Jasper arched a brow. “Do you not have a Tolliver for a wife, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” he said dryly, “but a wife may be managed in quite a different fashion.”
Jasper barked a laugh before he could help himself.
The duke’s answering smile was brief and grim before it faded into a look of hard reflection. “Marchmont,” he said darkly, his gaze fixed on the gravel as though picturing the man’s face there. “The bastard ought to be shot. Or horsewhipped. Perhaps both.”
“I fear you will not mend this matter by summoning magistrates or threatening duels,” Jasper said, then, after a beat, added under his breath, “though I would pay handsomely to see either.”
“And what would you have us do, Deverell? Allow the scoundrel to wander about unscathed, taunting Charlotte, and setting every idle tongue to wagging?”
“By no means,” Jasper replied carefully, wondering even as he spoke whether he was treading on very dangerous ground indeed. “But neither would I have usdecidefor her. It seems every gentleman alive has assumed the part of guardian; is it not time we trusted Miss Tolliver to be her own arbiter?”
For a moment, Morleigh regarded him with that sharp, assessing look that had surely terrified many a junior officer. Then, to Jasper’s astonishment and secret relief, he inclined his head in reluctant accord.
“A fair point,” the duke admitted, in a voice that had lost some of its earlier hardness. “Though I confess I foresee great difficulty in restraining myself from putting a bullet into that man’s shoulder during the hunt.”
“Perhaps his horse shall throw him,” Jasper suggested with a dry smile. “It would save both gunpowder and a great deal of scandal.”
“If only Providence were so obliging,” said the duke. “Still—your counsel has merit. I shall not thrust the law upon Charlotte, nor parade her as a spectacle of pity. She must be allowed to choose how she will answer this affront, as any man might.”
Jasper nodded, and then hesitated, for there was another, less reputable matter he could not, in conscience, leave unspoken. “There is… the business of Miss Tolliver’s supposed engagement to me.”
Morleigh’s brows rose. “Supposed? Speak plainly, Deverell.”
He sighed heavily, kicking a piece of gravel at his foot. “Last night, I knelt; I begged; I made a fool of myself, and still, she refused.In my infinite wisdom, I chose to remind Miss Tolliver of a wager she lost. I claimed my forfeit as her hand in marriage.”
He half-expected the duke to rise in anger. Instead, he simply sighed. “Good God, Deverell. Was there no other form of idiocy available to you that day?”
“None that promised such spectacular consequences. I am no better than Marchmont. I am a hypocrite, and, God forgive me, a tyrant in my own right. The motive changes little; I have wronged her all the same.”
Morleigh regarded him a moment, then gave a short, reluctant huff. “It is a rare day when I hear a gentleman accuse himself with such self-loathing.”
“Self-knowledge,” Jasper replied bleakly, “is a punishment all its own.”
“Well, then. You know what you must do.”
“No. I have no bloody clue what I should do.”
The duke sighed, looking perilously close to rolling his eyes.
Chapter 36
Lottie had no intention of giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She was furious—not the loud, dramatic sort that comes with shouting or tears, but the cold, precise kind that makes a woman suddenly aware of how very many things in the world could be improved with a pistol. And as for Jasper—well, she could not yet decide what she felt about Jasper. The entire business of his so-called engagement to her required more thought than she cared to spare it before breakfast. As for Marchmont, she would think of him later too. For now, she would ride.
Movement was the only thing that kept her from breaking apart. When the world grew too small to breathe in, she found a horse and made it larger again. She needed the cold air in her lungs, the stretch and pull of muscle, the glorious certainty of speed.
Lottie stood beside her mare and tightened her gloves, and told herself that she would not look at Marchmont. Naturally, she looked directly at Marchmont.
It was obscene, the ease with which wicked men carried on. He was speaking near the mounting-block to a group of men, one boot propped upon a stone, his crop tucked beneath his arm. He was a cowardly villain, and she hated him more than she could rightly express. He looked up, as though sensing her gaze, and smiled directly at her. What game was the hateful man playing? When would he reveal his cards?
She turned away from him to her mare. “Easy, my love,” she murmured, stroking the sleek neck beneath her palm.
Behind her, she heard a familiar clearing of the throat, but she did not turn. “If you have come to ask whether I am well, Mr Deverell, I shall be obliged to disappoint you with a lie.”
Jasper drew up beside her, hat in hand. “Then I shall ask something safer. Is your horse well? May I inquire after her nerves instead, or would even that be considered intolerable interference?”
Lottie glanced at him sidelong. “I am not much in the mood for banter, Jasper. Let us get this hunt over with, and then we shall discuss what, precisely, is to be done about Marchmont.”
