When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 6





Slowly sipping his scotch and rolling a coin over, under, between his fingers, Lovingdon paid little heed to the men with whom he was playing cards—save one.

Fitzsimmons.

The man downed liquor as though he believed drinking enough of it would cure all ills, when in truth it was only adding to his troubles. Cards required that a man keep his wits about him if he hoped to have any chance at all of winning. Fitzsimmons’s wits seemed to have deserted him completely.

He growled when Lovingdon had taken a chair at the table. Not that his behavior was particularly unusual. With the exception of Avendale, the other gentlemen had expressed their displeasure at his arrival by clearing throats, shifting in chairs, and signaling for more drink. Lovingdon was not known for his charity when it came to cards. He believed a man should never wager what he was unwilling—or could ill afford—to lose.

It seemed Fitzsimmons was of the opposite opinion. If this hand didn’t go his way, he was going to lose all the chips that remained to him. And Lovingdon already knew Fitzsimmons wasn’t going to win. He’d known three cards ago, and yet the man continued to raise the amount being wagered as though he thought continually upping the stakes would disguise the fact that the cards showing before him revealed an atrocious hand.

The final card was dealt facedown. Lovingdon set his glass aside, lifted the corner of his card—

Did not display his pleasure at what he’d been dealt. Fitzsimmons, on the other hand, looked as though he might cast up his accounts. Then in a remarkably stupid move, he shoved his remaining chips into the pile in the center of the table.

The gentleman to Fitzsimmons’s left cleared his throat and folded. As did the one beside him.

Lovingdon didn’t consider for one moment being as charitable. He matched the wager. Fitzsimmons was obviously on the verge of having an apoplectic fit, if the amount of white showing in his eyes was any indication.

To Lovingdon’s left, Avendale folded.

Lovingdon held Fitzsimmons’s gaze, watched as the man slowly turned over his cards.

“Ace high,” Fitzsimmons ground out.

Lovingdon could feel the stares, the held breaths, the anticipation. It wasn’t too late to gather up his cards without revealing them, to simply utter, “I daresay that beats me.” Instead he flipped over his cards to reveal a pair of jacks.

Fitzsimmons appeared to be a man who had just felt the cold fingers of death circling his neck. “You cheated, damn you.”

One man gasped, another scooted his chair back as though he expected Lovingdon to leap across the table and throttle the insolent Fitzsimmons.

“See here,” Avendale proclaimed. “We’re gentlemen. We do not accuse—”

“I’m not offended,” Lovingdon broke in. “I’m amused. Tell me, my lord, how do I cheat when I keep my hands on the table, one constantly rolling a coin and the other occupied with drink?”

“I don’t know.” Fitzsimmons’s voice was unsteady. “I don’t bloody well know.”

“I’m certain your credit is good here. You can get additional chips at the cage, although I would recommend against it. Lady Luck isn’t with you tonight.”

“Shows what little you know. She hasn’t been with me in a good long while.” Fitzsimmons scraped back his chair, stood, and angled up his chin, gathering as much dignity as possible into that small movement. “Gentlemen.”

Then he headed toward the lounge, stumbling only twice.


“One should not mix drink and cards,” Avendale declared. He shifted his gaze to Lovingdon. “As Lady Luck does seem to be with you tonight, and I have no interest in losing more coins, I’m off to Cremorne.”

“You’ll lose coins there just as easily.”

“Yes, but to ladies who show their gratitude in more inventive ways. Care to join me?”

“In a bit, perhaps. I have another matter to which I must attend first.” Lovingdon signaled to a young lad, who rushed over. “Those are my winnings.” With a sweep of his hand over the table, he indicated all that belonged to him. “Disperse them evenly between yourself and the other lads.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

The lad eagerly set to the task of scooping the chips into a bowl. Lovingdon bid a good evening to the gentlemen who remained, then strode toward the lounge. He’d barely taken his place in a chair opposite Fitzsimmons before a footman placed a tumbler of scotch on the table beside him. Knowing each lord’s drink preferences was a thirty-year tradition at Dodger’s. Lovingdon lifted his glass and savored the excellent flavor.

