The Love List (3 page)

He shook his head to unseat the notion, pulled his wandering thoughts back from following disheveled locks of inky hair along the alabaster column of her neck.  He was here on a mission.  Marstoke made a formidable opponent and he’d already lost the element of surprise.

And now Marstoke had recovered.  “Aldmere?”  He pulled his waistcoat straight and moved toward them.  “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“No!”  The girl heard the step and whirled around before he could answer.  “Stay back.”  She retreated, backing away while eyeing them both a little wildly.  Her hand clutched her chest, riding along with the rise and fall of her heaving bosom.  Beneath her fingers the beading and embroidery at her décolletage sparkled—and drew attention to the ragged tear in the fabric. 

Aldmere’s hands tightened into fists.  Long dormant protective instincts were stretching, raising curious tendrils in his chest.  Ruthlessly he knocked them back down.  No one needed the trouble that came with those damned things—least of all this appealing little woman.

“Get out, Aldmere,” the marquess ordered.  “Whatever business we have can wait.  As you can see, I’ve something to settle with my affianced bride.”

Something dark settled over him.  Damn it, Marstoke was going to make him interfere.  He was going to break his most solemn vow not once, but twice in one evening.

He met the girl’s dark eyes again, drank in the smooth, pure cream of her skin—and thought she might be worth it.

“Come now, Marstoke,” he said wearily.  “Let her go.”  This wasn’t the way he wished to enter these negotiations.  “We’ve more important matters to discuss.”  The marquess was a crafty bastard and Aldmere was putting himself at a disadvantage.  For the sake of this girl—and her perfectly kissable mouth.

She didn’t appreciate it.  Her creamy skin washed pink, then pale again.  “More important matters?”  A diminutive pillar of indignation, she drew herself straight.  “You are no better than he.” 

Aldmere had no chance to respond.  She raised her free hand and pointed an accusatory finger at her betrothed.  “As for you, you are a mockery of a gentleman.  A mad, arrogant monster.”

She shuddered and Marstoke took another step forward, an unholy eagerness lurking in the motion. 

She stabbed the finger at him again.  “No!  A game, you call this?”  She grimaced.  “Well, if it were, my lord, then I would tell you that you have shown your hand too early.  It is no game to me, but my
life.
”  She swallowed violently, and looked briefly away—but recovered quickly to pierce him with a gaze full of scorn.  “If you believe that I shall spend another moment of it in your company, then you are gravely mistaken.”

Marstoke grinned.  “Don’t speak further, my dear.”  He tossed a glance at Aldmere.  “Although the duke is a gentleman and not likely to throw your words back at you, I would not have you regret them on our wedding day.”

Aldmere thought that Marstoke had greatly underestimated his bride-to-be.  But then, so had he.  No soft, shrinking violet, the girl did not cower behind him or wait for him to enter the fray on her behalf.  Her oddly colored eyes flashed and she drew herself up impossibly straighter.  “You may consider our betrothal to be at an end, sir.  I expect that you will hear from my father and his solicitors in the morning.”

The marquess pulled back a little, but the move only put Aldmere in mind of a snake, preparing to strike.  “The only thing I regret is that I won’t be there to see your face when you realize your mistake.”

The girl was shaking.  She looked so fragile, yet she didn’t budge.  “Go to the devil,” she said succinctly.

Marstoke stepped toward her.  So did Aldmere. 

The marquess stilled.  He stared unblinking at him for several long seconds before he suddenly threw an arm out in dismissal, as if it was what he had wished all along.  “Go, then,” he said to the girl.  “We’ll take this up later.”

Without another glance for either of them, she tossed her head and swept from the room.

Aldmere struggled to return his attention to Marstoke. 

The marquess turned to him as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.  Nodding casually, he raised a brow.  “You have the advantage over me, your Grace.”  His tone made an insult of the honorific.  “I wasn’t aware of any dealings between us.”

It was easier to think with the girl gone from the room.  Easier to gather his thoughts and prepare for the battle of wills on which he was about to embark.  “It’s your dealings with my brother that concern me, Marstoke.”

Another small table flanked the globe, covered in liquor and crystal.  The marquess strolled casually over and lifted a decanter high, brow raised in question.

He declined.

