Page 54 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

It had, by all measures, been a torturous afternoon. But he had no expectation that the route to securing his wife’s heart would be an easy one. By the time they’d returned to Brighton, with barely an hour to spare before dinner, he’d improved his understanding of the Brent family’s situation and begun to formulate a plan.

Caro’s brother, despite actually choosing to style himself “Lord Brash,” was less an imbecile than Maxim had always assumed. In fact, he rather thought the young man’s misbehavior might better be attributed to boredom. But gambling had turned into more than an amusement. Now, as his twenty-first year approached, and with it control over previously untouchable funds, he must be broken of the habit, before he lost more than money.

At first, Maxim had thought Laughton oblivious to the problem, blinded by misplaced paternal pride. But the more Brent-Ashby had rattled, the more Maxim had understood: Laughton wanted his son and heir indebted, prey to self-doubt, weak. Whether he hoped to go on controlling the young man’s inheritance, or simply controlling the young man, was less clear.

He had similar confirmation of the root of the family’s problem in a discreet report from the footman, Geoffrey, who said that the elder ladies had returned in high spirits, looking much improved by their hour in the sunshine and fresh air. And, as Maxim had retired to his own chamber, he’d heard Caro and her sister laughing—no, giggling—together. In each incident, he saw the possibility that away from Laughton himself, the members of the Brent family might be less miserable, and therefore not entirely worthless.

Now came the matter of determining whether they could be brought up to snuff.

In the dining room yet another large bow window overlooked the channel, this one presently covered by draperies to shield occupants from the curious gazes of passersby. The room’s furnishings were elegant but not ostentatious and, as everywhere else in the house, reflected Caro’s delicate tastes. Maxim hoped the spindly chairs would hold him. As he approached the groaning table, he marveled once again at Mrs. Horn’s ability to marshal her staff and serve an elaborate meal on very little notice, particularly given what must be a lean household budget.

Laughton noticed too. “Do you recall once telling me, Hartwell,” he asked, a triumphant laugh in his voice as he scanned the repast, “that for all you cared, I might starve? Yet here I am.”

Maxim walked slowly to his seat, feeling both the servants’ and his guests’ eyes upon him. If someone had chosen that moment to drop a fork, it would have been audible in spite of the plush carpet. Remove the china and silver from Lord Laughton’s place, he wanted to growl to the footman.

But this morning’s conversation with Caro had reminded him of those childhood pains he had struggled all his life to dull and bury, among them the vivid and vicious pangs of hunger.

“Deprivation, starvation—those were my grandfather’s methods, Laughton. Intended to keep me weak and under his control.” He paused as he passed behind the other man, who was a full head shorter, at least. “I shall leave you to draw your own conclusions as to how well they worked.”

He wouldn’t stoop to his grandfather’s tactics, wouldn’t let himself be dragged down into that darkness again—not today, not when he’d finally been given a glimpse of the light.

The thought itself must have summoned Caro, who appeared in the doorway just as he stepped to the head of the table at the opposite end of the room. Beneath the candlelight, the silk of her gown rippled like molten metal, its hues reflected in the gold of her eyes and in the deep russet brown of her hair. He’d waited six years to see her attired in something truly becoming, something befitting her beauty and her station.

And right now, his devilish mind was busily picturing how she would look out of it.

Somewhere among the Grant family treasures would be gems to do that gown justice: gleaming, polished topazes to drip from her throat and disappear into her décolletage. But for now, he was more than satisfied with the bare expanse of skin, the curve of her bosom, and just the hint of a flush.

“How lovely you look, my dear,” Lady Laughton murmured, and even Brent-Ashby made a gruff noise of approval in the back of his throat.

Before Maxim could begin to stump his way toward her, the footman had pulled out her chair and helped her to sit down. Once seated, she glanced up from beneath her lashes at Maxim, as if apprehensive of his reaction.

He was glowering at her. If he hadn’t been able to tell by the tautness of his own jaw, he would have known by the look of alarm in her eye. His expression felt as if it were carved of increasingly heavy stones: the afternoon’s annoyances, that sudden flare of lust, and the thunderous realization of just how great a fool he’d been.

He’d walked away from this woman. Away from her conversation and companionship. Away from their shared passion.

Away from love.

Snatching up his goblet, he raised it in a salute so abrupt, the wine threatened to overspill the brim. “To the Duchess of Hartwell,” he managed to grind out and, without waiting for the others to echo the toast, downed half the glass in one gulp.

She blushed and dipped her head in her acknowledgment of the gesture, but she did not raise her eyes to him again.

The conversation over soup consisted of a minute description of the ladies’ stroll, narrated in turns by Lady Catherine and Miss Brent. Shopping, yes. Sea air, yes. Lady Laughton’s cheeks still glowed with sunshine and exertion—or perhaps from a recent dose of laudanum. Still, Caro listened and nodded and gave every indication that she had spent a pleasant afternoon.

Over the next course, young Brent-Ashby regaled the company with an exaggerated account of the gentlemen’s adventures, in which, Maxim noted, the man painted himself as the one to have single-handedly staved off his father’s disaster, despite never slackening his breakneck pace.

Maxim sharply cleared his throat.

“Got a bone, Hartwell?” Laughton asked, gesturing toward the fish with the tines of his fork. “Best be careful.”

With a glare, Maxim took a sip of wine. Brent-Ashby hurriedly finished his story, with far fewer embellishments this time.

When Geoffrey laid the next plate before the earl—tender fillets of beef in a delicate cream sauce—Laughton grinned and patted his belly. “With hospitality such as this, daughter, I will be tempted to extend our visit. A month, at least.”

Caro’s shoulders sagged, and Maxim knew it was time for him to speak.

“I recommend waiting for an invitation, Laughton,” he said, leaning back in his chair as he toyed with the stem of his glass with one hand. “And if I were you, I would be prepared to wait a good long time.”

Laughton’s brow wrinkled, either in confusion or disbelief. “Are you insinuating that I’m not welcome, Hartwell?”