“Come to gloat, have you?” Fitzsimmons asked.

“If I were going to gloat, I would have done it out there. Gloating with witnesses is so much more enjoyable.” He tapped his finger against his glass. “You couldn’t afford to lose tonight.”

Averting his gaze, Fitzsimmons gnawed on his lower lip. Finally he murmured, “I’ve not been able to afford it in some time.”

Placing his forearms on his thighs, Lovingdon leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I knew you at Eton. You weren’t a bully—and God knows there were bullies. But not you. Why would you bully your wife? Lady Grace Mabry told me that Lady Sybil believed you loved her—”

“I do love her.” Heat ignited his eyes, simmered, then was snuffed out. “I’ve not been myself of late.”

“I’ve paid little attention to marriages the past few years, but I heard she came with a nice dowry.”

“She also came with a penchant for spending. And I had not the heart to deny her the pleasure of it. I thought to increase my assets with investments. I chose poorly. I don’t know why the bloody hell I’m telling you all this. Although it’ll come out soon enough. I have nothing left. I squandered her dowry. I doubt she’ll love me once she realizes the dire straits we’re in. My ill temper with her—I think I wanted her to leave me so she would never learn the truth.”

“She doesn’t know?”

“Would you want your wife to view you as a disappointment?”

Lovingdon felt as though he’d taken a blow to the chest. He’d disappointed Juliette in the worst way imaginable.

Fitzsimmons blanched. “Apologies. That was bad form to mention—”

Lovingdon held up a hand to stem further stammering. He didn’t want Juliette’s name echoing in this place. “Have you any funds left?”

Fitzsimmons slowly shook his head.

“Right, then. I shall provide you with capital and advise you on how to invest it wisely. You will return my investment with interest once you see an acceptable profit.”

“Why would you do this? We’re hardly the best of friends.”

“Lady Sybil’s happiness matters to Lady Grace, and Lady Grace’s happiness matters to me. But understand that I can just as easily destroy you as assist you. Our goal here is to ensure you no longer feel a need to take out your frustrations on your wife.”

“I won’t. I do love her.”

“Then treat her as such.” He stood. “Be at my residence at two tomorrow afternoon and we’ll work out the details.”

Fitzsimmons shot to his feet. “I could be there at half past eight in the morning.”

Such eagerness. He did hope he wasn’t misjudging Fitz. He had known him as a good and honorable man, but he also knew what it was to have life’s challenges divert one’s course. “You won’t find me available at that time of the morning. I intend to spend the night carousing. Tomorrow afternoon will be soon enough.”

“I hardly know how to thank you, Your Grace.”

“Be kind to your wife.”

“I will be. You can count on it.”

“And stay away from the cards, man.”

“I will.”

Lovingdon strode from the room. He decided that he’d head to Cremorne, where ladies and drink were in abundance. He was suddenly in want of both.

He’d known exactly where to find Avendale: at their favorite booth where ale flowed freely. Avendale spotted him, smiled broadly and extended a tankard toward Lovingdon. As soon as he took it, Avendale tapped his against Lovingdon’s.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

Not tonight. Tonight he needed . . . he wasn’t certain what he needed. He knew only that he’d not found it at Dodger’s. He emptied his tankard in one long deep swallow and called for another.

Avendale leaned back against the counter, placing his elbows on it and crossing his feet at the ankles. He looked to be a man entirely too comfortable here, but then his purview was sin. When they’d been younger men, he’d always sought to entice Lovingdon into joining him. It wasn’t until after Juliette died that Lovingdon had finally accepted the invitation. It only took one night for him to wonder why he’d been so resistant in his youth.

Proper behavior was no way for a man to live, he reflected as he downed half the second tankard.

“What were you trying to prove with Fitzsimmons?” Avendale asked.

Lovingdon looked out over the crowd. Cremorne Gardens served two purposes. In the early evening it was for the respectable crowd. Until the fireworks. When they were naught but smoke on the night air, they signaled the beginning of the witching hour—when good folk left and the less reputable arrived. Swells were strutting about now, and buxom ladies were doing their best to entice them.

