Not Quite A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 6) (20 page)

And then, of course, she wrote daily to pen the novels so many, including himself, adored.

He was immensely proud of her. . . And he missed her.

When they did attend an event together, they spent very little time in each other’s company. Perhaps a few dances and that was all.

They’d arrive home just as dawn was tinging the sky.

At least, there were a few hours that they could spend in each other’s arms. Every night. That was something he reveled in.

But beyond that? He had a deepening suspicion that if he wished to speak with his wife for longer than five minutes, he’d need to schedule an appointment with her companion, Mrs. Peters, a funny but remarkable woman.

He was delighted with Patience’s success. Of course, he was.

His wife was a brilliant talent and she’d absolutely blossomed under the recognition of that talent.

For far too long, she’d had to keep herself hidden, but he hadn’t envisioned that they would be together so little. Oh, she’d made him promise that nothing would change for him, that he would go on as he had. . . He’d hated that promise because, quite frankly, deep down he wanted things to change.

But it seemed that Patience wasn’t interested in him settling down. The irony was almost too much to bear.

Just this evening she had patted his hand, told him she was off to a ladies’ aid dinner and that she wouldn’t be back until quite late. He should go have a marvelous time with his friends.

As she’d swished out of the foyer and down to the carriage, he’d stared.

Wasn’t it the wife who, in general, waited at home for her ever absent husband?

He’d always been worried that a wife might cling to him. Aside from their time in bed, Patience didn’t cling. She was the antithesis of cling. It left him feeling oddly at unease.

Most men would have adored it.

He did not. In fact, he felt loneliness. Loneliness was dangerous for it led to sitting on his own, allowing his mind to wander into dark territory. Something he didn’t allow himself to do but he had no wish to go out to the dens of sin as he had done before he married. So, he was struggling with an ever growing tide within him. A tide of memories he’d managed to keep at bay with wine, women, and song.

So tonight, as he’d sat staring into the growing darkness, he’d shaken himself, determined not to say at home. After all, how many husbands could go gallivanting with their wives not even noticing? Not many. He’d then told himself repeatedly (and rather hollowly) what a lucky fellow he was, grabbed his great coat, and headed out to The Rapier Club to see if he could find someone to spar with.

In the past, one of the dukes who had formed their club at his establishment had almost always been in residence. But not tonight. They were all out with their wives.

He blew out a sigh, hefted his rapier and began to practice a pattern. Alone.

It was absurd. He’d come for company, found none, and was again, desperately trying to forget as sorrow began to gnaw at him.

Just as he’d made his way down the dueling strip, Tony, the Duke of Aston’s illegitimate, young son, and the infamous American, Mr. Duke, strolled in.

Mr. Duke was not someone he was overly familiar with. He’d heard of him. For instance, the American was a wealthy ship’s captain. And in English society he had an exceptionally unfortunate last name.

What the devil Tony was doing bringing him to the exclusive club, Charles didn’t know.

“Young’un,” Charles called to Tony with relief. Now, he’d find distraction from the growing pain within his heart. He’d be able to lock away the threatening memories which always pulled him into shadow.

Tony who was a younger version of his strapping father smiled. “Charles! Are you in need of a partner?”

“Are you offering?” Tony was excellent with a blade but the boy still wasn’t quite up to Charles’ standards.

Mr. Duke gave a nod. “No, sir. The boy was thinking of me.”

Charles eyed the big man.

Mr. Duke’s blonde hair shone like snow in the golden light of evening. It was long and tied back in a queue. His blue eyes were as hard as diamonds and his broad shoulders looked a trifle awkward in the cut of his coat.

Americans.

Charles arched a brow. “The only person referred to as ‘Sir’ on this isle, Mr. . .
Duke
. . . Is the Prince of Wales.”

“Thank you for the information, Lord Charles. I’ll endeavor not to make such a mistake again.”

“Quite alright. Exceptions must be made. You are, after all, a colonial.”

It was a low blow, Charles knew, but he was in a foul mood. The Americans had won their independence quite fairly and, at present, had set up a rather admirable form of government. One hoped it would last but one could never tell. Perhaps the lot of them would be part of Rule Britannia again before the century was over. Or perhaps not.

