Читать книгу Not Just a Wallflower - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Two days later—White’s Club, St James’s Street, London

‘Is it not time you threw in your cards and called it a night, Litchfield?’

‘You’d like it if I did so, wouldn’t you, Royston!’ The florid, sneering face of the man seated on the opposite side of the card table was slightly damp with perspiration in the dimmed candlelight of the smoky card room.

‘I have no opinion one way or the other if you should decide to lose the very shirt upon your back,’ Justin St Just, the Duke of Royston, drawled as he reclined back in his armchair, only the glittering intensity of his narrowed blue eyes revealing the utter contempt he felt for the other man. ‘I merely wish to bring this interminable game of cards to an end!’ He deeply regretted having accepted Litchfield’s challenge now, and knew he would not have done so if he had not been utterly bored and seeking any diversion to relieve him from it.

Ennui. It was an emotion all too familiar to him since the fighting against Napoleon had come to an end and the little Corsican had finally been incarcerated on St Helena once and for all, at which time Justin had considered it was safe to return to London, resign his commission, and take up his duties as Duke of Royston. A scant few weeks later he had realised his terrible mistake. Oh, he still had all of his friends here, the women willing to share his bed were as abundant, and his rooms in Mayfair were still as comfortable—he had long ago decided against taking up residence at Royston House, instead leaving his grandmother to continue living there alone after the death of Justin’s father, and the removal of Justin’s mother to the country—but all the time feeling as if there should be something...more to life.

Quite what that was, and how he was to find it, he had no idea. Which was the very reason he had spent the latter part of his evening engaged in a game of cards with a man he did not even like!

Lord Dryden Litchfield shot him a resentful glance. ‘They say you have the devil’s own luck, with both the cards and the ladies.’

‘Do they?’ Justin murmured mildly, well aware of the comments the ton made about him behind his back.

‘And I am starting to wonder if it is not luck at all, but—’

‘Have a care, Litchfield,’ Justin warned softly, none of his inner tension in evidence at the as-yet-unspoken insult, as he reached out an elegant hand to pick up his glass and take a leisurely sip of his brandy. With his fashionably overlong golden hair, and arrogantly handsome features, he resembled a fallen angel far more than he did the devil. But regardless of how angelic he looked, most, if not all, of the gentlemen of the ton also knew him to be an expert with both the usual choices of weapon for the duel Litchfield was spoiling for. ‘As I have said, the sooner we bring this card game to an end, the better.’

‘You arrogant bastard!’ Litchfield glared across at him fiercely; he was a man perhaps a dozen or so years older than Justin’s own eight and twenty, but his excessive weight, thinning auburn hair liberally streaked with silver, brown-stained teeth from an over-indulgence in cheap cigars, as well as his blustering anger at his consistent bad luck with the cards, all resulted in him looking much older.

‘I do not believe insulting me will succeed in improving your appalling skill at the cards,’ Justin stated as he replaced his brandy glass on the table.

‘You—’

‘Excuse me, your Grace, but this was just delivered for your immediate attention.’

A silver tray appeared out of the surrounding smoke-hazed gloom, bearing a note with Justin’s name scrawled across the front of it, written in a hand that a single glance had shown was not familiar to him. ‘If you will excuse me, Litchfield?’ He did not so much as glance in the other man’s direction as he retrieved the note from the tray to break the seal and quickly read the contents before refolding it and placing it in the pocket of his waistcoat, throwing his cards face down on the table. ‘The hand is yours, sir.’ He nodded in abrupt dismissal, straightening his snowy white cuffs as he stood up to leave.

‘Ha, knew you was bluffing!’ the other man cried out triumphantly, puffing happily on his foul-smelling cigar as he scooped up Justin’s discarded cards. ‘What the—?’ he muttered disbelievingly at a handful of aces as the mottled flush of anger deepened on his bloated face.

Dangerously so, in Justin’s opinion; he had no doubt that Litchfield’s heart would give up its fight to continue beating long before the man reached his fiftieth birthday.