“Yesterday I witnessed him treating his wife rather poorly,” Lovingdon explained. “He wasn’t behaving as himself.”

“As himself? Or as you remembered him from school?”

“As himself. It seems he’s in a bit of a financial bind. Poor investments and all that.”

“I suspect it’s more than poor investments,” Avendale said. “It’s this damned industrialization, taking tenants from the land to the cities and factories. It’ll be the death of the aristocracy. Mark my words.”

Lovingdon chuckled. “Don’t be such a defeatist. The aristocracy will survive.”

Avendale straightened and lifted his tankard. “Survival is no fun. We want to flourish, have more coin than we’ll ever need, so we are men of leisure with no troubles to weigh us down.”

“I’ve never known you to be weighed down with troubles.”

Something serious, somber, flashed across Avendale’s face before he downed what remained in his tankard and set it on the counter. “What say we find a couple of willing ladies, whisk them off to my residence, and sample them until dawn?”

Lovingdon tried to recollect if he’d heard any rumors regarding Avendale’s situation, but he couldn’t recall anything. Their relationship was more surface than depth. “Is all well with you?”

Avendale laughed. “It will be once I find a willing wench.”

His companion was on the hunt before Lovingdon blinked. After having his tankard refilled, he fell into step beside him.


“So I assume we’re looking for our usual fare? Brunettes?” Avendale asked.

Lovingdon didn’t answer. The question was moot, and well his cousin knew it.

“I understand you not having an interest in blondes,” Avendale went on, “but gingers? They can be as fiery as their hair.”

“I’ll leave them to you.” Juliette was the only blonde he would ever want. As for the reds, he wasn’t certain why he didn’t gravitate toward them. He supposed it had something to do with Grace and how she had despised her hair and freckles.

He was grateful that Avendale was not of a mind to take an interest in Grace. While he had no need of her dowry, Avendale was not one to remain faithful—or at least Lovingdon couldn’t imagine him doing so. As far as he knew, the man had never even bothered to set up a mistress. Sameness bored him. He made a good friend, but as a husband, he would no doubt fail miserably.

Avendale drifted away when a woman crooked her finger at him. While Lovingdon intended to find company for the night, he found himself studying the gents who were about. Were any of them worthy of Grace?

She could be stubborn, and yet there was a softness to her, an innocence. She needed a man who wouldn’t break her, who wouldn’t berate her. A man who understood that sometimes she tended to behave in a way that wasn’t quite acceptable. Coming to a man’s residence in the middle of the night, drinking liquor, playing cards, cheating at cards, driving him to madness with her—

He staggered to a stop as he caught sight of red hair beneath the hood of a cape before the woman turned away. She was tall, slender . . . she couldn’t be Grace.

“Hello, fancy man. What are you up to tonight?” A golden-haired vixen stroked his shoulder. He hadn’t even realized she was near. He’d been so focused on the hooded woman, anyone could have fleeced his pockets.

“Pardon me,” he uttered before striding away. Where the deuce was the woman in the cape? It would be just like Grace to decide to come to Cremorne and make her own assessment of the suitability of gentlemen. Ah, there. There she was. He darted around one gentleman, then another. He edged around a large woman, moved aside a smaller one. She was walking toward the trees. Once she disappeared into the darkness, he’d lose her.

He quickened his pace. Grew nearer. Reached out. Clamped his hand on her shoulder, spun her about—

It wasn’t Grace at all. Her eyes were the wrong color, her nose the wrong shape. Her chin was square when it should be round. Her cheeks were not high enough. Her hair . . . her hair was not the correct shade. It was a harsher red. It did not call to a man to comb his fingers through it.

Lovingdon looked into her kohl-lined eyes. No spark, no joy, no laughter resided there. He shook his head. “My apologies. I mistook you for someone else.”

He backed up a step, and then another. What the devil was he doing thinking of Grace when he was here? She would never be in this part of London at this time of night. His entire evening had been about her, first with Fitz and now this.

He pivoted and went in search of Avendale. Perhaps he would venture away from brunettes tonight. Someone to take his mind off Grace, a place she should not be at all.

