Aideen breathed an ardent sigh at the grim sight, producing another wave of biliousness in Jack’s gizzards.
“Last week,” she said wistfully, “he gifted me a scarlet fan with deadly retractable blades.”
“How…” Well, what could one say? “…endearing.”
“I know. It even has a complementary garrotte hidden within the black ribbon.”
The duke chose that moment to cast a heated look at his duchess, roasting her apple-green gown to pie, but she returned her own scorching gaze and Jack considered departing for cooler climes.
He edged away, but with a flutter of hand, the duchess twisted to pat his velvet lapel in a hideous sisterly manner. “Now, how about you? Anyrespectablemisses to tell me of?” She tapped her lip. “Your perfect woman would be–”
“Willing, wanton, with huge–”
“I do accept,” the duchess retorted low, “that a milksop miss would bore you, to be sure, but equally a lady of my temperament would irritate you. I shall make a list of potential marchionesses.”
Gads, not even if two Sundays came together. “No need to worry, Aideen. I don’t believe I’ve the capacity for love. My heart never beats faster or louder, just swings along like a pendulum.”
A commotion down the street stole the duchess’s attention, protests from the half-mile crush of carriages held up by this grand society event.
Needless to say, no one took any notice, this being the haughty ton and all. Gents in their finery studiously ignored the rioting coachmen and chortled loudly to cover the din.Lady Cross flapped her fingers, presenting them her rear – enough to quieten any red-blooded man.
“But you’re a rake.” The duchess frowned. “Surely one woman has…affected you?”
Jack thought back over the years. He enjoyed female company immensely – rather too immensely, some might say – and always sought to impart pleasure wherever he went, but more?
It simply never happened. Indeed, it never would.
Love did not exist for men of the Winterbourne lineage, their hearts as dead as the season their noble title evoked.
Blinking to oust a pall, he smiled as laughter broke from a crowd surrounding today’s groom, Lord Rainham, who with a little assistance from yours truly had found his perfect match in the enchanting, clever Lily.
Surveying the guests that chatted and congratulated, he all of a sudden felt the odd man out, a little galling for the most affable rogue of London town – the Countess Lieven’s description, not his.
“I’ll make myself scarce soon,” he mumbled, feeling quite out of sorts. “I might call upon Millie.”
“Who?”
Damn, had he said that aloud?
“His little opera dancer, I believe, my ambrosial turtle dove,” drawled a clippedsotto voce. The Duke of Rakecombe circled, malevolent grin gracing his stern features as he slipped an arm around his wife.
“Well,” groused Jack, producing his hip flask for a celebratory tot, “if all you fellows are going to abandon me for connubial bliss, I’ll have to findsomethingto do with myself.”
“I have a certain matter you could attend to,” declared Lord Rainham, abruptly appearing at his shoulder. “And it would allow that Contessa fuss to die down a tad.”
Jack swatted his superior’s back in hearty congratulation, counting himself lucky to be considered a friend of such a remarkable fellow. Not only had this principal spy coordinator an intellect the size of Prussia but he was unwaveringly loyal to his men…and his swordplay wasn’t half bad either.
“Come by my town house at nine tomorrow, Winterbourne.” The groom cast a lingering glance at his pretty bride. “No, make that eleven sharp, as we are departing at twelve. I am surprising Lily with a visit to Manchester and the soap factory she invested in.”
“How…romantic,” Jack managed.
Lud, no wonder these fellows had needed his amorous guidance.
∞∞∞
Jack clicked the gold case of his fob watch closed and lolled back in Rainham’s austere study.
Alone.