“I am, indeed, a colonial, Lord Charles,” Mr. Duke supplied without any seeming irritation. ”My people colonized Massachusetts not long after Cromwell chopped off a king’s head. However, we prefer the United States now.”

Charles bowed. “It is an admirable endeavor, your uniting of states. I rather like your Declaration of Independence. Created equal and all that. Very good stuff.”

Mr. Duke didn’t even crack a smile. “Glad you approve.”

“Are you, indeed?” Charles had the distinct feeling that Mr. Duke couldn’t give a tinker’s damn what he thought.

Mr. Duke’s expression was humoring. In fact, it was an expression that suggested he was fairly certain Charles was inbred.

Which he wasn’t thank God.

“So, you’ve come for a fight?” Charles asked, hoping to God the fellow had some skill.

“Yes.”

“Loquacious fellow, aren’t you?”

Tony laughed. “That’s what I said to him too a few months ago, but don’t let him fool you, Charles. He’s just taking your measure.”

“You mustn’t give me away, Tony,” Mr. Duke said, once again unreadable.

“We’ll see what a big lad like you can do with a rapier,” Charles replied, suddenly enjoying the idea of unsettling the seemingly unflappable American.

Mr. Duke bowed. Without waiting, he walked to the rows of blades resting against the wall, tested two, then picked a third. He shrugged off his coat and threw it to Tony.

Tony caught it, folded it, then took a seat beside the brandy tray. “Charles, no need to draw blood on the first go. He’s my friend.”

“Thanks for the advice, young ‘un, but I doubt Mr. Duke would like me to treat him like a puppy.”

Mr. Duke gave a nod. “I’d make a rather odd puppy.”

“As big as you?” Charles tsked. “A St. Bernard surely.”

Mr. Duke arched a blonde brow as coolly as an Englishman. “Are you a Dane then, Lord Charles?”

He laughed. At least the American wasn’t sensitive.

Instead of replying, Charles took his stance.

Mr. Duke did the same.

After a long moment of studying how easily Mr. Duke rested, Charles drove forward. He wanted to see exactly how the other man reacted under an intense attack.

Mr. Duke remained absolutely still until the very last minute then swept to the side in a graceful pivot, easily deflecting Charles’ blade.

Charles staggered for a moment and then a slow grin pulled at his lips. Oh, this was going to be bloody wonderful.

“Mr. Duke, I do believe you are exactly what I needed this night,” Charles drawled.

The American balanced magnificently. “That’s a damned odd thing to say, Lord Charles.”

“Get used to it, old boy. Get used to it.” With that, he adjusted his stance, then beckoned to Mr. Duke.

Mr. Duke took up the challenge, moving with the grace of a dancer as he crossed the dueling strip.

Their blades clashed in a flash of lightning and music.

When Charles thrust, Mr. Duke parried with remarkable ease.

If he had to guess, if an unexpected person was witnessing the bout, they’d assume that this was a performance so smooth was their interchange.

He hadn’t dueled with anyone so skilled. Ever. Not even his brothers or the Duke of Aston could match Mr. Duke as they spun and advanced.

But just as Mr. Duke lunged, he slightly overstepped and Charles allowed the man’s momentum to bring him too far forward and to find out just how much control Charles had with a blade. With one quick sweep, he leveled his rapier at the other man’s throat.

Mr. Duke managed to hold absolutely still, caught as if in ice from the movement.

His gaze drifted to the point of the rapier just at his Adam’s apple. “I do believe you’ve drawn blood.”

A slow grin pulled at Charles’ lips.

He had drawn the slight streak of blood. He’d intended to. Just a touch. Nothing sinister. But when a man like Duke walked into his club, it was important to show him the lay of the land.

Charles carefully withdrew and bowed. “Don’t bleed on the carpet.”

Still unflappable, Mr. Duke replied, “I’m more concerned about my shirt.”

“My man is very good at getting blood stains out,” Charles offered.

“I just throw mine away,” Tony said.

Charles rolled his eyes. “That is because you’re the son of a duke.”

“No,” Tony said merrily, “it’s because I get into fisticuffs and if you must know, my nose bleeds like a gusher.”

Finally, Mr. Duke laughed. “It’s true. I’ve seen it. Remarkable thing given the boy can take on five men at once, streaming blood.”