He spotted Avendale staggering toward him, a blonde on one arm, a dark-haired beauty on the other. He whispered something to her. She separated herself from him and strolled, her hips swaying enticingly, over to Lovingdon. When she reached him, she ran her hand up his chest, over his shoulder, and circled it around his neck. “His lordship tells me that you can remove my corset with one hand tied behind your back.”

Lovingdon grinned broadly. “I can do it with both hands tied behind my back.”

“Ah, you’re putting me on now.”

He leaned toward her. “I have a very talented mouth.”

She laughed, a deep, full-throated life. “I’d like to see that.”

“It will be my pleasure to demonstrate.”

So for tonight, a brunette it would be.

“I had to speak with you before tonight’s ball,” Lady Sybil said, her arm wound around Grace’s as they strolled through the Mabry House gardens.

It had been two days since the Westcliffe garden party, and Grace hadn’t seen her friend since, although she had to admit that Sybil appeared more relaxed than she’d been then—but of course her husband wasn’t with her at that moment, which could account for her ease. “Has Lord Fitzsimmons been unkind?”

“No. That’s the thing of it. He’s been terribly solicitous.”

“Well, then, I’m glad Lovingdon had words with him at Westcliffe’s.” She had not heard from nor seen him since that afternoon. She’d decided to give up on his helping her. It was so obvious that he didn’t want to be involved in Society any longer.

“I daresay, he did more than speak with him at the party.” Sybil spun away, wandered to the roses and touched their fragile petals.

Something was amiss. Grace cautiously joined her friend. “Syb, whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“Yes, I know, it’s just so terribly difficult. I know you won’t tell anyone, but . . .” She looked at Grace. “Fitz lost my dowry.”

“How does one go about losing a dow—Wait, you mean he spent it all?”

“More like, I spent it. A good deal of it anyway. Then he made some bad investments—” She glanced quickly around before leaning in. “We’re poor. At least for a time. Thank goodness I already have all my gowns for the Season, because Lovingdon gave us the most horrid rules for when we can spend money.”

Startled, Grace stared at her. “Lovingdon gave you the rules? What has he to do with any of this?”

“I don’t quite understand it all, to be honest, but apparently he’s gone into some sort of partnership with Fitz, who is quite convinced that he shall recoup his losses and then some. That’s the reason he’s been so irritable. He’s been under a great deal of strain, striving to pay our debts, and I wasn’t helping at all.”

“That’s still not an excuse for how he berated you. I’d have not put up with it, and you shouldn’t have either.”

Sybil shook her head. “I knew something was amiss. But he wouldn’t talk to me. Pride and all that, I suppose.” She grabbed Grace’s arm and squeezed. “But I wanted you to know that all will be well. You’ll see tonight at the ball. He’s once again the man I fell in love with.”

Grace hugged her, unable to embrace the optimism but hoping her friend was correct. “I’m happy for you, Syb.”

When they drew apart, Sybil smiled at her. “Now we simply must find a gent who loves you, so that you can be as happy as I am. It would be so lovely if you were to receive a proposal at the Midsummer Eve’s ball.”

Every year, for as long as Grace could remember, her family hosted a ball at their ancestral estate to celebrate the summer solstice. Their guests always welcomed a few days away from the city. She’d often slipped out of her bed and secreted herself in a dark corner of the terrace where she could watch the merriment. She thought, then, that the time would never come when she would be old enough to attend. She’d always longed to dance with Lovingdon and never had occasion to do it.

But Fate seemed to have little regard for the yearnings of her tender heart. She’d been too young to attend balls and parties when he was old enough to make the rounds. When she was finally of an age where she could attend the social affairs, Lovingdon had become a widower and withdrawn from Society. Based on their recent encounters, she doubted he would come to her family’s estate for the midsummer festivities.


“You seem to be narrowing your choices down,” Sybil said.

Grace shook her head. “It’s a decision that will affect the remainder of my life. I don’t intend to make it in haste.”

“Nor should you be overly cautious. You don’t want to lose your chance at the perfect man.”

