To Love a Wicked Scoundrel (10 page)

A small cat appeared out of nowhere and after a graceful leap settled into Giddy’s lap. Its lush grey fur reminded him of Isabelle’s entrancing eyes and his mood eased. ‘None at all. You have my word.’ He watched as Giddy stroked the cat’s fur with affection.

As a child he had owned a wolfhound of the same silvery colour. The pup followed him everywhere until his father kicked the dog to death after it snatched an unattended scrap from the table. Years later as his father wasted away from consumption, his sickly eyes still contained the same bitter anger even until death.

The fire cracked in the box and he forced himself to the present subject, anxious to learn more about the woman who held him ensorcelled. ‘Actually I would like to ask you about Lady Isabelle.’

‘She is not for you.’ Giddy’s countenance changed in a heartbeat, her words laced with a proprietary tone. She reached forward and passed the cat to the carpet. Then she folded both hands in her lap and shook her head in the negative as if she wished her message to be crystal clear. ‘Find yourself a lush widow if you are feeling randy. Dally with the ladies that trail after you at every social event, or if you prefer, find some nondescript doxy to keep tucked away as your mistress, but do not think to engage in anything nefarious with Lady Isabelle. The two ladies have my guidance and protection. The very last thing I would desire is for Isabelle to fall prey to your roguish activities.’ She offered him a tight smile, this one not at all warm like her previous expressions. ‘Take no offence, Constantine, but while the gossipmongers enjoy embellishing your activities, I am not so aged that I do not realise there is a heavy amount of truth found in each scandal.’

‘I propose nothing untoward. I merely want to learn more about Lady Isabelle to better make her acquaintance.’ Her words fueled his irritation and he set his jaw.

‘I am not in the least concerned with your wants, no matter how long our friendship has existed. Isabelle is innocent and from a good family. If you are considering a seduction, and before you deny it I can readily see she has piqued your interest, I recommend you promptly cure yourself of the notion. She is not for you.’

Giddy’s words rang through the room with such finality he almost failed to respond. And too, he was hardly accustomed to explaining himself or seeking permission. ‘You imply I have rather rapacious taste, as if there is a trail of weeping females left in my wake. I have always been considerate, discreet, and discerning in my liaisons. Your protective objection to my spending more time with Isabelle arouses my curiosity more than before I ventured into your home.’ The latter portion of his statement was a lie, but Constantine spared it not a second thought. His desire to discover Isabelle burned in his blood since their secret interlude in Lord Rochester’s study.

‘Your father – ’

He interjected a little more tersely than he intended. ‘My father destroyed everything that was good. By notice of my carefree nature, you can be assured I have not inherited that trait.’ Constantine refused to tolerate another statement exalting his father’s character.

Realising the conversation had taken a turn, Giddy shifted in her chair. ‘We are friends, are we not?’

‘Our friendship is not in question.’

‘Then heed my warning. Lady Meredith is much more suited to your lifestyle. She is a young widow and anxious to rejoin society. She does not seek marriage, and wishes to enjoy the season before returning to Wiltshire to raise her young daughter. The two of you are well matched if you find you are drawn to the Rossmore ladies. Otherwise, my previous recommendation stands: Lady Isabelle is beyond reach.’

***

Con encountered Brooks as he returned to the townhouse and dismissed the man with no explanation for his black mood. He failed to understand Giddy’s adamant warning concerning Isabelle and he refused to accept it. Her reasoning made little sense. With a grim scoff, Con considered her age. Mayhaps Giddy had turned the corner past rational thought. Her chastisement left him at odds and while he had planned to paint it would prove useless to pick up his brushes until his anger was mollified.

He headed to his study, dropped into the leather chair behind his desk, and sent a servant scurrying in search of the best wine in the cellar. He had no patience to be prodded so it was unfortunate Brooks entered the room before Con had assuaged his temper.

‘I need to review your schedule for the morrow, milord. You have a busy day planned.’

‘Clear my calendar. I want none of it.’ His words cut through the air like a razor’s edge and served his valet fair warning.

