such immense heat, melting the glass, then a craftsman carefully gathering it up on a rod like honey.”

He couldn’t help but think of a woman’s heat, a woman’s honey. Nor did he seem capable of preventing his gaze from trailing over her, but she didn’t notice. She was focused entirely on the goblets and pitcher in the case, and her mesmerized expression was almost as intoxicating as her words.

“Glass blown with care—just the right amount of breath, of pressure, of force. Heating, cooling, shaping, reheating. The red added. All the work, the artistry, the passion that must go into creating something so beautiful.” She looked up at him then. “Can you imagine it?”

He could imagine it. Vividly. Too vividly. Her skin flushed with the fire of passion. Her lips plump from pressure. Her gaze smoldering with blazing desire. He imagined taking her mouth, burning his brand on her soul.

What the devil was wrong with him?

“How can you not appreciate a work of art, even if it is a common item?” she asked.

There was nothing common about it, about her. She shortchanged herself if she believed men were after only her dowry. Even if they didn’t love her, they would gain so much by having her—a work of art herself—at their side. Her fortune, her land, paled when compared with her worth.

“I think what I like best,” she said softly, “is that even its imperfections don’t detract from its beauty.”

“You say that as though you have imperfections.”

“We all have imperfections.” A sorrow and something that went deeper touched her eyes.

“They add character,” he told her, mimicking words his mother had once told him.

She laughed lightly. “So my mother says.”

He wondered if all mothers relied on the same counsel. He had a strong urge to want to make her believe the truth of them, if there was something about herself with which she found fault. He wondered if it was that small freckle, the one that had been left behind when all the others had deserted her. He remembered how much she had detested them when she was a child.

She turned her attention back to the glass. “Some of these items are hundreds of years old. They’ve managed to survive the centuries. If only they could talk. They were lovingly created by someone who is no longer here, being enjoyed by people whom the creator never met, would never meet because they were yet to be born.”

“Perhaps they weren’t lovingly created. Perhaps they were nothing more than a way to pay creditors.”

“What a cynic you are. No, whoever made these cared about them a great deal. They would not be so beautiful otherwise. I won’t accept any other answer.”

“You’re a romantic.”

She laughed again. “Frightfully so. But then I don’t suppose that comes as a surprise, considering the reason behind your presence here.”

Before he could respond, a commotion caught his attention. A group of people was barreling down the passageway. Apparently, the Marlborough House Set had arrived.

They swarmed in, bees to a fresh dusting of pollen, and swept her away as easily as driftwood on an outgoing tide. It was rather amazing to watch, as though he weren’t even there, as though it were impossible to conceive that they might have been together.

Jolly good for his reputation as a man who no longer had any interest in marriage.

He supposed he could have inserted himself, but she expected him to observe and share those observations later. Instead, his gaze kept drifting down to one of the vases. The red was muted, the shade of her hair, and he imagined the artisan blowing a soft breath into it, gliding his hands lovingly over it. He envisioned her as the inspiration for the piece, that somehow three, six, eight hundred, a thousand years ago another man had pictured her as he’d worked to create a vase that would outlast his lifetime.

Death had come, and yet the vase carried on. Whoever had served as the inspiration was gone as well. And yet, she, too, in an odd manner was still bringing beauty to the world.

The poetic nonsense of his thoughts could only be attributed to how ghastly bored he was looking at glass. Because on the heel of those musings he was struck with the uncanny certainty that they belonged elsewhere, and that he wanted them.

Exhibits were collections. Someone had put this one together. Someone owned these pieces. He wanted them. He intended to have them, regardless of the price.

It had been a long time since he’d wanted something this badly.

That evening, curled on a divan in the front parlor, Grace fought not to be disappointed that in the crush of admirers, she had lost sight of Lovingdon at the exhibit. His driver had alerted her that His Grace had taken his leave but left his carriage for her convenience. She supposed he had gotten rather bored with the glass and decided to go in search of a more interesting activity.

She was presently in search of entertainment as well. Undecided regarding how she would spend her evening, she sorted through various invitations. No grand balls tonight. Instead it was a night for small affairs. A reading at Lady Evelyn Easton’s. A concert at Marlborough House. A dinner at Chetwyn’s. The gentlemen had tried to tease her into revealing where she’d be tonight, but she hadn’t a clue, so it was easy to tell them the truth.


She wondered what plans Lovingdon had for the evening and if he would be in the back room at Dodger’s. Her fingers itched for another round of cards, a chance to get even. How the deuce had he cheated anyway? She kept careful watch of his movements. How had he known she’d cheat?

Because she always had. It was unseemly, but the lads had always bested her at so much. Swindling them had been her small victory.

She heard the doorbell. A caller. She wasn’t up to it. Besides, Lovingdon would probably tell her that a gentleman who bothered calling wasn’t truly interested. It seemed all his examples involved the various ways that demonstrated when a man didn’t fancy her. How would she know if he did?

He’ll know your favorite flower.

There had to be more to it than that.

She looked up as the butler walked in carrying a large box.

“The Duke of Lovingdon’s man just delivered this package for you.”

It was a large box, plain as a dirty road, not wrapped in fancy paper or decorated with ribbons. He set it on the small table in front of her.

“Whatever could it be?” she asked.

“I’m certain I don’t know, m’lady.”

“What have we here?” her mother asked as she glided into the room. “I heard the bell—”

“A gift from Lovingdon.”

“Fancy that. Whatever prompted such a gesture?”

She laughed self-consciously, because she wanted the gift to mean something when she knew that it probably was merely another lesson to be learned. How would she explain that to her mother? “I haven’t a clue.”

“Shall we see what it is?”

“I suppose we should.”

She lifted the lid, set it aside. Amidst black velvet rested red glass. Very gingerly she lifted out the pitcher.

“Oh my word. Isn’t that’s lovely?” her mother asked.

“I saw it at the exhibit today.” Overwhelmed, she didn’t know what else to say. The goblets were also there but it was the pitcher that had arrested her attention. She held it up toward the gas-lit chandeliers and the color lightened, glimmered. So magnificent.

“Is there a note?”

“What? Oh.” Moving the velvet aside, she saw the parchment, pulled it out and read the neat script.

For your future household. I suspect the artisan would rather it be used than collecting dust in an exhibit.

She supposed she would forgive him for not appreciating the exhibit, when he had managed so successfully to touch her heart. Water served from this pitcher would taste incredibly sweet, and she would never be able to sip it without thinking of him.

“He’s optimistic at least,” her mother said after reading the missive.

“Optimistic that I’ll find a man who loves me. He knows I won’t marry one who doesn’t.”

“I suspect it’s been a long time since he’s been optimistic about anything. Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing that he’s been coming around.”

Not a bad thing at all.