“I assure you that I don’t want perfect. Rather, I want someone who can appreciate the allure of imperfection.”

There was something decidedly sinful in the way Lovingdon was sprawled over the bed. His hair was flattened on one side, sticking up on the other. His jaw was heavily shadowed, his face rugged, even in sleep. The hand curled on his pillow flinched, the one resting near his thigh didn’t move. Nor did the rest of him. The sheets were pooled at his waist. He possessed a magnificent chest. While Grace had seen it before, she’d been distracted by other areas and hadn’t given it the attention it deserved. A light sprinkling of hair in the center continued down, narrowed over a flat stomach, and disappeared beneath the covers.

She knew she should leave, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Surely he would awaken soon. And no doubt be furious to find her here. His fury would be justified. A man had the right not to be intruded upon while he slept, but she hadn’t snuck in here. She’d knocked on the door several times, then marched in not bothering to soften her footfalls, but he’d barely stirred.

She sighed heavily. She would wait in the parlor, she supposed, as she was determined to speak with him. She spun on her heel and headed for the door.

“Grace?”

The word came out raspy and rough. She didn’t want to contemplate that it was the voice with which he greeted his paramours in the morning. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw his eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowed, and his fingers pressed against his temples. “I thought you might—”

He held up a hand. “Shh. No need to shout.”

If he were one of her brothers, she’d shout that she hadn’t been shouting. But he’d done her a favor, so she lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “I prepared something for you.” She walked back over to the bed. “It’s a concoction that Drake puts together on occasion. Tastes ghastly but you’ll feel better once you’ve had it.”

He pushed at the air as though it were enough to physically remove her from the room. “Just go away.”

“I can’t leave you suffering like this.”

“I suffer like this every day. Leave me in peace.”

But that was the thing of it. He wasn’t in peace and well she knew it. She picked up the glass from where she’d left it earlier on the bedside table. “Humor me, Lovingdon. And then I’ll go.”

With a low growl, he rose up on an elbow and took the offering.

“Down it in one swallow.”

“I know how to manage it,” he grumbled.

In fascination, she watched his throat muscles working. Why did every physical aspect of him have to be so remarkably pleasing? Perfection, while she required a man of some imperfection. It would be easier to be accepted fully by a man who had not been chiseled by the gods. She wondered if he had any notion how fortunate he was to have been so carefully sculpted by nature’s loving hand.

She took the empty glass from him and set it on the bedside table. “Just lie there for a bit. It won’t be long before you’re up to snuff.”

He eased back down to the pillow, brought the sheet up and eased his right leg up, bending it at the knee, hiding from her view a rise in the covers that she’d noticed earlier but had fought extremely hard not to contemplate. He squinted at her. “What is it with you coming to gentlemen’s bedchambers at all hours?”

“You’re not a gentleman. You’re a scoundrel.”

“All the more reason you shouldn’t be here.”

“You won’t take advantage.”

“Maybe I should, just to teach you a lesson.”

“You won’t.” She clasped her hands in front of her to stop herself from reaching out and brushing the wayward locks from his brow. “I know what you did for Sybil.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you need to leave. On your way out, tell the butler to send up some breakfast.”

“Breakfast? It’s half past two in the afternoon.”

“It’s my first meal of the day. Call it what you like. But leave.”

“I need to speak with you.”

“I’m not presentable,” he barked.

“Judging by the volume of your voice, your headache is gone.”

He rubbed his brow. “It seems so, yes, and as I asked for breakfast, my stomach is settled as well. Thank you for your witch’s brew. Now be off.”

“It’s a warlock’s brew, as it’s Drake’s recipe.” She turned for the door. “I’ll see to getting your breakfast, but make yourself presentable while I’m gone, as I fully intend to discuss some matters with you.”

“Grace.”

She spun around, and the sight of him raised up on an elbow, his other arm draped over his raised knee, the sheet gathered at his waist, nearly took her breath. She’d never given any thought to the fact that she might see her husband in this same position, that he would be as comfortable with his body and might expect her to be the same. “Please, Lovingdon, it won’t take long.”

