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Harriet sighed. “I just thought it was time I began thinking about marriage. Nothing mysterious. The same reason all of the eligible men and women here this evening are in attendance.”
“Hmmm,” Lauren said suspiciously, narrowing her eyes. “As much as it makes me happy to know you are finally acknowledging that aspect of your duty as a Worthingham, it does seem to be contrary to your nature. I don’t doubt you would like to be married but I had resigned myself to discovering you had become engaged to a country doctor or vicar. You have never embraced your heritage as a member of one of England’s finest families.”
“Well, perhaps I am finally growing up,” Harriet said.
She did not tell her mother about the financial difficulty the family was in. She had her own modest income and her own house in London. But, she was one of Simon’s dependents for the majority of her income. And while she was adept at exploiting the image of the fragile, elderly aristocrat, it was largely an act most of the time. One of the circumstances which truly would inspire a faint would be a threat to her income or property.
And if Simon were forced to sell property in order to meet his obligations, Lauren would certainly not take it well. Footsteps sounded outside the room at that moment and the doors were pushed open. Harriet’s heart leaped to her mouth for a second, fearing that it was the Duke after all.
CHAPTER 14
Edward winced at the bite of brandy against his cut lip. He threw back the drink, savoring the burn which reached down his throat to his stomach. He looked at himself in the large mirror mounted on one wall of his bedroom. The split was in the middle of his lower lip. The bleeding had stopped but the dark red crust of dried blood was impossible to miss or ignore. He poured another brandy from the decanter.
This was not how the evening should have gone. Rebecca should have spent the evening dancing with Philip Grantley, getting to know him and accepting him as her prospective husband. Edward would then have been free to consider his own options, knowing that his sister had settled. Instead, his roguish side had broken free upon meeting that mysterious temptress in a dark corner of the gardens.
Will I never learn? That is the behavior of Edward Bolton, the Racing Rake, scourge of every track from Cheltenham to Chester. The infamous, womanizing, gambling, and dueling wastrel long ago banned from the royal court. I am not that man any longer. I am the Duke of Wrexham. Noble of England.
He tossed back a second brandy.
There is no way I can return to the company looking like this. There is no way to explain this other than another exploit of the Rogue of Wrexham.
Forcing a smile brought a stab of pain as the movement tore at the healing cut. He did it anyway, eyes narrowing at the sharp stinging.
Who was she? No one that I’ve ever met before. So beautiful and fascinating. So fierce and independent.
He heard a knock at the door of the next room over, the antechamber that protected the privacy of his bedroom. The knock went unanswered and, moments later, he heard the door open. That meant it was either Rebecca or Olivia. No servant would dare enter his rooms without express consent. Pouring a third drink, then pouring more into a fresh tumbler, he picked up both glasses and walked through a connecting door, along a short passageway, and into the sitting room.
Olivia stood waiting.
“Aunt Olivia. How goes the evening for you?” Edward asked.
“Dramatic,” Olivia said. She nodded curtly as she accepted the fresh glass of brandy.
It vanished down her throat even more swiftly than Edward’s first two drinks.
“You take after my father,” Edward commented, dropping into an armchair, swirling the brandy in his own glass, “never knew anyone who could drink like him.”
“Richard and I were rebellious youths who grew up here at Wrexham, not in the sophistication of London as you did. I had my first cider before I was ten. And if you repeat that in polite company, I will box your ears.”
Edward laughed. Olivia could switch from drawing room pleasantries, regal formality to back-street barbarism in a heartbeat.
“If you’ve come to persuade me to return to the ball, then…” he waved his free hand towards his face, “you are too late.”
Olivia pursed her lips, tapping a nail against the glass she held. “I see that. I would ask how you came by such an injury but the slight redness on your right cheek tells the shameful tale.”
Edward had touched the spot where his mysterious lady had slapped him before he could stop himself.
“I did not realize she had left a bruise,” he admitted.
“She hasn’t. But, I can’t think how else you have come by the wound you have except from a woman. So, it stands to reason she will have slapped you afterward.”
“Touché,” Edward said wryly, “but it was before, in point of fact. However, I am in the process of getting drunk as you can see. This night has rather fallen apart. What can I do for you?”
“Two things. We are hosting the Worthinghams this evening. The Dowager Countess, my good friend, has taken ill and I have offered rooms to her and her family for the night.”
“The Worthinghams? Remind me.”
“Simon is Viscount of Erdington in Midwenshire. He came here with his sister, Eleanor, and cousin.”