“Suit yourself.”   Marstoke poured a drink and regarded him over the rim of the glass.  “You surprise me, Aldmere.  Have you still not learned that it is never a good idea for an older brother to solve the younger’s problems for him?  It creates bad blood, leaving the younger unmanned and the older overburdened.”

“You may keep your unsolicited advice to yourself,” he growled.  “I know my brother.  I can tell when he’s in a scrape—and by the look of him, whatever it is you’ve got him mixed up in is a damned sight more serious.”  He pierced the man with his stare.  “I want to know what’s going on.”

Marstoke was good—beyond skilled at hiding his emotions.  But Aldmere had learned such lessons in hard school.  He only noted the infinitesimal relaxation of the marquess’s shoulders because he was watching so closely for it.  “I cannot disclose another gentleman’s business.  If you want to know you must ask him yourself.”

“I have asked him—and only succeeded in making him look more like death warmed over.  He will say only that he has undertaken a job for you.  I want to know why.”  He paused a beat.  “I suspect it has to do with that kidnapped Russian chit and I want to know how he—and you—are involved.”

Even the air between them had gone still and careful.  “I should have thought you’d know better than to air such ugly speculation out in the open, your Grace.”  Marstoke’s face hardened.  “Listen, I will tell you this much.  Your brother is in my debt.”

“I’ll pay the debt, damn it.”

“Impossible.”  Marstoke flicked him a half-shuttered glance.  “And there are other men involved.  Powerful men, who do not take kindly to interference.  Your brother came close to getting himself into the sort of trouble that neither I nor you could have extracted him from.”  He tossed back the rest of his drink.  “Not that Lord Truitt is without resources.  I believe he has
friends
he might have applied to for help.  Friends higher placed than even his brother, the duke.”

The marquess paused a moment, as if waiting for a confirmation.  Aldmere knew he referred to Tru’s friendship with the Prince of Wales, but Tru was his responsibility, not the Regent’s.  He held silent until Marstoke shrugged and continued.

“Fortunately, I came up with a way for Lord Truitt to make reparations on his own.  It’s a project that will keep him busy for a couple of months.  Just enough time for him to contemplate his folly.  And important enough to convince others that his service will cancel his debt.”

“What service?”  He did not allow a muscle to twitch, though he was sorely tempted to shake the smug bastard.  “Damn it, I want to know what mess you’ve mixed my brother into.”

The marquess’s mouth had drawn tight.  “Relax, your Grace.  It’s just a bit of work with his pen,” he said lightly.  “I understand Lord Truitt is nearly as renowned for the cleverness of his quill as you were for your oration, once upon a time.”

Aldmere narrowed his eyes.  “I don’t like you, Marstoke.  And I don’t want my brother spending that much time with you and your ilk.  Cut him loose.”

“I don’t take orders, your Grace, from anyone.”  The marquess spoke easily as he dropped into a chair, but there was steel in his tone.  “And if you object to my associates, you are going to like this little service even less.  Lord Truitt’s project will have him spending time with the city’s lowest orders, but when it is complete, he will have paid his debt.”  The corners of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile.  “But I admit, your arrogance does tempt me.  Do you fear that I will corrupt your young brother?  I certainly could, should I so choose.  And in far less time than it will take him to finish his work.”

Aldmere settled into the chair across from him.  “But you won’t.”

“I hadn’t planned to.  And yet I find that the notion has developed a sudden appeal.  It would be no less than you deserve.  Perhaps it might even teach you not to interfere in matters not your own.”  Triumph oozed from the man’s every pore.  “Admit it, Aldmere.  You are at the disadvantage—and have been since the moment you entered the room.”

There it was.  The man’s first, vital mistake.  Aldmere grinned.  “An interesting choice of words, Marstoke.  Rather, I would say that I gained an even footing when I entered.  Or have you forgotten what I interrupted?”

“Pah.  A lover’s spat, merely.”

Aldmere allowed a frown of concern to crease his brow.  “An assault on your affianced bride.  At least, I might be tempted to describe it thusly, when I speak to the girl’s father.”

“Wilmott is mine.”  Not a trace of worry showed in the man’s visage.

“Hmm.  And she—such a soft and pretty thing.  I can see why you chose her.  All lush curves and beguiling innocence.  Young, inexperienced, but full of fire.”  He sighed.  “I’d lay odds her father dotes on her.  A political man, isn’t he?  And no doubt enamored of the power and importance of the man his daughter has attracted.  What could be better than a marquess as a son-in-law?”