He sighed heavily. “I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

“No need. The sitting area in here works fine. And you needn’t tidy up completely. Just enough so we’re both comfortable.”

Before he could respond, she quit the room and went in search of the butler. She encountered a footman first and gave the orders to him. The butler knew she was in the residence, had assisted her by showing her to the kitchen so she could make her brew, but he’d been quite disapproving of her delivering it to the duke herself. She wasn’t particularly anxious to have him scowl at her over her present request. The footman could see that food was delivered.

She returned to Lovingdon’s bedchamber and knocked.

“Come!”

She opened the door to find him standing, shoulders bent as he grasped the edges of the table holding the washbasin. He wore trousers, a white linen shirt. No boots. Why did his present attire seem more intimate than seeing him in bed with naught but a sheet covering him? She approached cautiously. “Lovingdon?”

He peered over at her with bloodshot eyes. Droplets of water coated his face. His hair was damp. “I don’t think I would have made it to the dining room.”

“You made quite merry last night, it seems.”

He shook his head. “I don’t remember half of it.”

“I don’t understand the appeal in that.”

“No, you probably wouldn’t.” He splashed more water on his face, then reached for a towel and rubbed it roughly over his bristled skin. She wondered what it might be like to shave him, to scrape the razor over the defined lines and strong jaw. Perhaps she’d shave her husband. It was a thought she’d never entertained before. After tossing the towel aside, he combed his wet hair back from his face and sauntered over to a sofa, his movements relaxed, loose-jointed. She had an odd sensation of being in his lair. Perhaps she should have accepted his offer to meet her in the dining room.

A rap sounded. She opened the door. While the maid set the tray of food on the low table in the sitting area, Grace walked over to the windows and drew back the draperies. He had such lovely gardens to look out on, and she suspected that he didn’t even appreciate them. After the servant left, she took a chair near the sofa and began pouring tea.


“You don’t have to wait on me,” he said as he snatched up a piece of bacon with his fingers, then began to eat like a savage, as though there would be no formality in this room, as though it contained its own set of rules.

“Don’t be so grumpy,” she insisted.

“My house, my bedchamber. I can be as I want. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

“I have no intention of leaving, and your foul mood will not send me scurrying away.”

Slowly chewing, he studied her. “How did you know the miracle of Drake’s concoction?” he finally asked.

With a smile, she set the teacup before him. “Because he prepared it for me once.”

He raised a brow. “Lady Grace Mabry, three sheets to the wind? I would have liked to have seen that.”

She chuckled softly. “No, I don’t think you would have.” It had been after a visit to Dr. Graves. She’d not been at all pleased by his diagnosis or his recommendation for treatment. And so that evening she’d indulged in a bit more liquor than was wise.

He nudged a platter of fruit, cheese, and toast toward her. “Eat.”

She took a strawberry. “Are you always so pleasant upon first awakening?”

“My morning was disturbed.”

“Again, it’s afternoon.” She finished off her strawberry. “Truly, Lovingdon, I appreciate what you did for Sybil. She came to see me this morning, explained the situation with Fitzsimmons and how you offered your assistance.”

He shrugged. “I needed a new investment partner.”

“Yes, but you’re providing all the investment, from what I understand.”

“Only until he gets back on his feet.”

She shifted in her chair. “She said he’s more like himself, treating her as he did when they first married. Do you think it’ll continue?”

He met and held her gaze, and she could see the conviction in his eyes. “He’s not a bad man, Grace. I’m not making excuses for his behavior. It was deplorable. But sometimes when a man feels as though he’s no longer in control, he can lose sight of himself.”

She almost asked him if that was what had happened to him. This life he led now was so very different from the one he’d led before. He was so very different.

“I’ve known Fitz since my school days,” he added. “His comportment in the garden was unlike him. We’ll get his financial situation back in hand, and I’ll teach him how to guard it better, and all should be well for Lady Sybil.”

“You’d think he’d know how to guard his money.”

“Unfortunately, Grace, sometimes when the coffers have been empty for a while and are suddenly filled, one can forget what is needed not to squander the coins. And if the coffers have been bare for a while, one may have never learned.”