‘I am afraid that is not possible. Several engagements begin early morn. After breakfast you have an appointment with Lord Hardy to examine his new pair of geldings, followed by tea with Lord and Lady Morland. You agreed to show them your newly acquired cabriolet. Lord Tulliber expects you for a wine tasting at half past eleven.’ The valet turned the page with alacrity. ‘There is a luncheon in Charing Cross where you are being honoured for your donation to the orphanage, followed by tea with Lady Bingley before an early dinner at White’s with the Earl of Sutterby. Then off to Tattersall’s – ’

‘Brooks. Cease speaking. How did my schedule become so hellish? Who accepted all these blasted invitations?’ Only an idiot would not hear the restrained anger in his voice.

‘You did, milord. You stated you did not wish to disappoint. They all believe no event is a success until you make an appearance.’

‘Like a bloody pet. Clear my schedule. Send my regrets. Do whatever it is you do. I’ll have none of it tomorrow as I am otherwise occupied.’ Constantine’s derisive command brought the valet to immediate, irriated attention. But Con’s mind was conjuring images of auburn tresses and startling grey eyes. He intended to see Isabelle tomorrow, regardless of Giddy’s recommendation.

‘If that is your wish, although you did offer your box at the opera house – ’

‘I did not ask for your counsel, Brooks. I merely requested you do what I hired you do without an insolent diatribe.’

The servant snapped the appointment book closed and paused. He knew his employer well. ‘What sparks your foul mood? Is there something I can do to help? Do you have everything you need?’ Brooks removed a crystal paperweight from the desk and walked to a nearby bookcase where he replaced it beside a lone glass figurine. ‘Will you be breaking things this evening?’

‘No.’ Con answered tightly. He fixed his eyes on the porcelain shepherdess before he scanned the haphazard collection of mate-less bookends and whatnots that littered the room. His mind flooded with remembrance at the trigger to his temper the evening he tore his study apart. Some pertinacious buffoon at White’s had heralded the good works of his father and a chorus of resounding praise had circled the drawing room gaining momentum. He’d had too much to drink. The ongoing verbal worship of his father was meant to please him, but instead it opened a well of emotions he kept dark and buried.

Since that night, he’d done an admirable job of controlling his temper, but now, as he released a long breath of frustration, he grappled to rein it in. Thankfully, his artwork had become an irreplaceable outlet that defused his anger without the threat of broken china.

He turned his attention to his waiting valet. ‘I have nothing. Look closely. I have nothing that matters, nothing that lasts.’ His words were a scornful mutter.

‘You are not thinking with a clear mind.’

A knock sounded at the door and Brooks accepted the wine decanter brought in by a servant and filled a ready glass. When Con made no move to take it, Brooks placed it on the side table.

‘How can you possibly express dissatisfaction? You have everything.’ The valet flicked his fingers outward counting off a list as he spoke. ‘Six vineyards, four estates, unlimited wealth and a stable full of the finest horseflesh.’

‘Those are things, possessions, investments.’ Con waved his hand through the air in dismissal.

‘You hold the ear of the most select members of the ton and merely need to crook your finger to summon a comely lady to warm your bed. You want for nothing.’

‘You misunderstand. At one time it sufficed. Now it seems like very little.’ Constantine spoke the words with sincerity although he realised how it might appear. Brooks had spent his youth stealing from the rich in order to have enough money to buy food. His valet would be justified to introduce him to his fist.

But his life did feel like nothing. At one time, the unlimited adoration of the ton had supplied him with everything he needed in order to ignore the emotions buried under layers of hatred and contempt. Now it seemed his every emotion burned raw.

Luckily his valet continued, ignoring how self-indulgent and ungrateful Constantine may have appeared.

‘So then, what has changed?’

‘Nothing has changed.’
The anger I hold against my father is always there.

‘Are you sure this temperament has nothing to do with a particular female?’

‘I said, nothing has changed.’
Everything had changed
. He shook away his ugly thoughts and focused on the firebox where the flames danced in shades of red and orange as free-flowing and brilliant as Isabelle’s tresses. He exhaled and threaded his fingers through his hair queue. His fingertips coasted over the riddling scars at the base of his skull. There was no eluding his past.

