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He tossed back the remainder of the whisky in his glass. “I can be Machiavellian when I choose.”
“That’s rather like saying a lamb can be a lion if he so desires, old chap.”
“Suggest I’m a lamb again, and I’ll blacken your eye,” Apollo threatened without heat.
In truth, they would never come to blows. Mal was the closest Apollo had to a brother since all his siblings, save Ro, had died as infants. He liked to tease his sister that their stubborn natures were responsible for their comparative longevity.
Mal grinned, undaunted by the threat. “I’d like to see you try. The last time we came to blows, I trounced you quite thoroughly, if you’ll recall.”
“God.” Apollo grimaced. “Marie Beaumont.”
They had once, in their younger, wilder days, both been set upon taking the same beautiful French actress as their mistress. Apollo had been newly turned eighteen at the time.
Mal shook his head, reminiscing. “She had the most glorious bubbies this side of the English Channel and the voice of an angel.”
Apollo had far more lush breasts on his mind at the moment, and a husky voice that he longed to hear moaning his name. But he said nothing of the sort.
“We got drunk, and you challenged me to a duel,” Apollo reminded his friend.
“Which you refused, coward that you are, and tried to plant me a facer instead.”
“I missed,” he remembered ruefully. “Quite astounding, given the magnificent size of your head.”
Mal patted his dark waves. “My head is perfectly proportioned, I’ll have you know.”
“Mmm,” Apollo hummed, noncommittal. “Regardless, when I missed you, I lost my balance and fell into a chair. Do you remember?”
His friend laughed. “How could I forget? You sent the Louis Quinze toppling and blackened your own eye in the process. You’re damned lucky you didn’t break that beak of yours.”
“And Madame Beaumont was so appalled by us both that she chose another gentleman as her benefactor,” Apollo finished.
“It’s just as well. She later poisoned his fish in a fit of pique. It’s a miracle she didn’t kill the poor bastard.”
Indeed, she had. Admittedly, Apollo’s judgment as a randy young buck had been significantly lacking.
He winced. “I don’t reckon that either of us was thinking too carefully at the time. We were eighteen and stupid as only the young can truly be.”
Mal sighed. “If we were young then, does that make us old now? I confess, I don’t feel as if I’m approaching my dotage just yet.”
“Nor do I,” Apollo allowed, “but I would like to think we are wiser. No more facers over beautiful French women, actresses or otherwise.”
“Right.” Mal raised his glass to Apollo in salute and took a sip before continuing. “So, then. Who is she this time, if not Madame Beaumont?”
Blast. They had come full circle.
An image of Ophelia rose in his mind, rain-soaked and beautiful as she had been in the orangery. Along with it came the possessive surge. The urge to protect. What he felt for her was as different from the base lust of his youth as night from day. There was no comparison.
He shook his head. “I told you, old friend. There is no one.”
It was the greatest lie Apollo had ever told.
Mal’s eyes narrowed, but before he could argue, their fellow players began returning to the table, ending the opportunity for private discourse. Relief settled over Apollo, and he applied himself to the strategy of the game with renewed vigor.
Sometime after midnight, he left the table several hundred pounds wealthier. As he made his way to his chamber for the night, he deliberately walked past Ophelia’s. The lamplight glowed beneath her door, and he hesitated for a moment, his fist clenched in readiness.
But in the end, he didn’t knock. He continued on to the room that had been assigned him, where the sheets were blessedly cool and the pillows pleasantly plump. Mind whirling with plans for his next move, he stripped off his clothing and slid beneath the counterpane of his lonely bed. When sleep finally claimed him, he dreamt he was chasing a flame-haired goddess through the rain, and that no matter how hard he ran, she always eluded him.
CHAPTER 4