“Another reason that I prefer a man who isn’t dependent upon my dowry.”

“Then you need a man whose fortune is not tied to land.”

He was lounging back, so very relaxed, like a great big lazy cat at the zoological gardens. Yet she had the sense that he was very much alert, could spring into action with the slightest provocation—or enticement, if the right woman walked into the room. She took another sip of her tea and set down her cup. “May I ask you something else, Lovingdon?”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “As though my saying no would stop you.”

Oh, he knew her well, and she loved when he teased her like that. No barbs were ever hidden within his words, even when he was put out with her.

“The night I came to ask for your assistance and you opened the door . . . you didn’t resemble David.”

He blinked. “David?”

“Michelangelo’s David.”

“Ah.” He gave a brusque nod. “I should hope not. My hair is not nearly that curly.”

She laughed in spite of the fact that he was deliberately making this difficult for her. “I wasn’t referring to your locks, but rather lower. Were you aroused?”

He sounded as though he was strangling, and she wasn’t certain if he were choking or laughing. He held up a hand. “I’m not having this conversation.”

“I don’t know who else to ask about these matters. Not my mother, surely. Minerva, I suppose.”

“My sister won’t know the answers,” he said tersely. “Or at least she’d best not.”

“So I must depend on you.”

He scowled, and she feared his next words would be a command for her to leave. Instead he rubbed his bristled chin while studying her. She’d been glad that he’d not had time to shave while she saw to breakfast. She liked how dark and dangerous he appeared when he wasn’t properly decked out. Three buttons on his shirt were undone to reveal a narrow V of chest and he hadn’t bothered with his cuffs. Yes, there was no formality here.

“I had a woman in my bed, Grace,” he finally said. “Of course I was aroused.”

“A man’s—” She pointed her finger at his lap, scratched her neck. “—it’s quite a fascinating bit of anatomy. Can you control it?”

“A bit . . . of anatomy?”

She felt the heat suffuse her face. “Well, somewhat more than a bit, but you know what I mean. Can you control it?”

He rolled his shoulders as though they’d suddenly grown tense. She supposed she shouldn’t continue with this line of questioning but she wanted some answers.

He cleared his throat. “Sometimes, sometimes not. Where are we going with this? For God’s sake, hasn’t your mother spoken to you about it?”

She shook her head. “As I understand it, it’s a topic that only comes up the morning that a woman marries.”

“Ask Lady Sybil.”

“I have, but she’s very vague. Here’s my concern. If a man isn’t aroused, then he can’t make love or produce children, can he?”

He shifted his position as though he were exceedingly uncomfortable. “You have the gist of it, yes.”

“Is love enough to arouse a man?”

He shifted again, leaning forward, planting his elbows on his thighs, bringing himself nearer to her. “Little Rose, are you worried that a man won’t find you attractive? I assure you that you are in danger of having more children than you can count.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re my friend. I’m thin. There are no paintings of thin women.”

“What has that to do with anything?”

“Art reflects what one finds beautiful. Women without an abundance of curves do not find their way into art.”

“Of course they do.”

“Name one artist who portrays thin women.”

He looked at his ceiling—

“Nymphs,” she said, as though he’d gone blind. “Chubby nymphs frolicking in the gardens.”

Scowling, he looked at the fireplace, at the window. Snapped his fingers and looked at her with satisfaction. “Monet.”

“But the women are clothed.”

His jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

“In every painting, every statue, that I’ve seen of nude women, the subjects are plump, which leads me to believe that’s what men prefer. What if a man doesn’t find me enticing?”

She might have died if he’d laughed. She was certain any other gentleman would have, but ever since he’d discovered her weeping in the stables, he seemed to have an understanding of her insecurities, even though he had no knowledge of how they’d grown tenfold of late. He scooted nearer to her.


“Trust me, Grace, that is not something about which you need to worry. You are lovely beyond—”

“I’m not searching for compliments, Lovingdon. I’m quite disappointed in myself for needing reassurances, but there you are. I can be in a man’s bedchamber and not entice him in the least.”