“Works to my advantage, don’t you know?” Tony said, waggling his brows. “My opponents all slip in the stuff.”

Charles shook his head and headed for the brandy tray. He poured himself and Mr. Duke a drink. “And what are you fine fellows up to this evening?”

Tony took a casual drink. “We thought we might go to Lady Fandrington’s party.”

Charles sighed. “My wife’s at that party.”

Tony’s brows lifted innocently. “Is she?”

“Puppy, you’re as obvious as snow,” Charles said, palming his snifter.

Tony grinned. “Honesty is one of my best virtues.”

“Didn’t know you had any,” Charles returned.

Mr. Duke smiled slightly. “He has a few.”

Charles eyed the two. He still wasn’t entirely sure what Mr. Duke was doing here. The man was an outsider, but if Tony liked him, that was good enough.

“Have you been invited to Lady Fandrington’s party?” Charles asked before he took a drink.

“No. But that’s never stopped me before.”

Tony was a charming crusher. The
ton
adored him despite his slightly awkward birth. No one talked about his murky origins. He was simply accepted as a beautiful and exceptionally wealthy youth.

As such, he’d garnered a certain celebrity. His father being one of the most powerful and wealthy men in the country certainly helped. If Tony crashed a party, it was considered a massive success. However, Lady Fandrington’s parties were always successful. Always.

Hers were the sort that people were desperate to be invited.

His mother and his wife had both received invitations. He’d obviously been part of that but Patience had shown so little interest in him at such events he’d begun to find them demoralizing.

He frowned. Good God. Did his wife think him boring?

It never had occurred to him that she might find his conversation wanting. He’d always considered himself a superior conversationalist.

Suddenly, he had the distinct wish to show his wife that he was more interesting and certainly worth more time than any of the idiots she was entertaining at such gatherings.

“Shall we all go the party?” Charles suddenly asked.

“Do you wish to?” Tony replied, eyeing him carefully. “You avoided such events like the plague in the past.”

“In the past, he wasn’t married,” Mr. Duke said simply.

The accurate comment had Charles eyeing Mr. Duke with new eyes. It appeared that the fellow wasn’t some idiot backwater fellow.

“Too true,” Charles agreed. “One must attend to one’s wife.”

“Lest someone else does it for you.”

“Mr. Duke,” Charles said tightly, “while your comments are apt, you’re about to have your teeth knocked in.”

A sudden, devil may care grin, parted Duke’s lips as if daring Charles to try. And for a moment, Charles was tempted to take him up on the challenge but, for once, he’d take the high road and abstain.

They had a party to attend, after all.

Chapter 21

Parties were getting to be the devil.

Patience held her champagne glass lightly between two fingers, eyed her mother-in-law frolicking gaily to the steps of a sprightly yet entwining dance, and sighed.

All those weeks ago, she’d agreed to let Hyacinth take her in hand and help her find herself, so to speak. As of this moment, she had less clarity about herself than she had in her whole life.

The only thing that had made the weeks palatable had been her hours with Charles, her writing, and her work with the Duchess of Roth in that order.

She’d danced almost every dance, drank several glasses of champagne, been adored, admired in turn (though nothing untoward), and had attempted to be so merry that there was no evidence of her knowledge that just outside, the world was burning.

She’d been to many
ton
events, but since becoming a companion of Hyacinth’s she’d achieved a new level of parties and gatherings where everything was gilded in gold, wine flowed, and no one seemed to care that blood was spilling on the fields of Europe and countries were falling to Napoleon like sheaves of wheat.

Despite the fact that there were lords and second sons in beautiful military dress everywhere she looked, no one discussed the war. No one discussed its effects. And no one ever discussed the poverty just outside the walls.

Except for The Duchesses. She loved their company. Tonight, they were all here, but they didn’t often attend the same gatherings as Hyacinth.

Those ladies loved a good time. . . But up to a point. For instance, as far as Patience could tell, the Duchess of Blackburn bathed in champagne. All The Duchesses loved a good dance but, when it came down to it, they were all interested in the workings of the world.

The set that Hyacinth belonged to? They didn’t give a whit, which was tragic considering how important most of them were.