“The wild duke?” Mrs. Zephyr staggered back a step. “I-I shall not keep you, my lord. Please, give the duke my regards.” Then she whirled back down the stairs.
Far from being cowed by Mrs. Zephyr’s outburst, Olivia felt invigorated in a way she hadn’t in weeks. Society expected her to bow down before the rumors and descend the socialhierarchy. She would show them she would not bend to mere gossip. As furious as she was with the marquess for being the cause of her misfortune, accepting his daughter as her client would allow her to grow closer to him and make him pay for what he had done. Lord Lowell’s daughter would find a love match if it was the last thing she did.
Chapter 2
Thellusson Vaith, Marquess of Lowell, stretched out in his chair and held the smoke from his cigar in his mouth. He loved the rich, peppery taste of American tobacco, even though his mother’s lips pursed whenever she smelled it.
“Are you sure about this, Thel?” his brother Felix asked as he lounged his lanky frame in a leather chaise. His curly, black hair was even more unruly than usual, like a topiary that had yet to be pruned. He held a cigar in one hand and with the other reached into the front pocket of his single-breasted black frock coat to remove a box of matches, which he shook. A rattling came from inside. He pushed the box open, removed a match, and lit his cigar.
The hazy room was filled with books stacked on shelves from the floor to the ceiling. A fire roared in the hearth beneath a portrait of his parents smiling indulgently upon them. The story of that portrait was one his mother had told him many times. His father had met his future wife at a garden party, recognized her as his true love, and proposed marriage in a matter of days.
“She is the one,” Thel said, releasing the smoke. That was all he should have needed to say. His brothers knew that once he made up his mind, he rarely changed it. That was how they’d managed to live together for so long, half a dozen adults and almost as many children under one roof. Other families would have descended into quarrels after days of such cohabitation, but family counted on him to resolve any such problems.
“It’s not too late to select an appropriate husband for her,” Felix said. He ran his thumb and forefinger over his wiry mustache. “I know several eligible gentlemen in possession of valuable business assets who would be amenable to a match.”
“I am not using Constance as a bartering tool.”
“Choose another matchmaker, then,” Felix said. “There are scandals swirling around that woman.” He slid the newspaper that sat on the table between them toward Thel.
Thel slid it back. “Rumors are not fact. Do you not remember what they said about me after Marguerite died?”
The scandal rags had first accused him of causing his wife’s illness by allowing her to venture into the poor areas of the city to do her charity work, then had attributed his withdrawal from society as proof of their claims. As far as he was concerned, the newspapers, especially theLondon Evening Standard, printed more lies than truth.
Felix might have disapproved of his choice, but Lady Allen was the only matchmaker he had approached who had been willing to abide by his requirement that Constance find a husband who would complete her life as surely as his mother had completed his father’s and Marguerite had completed his own.
A familiar ache started in his chest. He fondly remembered the brief kisses he’d shared with his wife in the drawing room before receiving guests. The gentle caressing of hands while walking in the park. The soft stroke of a hand along a cheek after finishing dinner.
His only regret was that those moments had been rare because he had devoted most of his time to his own selfish interests: reading, writing, and collecting antique manuscripts. It had taken his wife’s illness and eventual death for him to realize how painful loneliness could be. To avoid ever experiencing that aching emptiness and loss of purpose again,he’d convinced his parents to come live with him and Constance part of the year. Then Felix had married and the new couple had agreed to join them year-round at the marquess’s estate—a feat which had required weeks of negotiation with each member of his family. Their youngest brother had followed, living with the family at Thel’s whenever he wasn’t abroad or in London. If everything went according to plan, Constance’s future husband would join them as well.
“My decision is final,” Thel said. “Constance deserves a chance at love.”
Felix sighed. “You are too innocent, brother. It clouds your judgment. If you would only find a courtesan…”
They had revisited this dispute so many times that Thel knew exactly what Felix would say next.
“Father expects you to remarry and produce an heir. What if you are unable to satisfy your future wife?”
It was the only argument Thel admitted held some weight. Their father had made his wishes regarding succession clear. It didn’t matter that Thel had two brothers, one of whom had already sired sons. The previous four dukes had been eldest sons of eldest sons and their father was determined not to break the tradition. At some point, Thel would become a duke, and yet at five-and-forty, he had only ever bedded one woman. He had assured his family he would remarry after Constance was wed, but he did not expect that he would ever experience what he had with Marguerite again.
He had found, and lost, his true love.
Felix pushed out of the chair and walked across to the bookshelves. “If you won’t indulge yourself physically”—he slid his finger along the leather spines—“then at least educate yourself so you know what you are missing.” He pulled out a book and set it on the table between them.
Thel knew exactly what it was, having read every book in the library. He tried to tell his brother, but the words stuck in his throat. Felix would call him a hypocrite if he knew his brother had studied books of pleasure.
“Peruse this, and if it sparks passion in you, then there are several courtesans I could recommend.” Felix set the stub of his cigar on the ashtray and sauntered out of the room.
As the door thumped shut, Thel slid his hand over the soft, leather cover of the book, fingering the letters tooled into the fabric. He didn’t need to open it to have images flow into his mind, one after another. Each page held a detailed illustration of a nude man and woman—or sometimes multiple men and women—contorted together in increasingly complicated positions. He had given a copy to Marguerite as a birthday gift, but she had fallen ill before they’d had a chance to try any of the techniques.
He stood and returned the book to its place on the shelf, then walked along the shelves until he found a thinner book, the first volume in a set of three, its spine lovingly worn. He cradled it against his chest. Felix would laugh uproariously if he learned about Thel’s favorite reading material. As close as they were, his younger brothers modeled themselves around his stern but loving father.
Thel, on the other hand, was more like their mother. He remembered sitting in her lap as a young boy, listening to her read. Sometimes his father would join them, and they would curl up on the bed and enjoy each other’s company.
That was a family. An environment of love, where any word spoken in anger was immediately chased away by an apology. His brothers could pursue loveless futures for their children if they desired, but he would not let them force Constance down the same path.
He took a final draw of his cigar, then set it on the ashtray. He didn’t bother closing the flume to the furnace, where the fire crackled and popped in the hearth. The servants would take care of it, in addition to cleaning the ash and restocking the pile of wood and matches.
He left the room and entered a long hallway. Sunlight shone through the foggy, glass windows and formed dots of light on the walls. When he reached his daughter’s room, he knocked softly. A short, bespectacled woman with silver-blonde hair tied in a tight bun opened the door. Constance’s governess and now lady’s maid, Mrs. Quill, who had once been his mother’s favorite modiste. When Mrs. Quill’s hands had become knobby with time spent hunched over fabric, his mother had offered the woman a position in their household.