Aldmere leaned forward in his chair.  It wasn’t triumph that he allowed Marstoke to see, but determination.  “Only one thing, perhaps.”  He let the silence stretch out, smooth as water in a barrel.  Then he dropped two words into it.  “A duke.”

Plunk, plunk
.   Like stones they hit the surface and spread ripples of threat through the room. 

Silence reigned while they each absorbed implications and calculated risks.

“Fine, then,” Marstoke said evenly.  “I will leave him alone.”

And he knew he had won.  “As for the task you’ve set my brother, I’ll allow it for now.  But if he gets so much as a callus on his finger, I’ll be back to speak with you.  Do we understand each other?”

Another nod.  But then Marstoke narrowed his gaze.  “I concede you the battle, Aldmere, but remind you to have a care for the war.”  He lifted a shoulder.  “You have a great deal of weight to throw around, do you not?  In fact, who could rank heavier or higher?  Not many.  The Royal Dukes—that bunch of blue-blooded riff raff?  The Regent himself, perhaps.”  He lifted his chin.  “But the battleground is very important when you are fighting a war, is it not?  Don’t forget to pay attention to the ground beneath your feet, Aldmere, lest it fall away while you are not looking.”

Aldmere stood.  “No worries, Marstoke,” he replied casually.  “I’ve found the footing to be steady enough thus far.”  And upon very high, lonely ground, too, though it was not a thought he would ever voice out loud.  He turned then, and strode away.  Not in a hurry.  Just finished.  He took the time to deliberately close the door behind him. 

Still just outside, he paused, waiting for sounds of pursuit or reaction.  But Marstoke must be nearly as contained as he.  All continued quiet.

He let go of the doorknob.  Damn it all.  He still didn’t know just what Tru had stumbled into, but at least Marstoke would think twice before leading his brother into trouble.    He sighed.  He would have to talk to Tru again, soon.

Yet it wasn’t his brother, but the image of that girl which filled his mind and stole his focus as he turned back toward the light and noise of the ball.  The words he’d spoken to Marstoke had been true.  The chit was appealing.  She was beautiful, but not in a conventional sense.  She was—

Lurking in the shadows of the corridor. 

He jerked to a halt and stared, allowing his eyes to adjust to the scant light.  He was glad for the excuse.  One had to take a moment to look at her, to take her all in, before the odd combination of ivory skin, dark hair and those captivating green eyes resolved itself into a dainty, pixie-like charm.  She looked wide-eyed and fragile, like she’d been born of a soap bubble.  Perhaps Lady Dalton had added a little something extra to her champagne punch or perhaps something unearthly did hang in the air tonight, but Aldmere knew he would not be shocked if this girl suddenly sprouted fairy wings and darted away.

“I suppose you are waiting for me to express my undying gratitude.”  She stood stiff and proud, but her knuckles were white where they clutched her torn bodice and he suspected that the wall behind her was largely responsible for her upright stance.

He kept his hands deliberately loose at his sides.  “From your tone I suspect it would be rather a long wait.”

Now her chin lifted.  “I didn’t ask for your help.”

But he’d given it.  He’d stepped in, against his better judgment and as far as she’d allowed.  Because that’s what a gentleman did.  And he was not just any gentleman.  He was the Duke of Aldmere—and the duties, responsibilities and code of conduct expected of him were both great and irrevocably ingrained.

Yet she hadn’t needed him, had she?  She’d extricated herself from the situation, throwing a few pointed barbs at Marstoke on her way, and showing that she possessed grit and backbone and fire.  Beyond the initial surprise of his arrival, she hadn’t needed him at all.

How novel.  Such independence piqued his interest even more than her delicate beauty.

“But you needed mine, didn’t you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.  “How fortunate that the ruin of my life could become so useful to you.”

So she’d heard.  And she had a right to be indignant.  He’d used her misfortune to further his own ends, treating her nearly as callously as Marstoke. 

He gave a little bow to acknowledge the truth of her accusation.  “Perhaps I should be the one to apologize, then.”

She gave a bitter laugh.  “There are a hundred girls in this house who would love to have a duke and a marquess vying over her hand.  How disappointed they would be to know that the reality is far nastier than the dream.”