Why would Giddy forbid him from pursing Isabelle’s affections?

‘Have you considered an alternative to your perturbation? If you’re tired of the social thing, you could always get married. After the wave of curiosity dies away, you will be left to do whatever you wish without the ton’s speculative eye.’

‘Marriage is your solution? I sincerely hope your suggestion is a poor attempt at humour.’ He eyed his valet with keen suspicion.

‘Actually, no. I was serious.’ Brooks sounded a bit affronted.

Constantine managed a chuckle. ‘Then I should have left you in the Thames.’

‘Well, hindsight and all that.’ The valet exited without another word.

Marriage? Apparently Brooks did not know him well enough. He had serious doubts concerning such a permanent commitment and had always striven to keep himself unencumbered by emotions of the heart. Still, the alternative, an endless schedule of appearances at Boodles and the like, where the same people discussed the same conversations, seemed dismal. It was little wonder he preferred his art studio.

He walked to the sideboard and poured a generous portion of brandy. The liquid burned a path down his throat and he welcomed it. Marriage. His friends appeared content and settled, while his life remained a mottled mess. Could Brooks have the right idea? The stability of a well-made union offered an alternative life that tempted, just out of reach. He doubted he possessed the depth of emotion necessary to sustain a successful relationship and it would take an extraordinary woman to convince him otherwise. He glanced to the bookshelf and moved the chipped porcelain shepherdess to stand next to a headless soldier figurine. His lips quirked a wry smile. Then with an abrupt scoff, he threw back what remained in his glass. He would fail catastrophically at marriage. He was best suited for a bachelor’s life.

Chapter Eight

Isabelle eyed the candlelit third-floor windows of Lord Highborough’s townhouse. She pressed her fingers around the button held tight in her right palm and reaffirmed she had made the correct decision when she had slipped out of the house and ventured across the square.

It wasn’t until they’d returned from Hyde Park that she had examined the button Con had gifted to Lily. It had to be his finest: carved from gold, with intricate scrollwork and a diamond accent. She could not imagine its worth, but knew she had no other choice but to return it, as it did not belong to the safekeeping of a child.

She had convinced herself with very little effort that it was not at all improper for her to call on the household no matter the evening hour or her lack of chaperone. She never strayed from the narrow path of appropriateness. Returning someone’s valuable belonging could hardly be considered a transgression. It was more a good deed.

Now, as she looked up at the elaborate townhouse, a tremor of subtle nervousness threatened to overtake her. She prodded herself to climb the steps and drop the knocker. A butler answered at once. He opened the door and allowed her to step into the entrance hall, away from the dimly lit front stoop. Isabelle gave her name, but her attention quickly strayed as another servant, the detestable man from the flower market, rushed into the hallway, his arms laden with folded linens.

She had just stated the reason for her visit when Constantine’s voice bellowed from above stairs. His barked summons resounded throughout the entire household. Isabelle noticed the other servant, the one she disliked, gave an abrupt pivot and leaned towards the balustrade upon hearing Constantine’s angry call.

‘Brooks! God damn it, I’ve called you twice already! Where are the fresh linens?’

Isabelle’s eyes flared as she heard the language, but the expletives did little to prepare her for the scene that unraveled before her.

Constantine thundered down the staircase and stopped midway to repeat his request. His sleeves were cuffed to his elbows and the shirt hung open to the waist allowing Isabelle a glimpse of golden tanned skin, shaded with the brush of glistening masculinity. He held a glass of wine in one hand and wore nothing on his feet. Awareness, deliciously entrancing, spiraled through her as her gaze swept over him from head to toe. Good Lord, had he cut his hair? Her breath caught and tripped up her heart. Thank goodness, no. His silky locks were tied back in a leather queue. Overall he appeared sinfully dashing and remarkably disheveled, as if he’d just rolled from bed, sleep tousled and incredibly warmed. A breathless pleasure touched Isabelle’s soul and her palms grew damp, serving well to keep the forgotten button in place.

‘I try my best to keep up with your favourite preoccupation, milord. A little patience would be appreciated.’ The servant, apparently named Brooks, regarded his master with the same impudence shown to her in the flower mart.