Based on the way his gaze slowly roamed over her, she feared she might have overstepped the mark with that comment.

“Are you attempting to seduce me?” he asked in a silky voice.

“No, but I’ve always been able to talk with you as I can talk to few others. I thought if I understood men a little better, I might have more luck at securing that which I seek.”

“Men are aroused by all sorts of things, Grace. For a man who loves you, the thought of being with you will be enough.”

“Will it?”

“Of course.”

She sighed. She didn’t believe him. She’d caught sight of the courtesan in his bed. She suspected the woman’s toes were even voluptuous. “I shall embrace your optimism.”

“As well you should.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll attend tonight’s ball.”

He slowly shook his head. “I intend to take a long soak in a tub of hot water that shall last the remainder of the afternoon.”

An image of naked limbs, long and muscular, flashed through her mind. She really shouldn’t have these sorts of thoughts where he was concerned. They only served to cause her stomach to quiver.

“So how will you spend your evening?” she asked.

“I shall join Avendale for an evening of merry-making and a visit to Cremorne Gardens.” He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t go there, do you?”

“On occasion.”

“But not after the fireworks.”

Smiling mischievously, she half lowered her eyelids. “Perhaps.”

The lounging duke was replaced by one who sat up stiffly and gave her his complete attention. “You’ve not been to Cremorne during the wicked hours.”

She lifted a shoulder slightly. “Once.”

“Do you have any notion how dangerous it is for a woman alone—”

“I never said I was alone.”

His jaw dropped, although he recovered quickly enough and gave her a blistering glare. “Who was with you?”

“I can’t tell you. You wouldn’t approve.”

He settled back, but he didn’t appear nearly as relaxed as he had earlier. “Well whoever it was, you should no doubt marry him, as it’s obvious you’ve wrapped him around your little finger.”

“I never said it was a gent.” She rose, and he came to his feet. “I must be off to begin preparing for the ball. I only stopped by to thank you for what you did for Sybil. It means a great deal to me. Enjoy your adventures this evening.”

She could only hope that she would enjoy hers.

Lovingdon settled for a cold bath rather than a hot one because he was warm enough as it was. He’d had other women in his bedchamber, most with far less clothing than Grace, but he’d never felt so fevered. He was fairly certain she’d not meant to be a seductress, but when she picked up the strawberry, studied it as though it was the most interesting object in the room, and then closed her lips around it—

His body had reacted as though she’d closed her lips around him. And then when she began speaking about nude women in paintings, he’d envisioned her lounging over a bed, with sheets draped over her enticingly revealing just enough to set a man’s blood to boiling.

He dropped his head back against the rim of the copper tub and stared at the nymphs cavorting over the ceiling. Surely they weren’t all Rubenesque. When he realized he was searching for a tall, willowy one with long limbs and narrow hips, he cursed soundly, closed his eyes, and immersed himself in the frigid water.

Blast her! The girl had no sense whatsoever. Spending the afternoon in a scoundrel’s bedchamber, licking strawberry juice from the corner of her mouth, touching her tongue to that damned little freckle, talking of nudity, conjuring up images of her in repose, flesh bared—

He came up out of the water and shoved himself to his feet. He had to get these thoughts out of his mind and had to keep them out. He needed her to stop showing up at his bedchamber. He needed her to leave him in peace.

Stepping out of the tub, he snatched up a towel. “Bailey!”

His valet rushed into the bathing room. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I need evening attire for tonight’s outing.”

Bailey looked as though he’d said he intended to dispense with clothing altogether. “Evening attire, sir?”

To be honest, Lovingdon realized he shouldn’t have been surprised by the man’s reaction. He’d not donned evening attire in more than two years. “Yes, Bailey, surely it’s around here somewhere, buried in moth balls.”

“I’m afraid, Your Grace, that it might be a bit outdated.”

“I’m not striving to be named the most fashionably dressed man in London. Find it. Then have the carriage brought ’round.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Are you celebrating something this evening?”

Bailey’s ill-conceived attempt to get to the heart of the matter.

“No, Bailey, I’m determined to get a woman out of my life.” Before he did something they would both regret.