‘The note was from a woman, then.’ An even more pronounced sneer appeared on the other man’s face as he looked up at Justin through the haze of his own cigar smoke. ‘I never thought to see the day when the devilishly lucky Duke of Royston would throw in a winning hand of cards in order to jump to a woman’s bidding.’

At this point in time ‘the devilishly lucky Duke of Royston’ was having extreme difficulty in resisting the urge he felt to reach across the card table, grab the other man by his rumpled shirtfront and shake him like the insufferable dog that he was! ‘Perhaps it is her bedchamber into which I am jumping...?’ He raised a mocking brow.

Litchfield gave an inelegant snort. ‘No woman is worth conceding a winning hand of cards.’

‘This woman is,’ Justin assured him drily. ‘I wish you joy of the rest of your evening, Litchfield.’ With a last contemptuous glance, he wasted no more time as he turned to stride purposefully from the dimly lit room, nodding briefly to several acquaintances as he did so.

‘Step aside, Royston!’

Justin’s legendary reflexes allowed him to take that swift sideways step and turn all at the same time, eyes widening as he watched a fist making contact with the lunging and livid-faced Litchfield, succeeding in stopping the man so that he dropped with all the grace of a felled ox.

Justin’s rescuer knelt down briefly beside the unconscious man before straightening, revealing himself to be Lord Bryan Anderson, Earl of Richmond, a fit and lithe gentleman of fifty years or so, the thickness of his hair prematurely white. ‘Your right hook is as effective as ever, I see, Richmond,’ Justin said admiringly.

‘It would appear so.’ The older man straightened the cuff of his shirt beneath his tailored black superfine as both men continued ignoring the inelegantly recumbent Litchfield. ‘Dare I ask what you did that so annoyed the man?’

Justin shrugged. ‘I allowed him to win at cards.’

‘Indeed?’ Richmond raised his brows. ‘Considering the extent of his gambling debts, one would have thought he might have been more grateful.’

‘One would have thought so, yes.’ Justin watched unemotionally as the unconscious Litchfield was quietly removed from the club by two stoic-faced footmen. ‘I thank you for your timely intervention, Richmond.’

‘Think nothing of it, Royston.’ The older man bowed. ‘Truth be told, I perhaps enjoyed it more than I should have,’ he added ruefully.

Justin knew, as did most of the ton, that the now-widowed Bryan Anderson had spent around twenty-five years tied to a woman who, following a fall from her horse during the first months of their marriage, in which she had received a severe blow to her head, had regressed to having the mind of a child and remained as such until her recent death.

Nor, despite having every reason to do so, had that gentleman ever betrayed his marriage vows. Publicly, at least. What Richmond did in private had been, and remained, his own affair, and would not have been frowned upon by the ton in any case; twenty-five years of marriage to a woman, who believed herself a child, must have been unendurable torture. No doubt the hours Justin knew the other man had spent sparring at Jackson’s had been an attempt to alleviate some of his frustrations during that time.

As, in all likelihood, had striking Litchfield just now...

‘I thank you anyway, Richmond.’ Justin said, giving him a slight bow in acknowledgement. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have another engagement.’

‘Of course.’ Richmond returned the gesture. ‘Oh, and Royston...?’ He gave him a significant look as Justin paused to raise questioning brows. ‘If I were you, I would watch your back for the next few weeks where Litchfield is concerned; it would seem he is an even less gracious winner than he is a loser.’

Justin’s top lip curled. ‘So it would appear.’

Richmond nodded. ‘I had the displeasure of serving in the army with him in India many years ago and know him to be a bully with a vicious temper. The men did not like him any more than his fellow officers did.’

‘If that were the case, I am surprised one of them did not take steps to rid themselves of such a tyrant.’ It was well known in army circles that the enlisted men—enlisted? Hah! They were usually men who had been forced into taking the king’s shilling for one nefarious reason or another—occasionally chose to dispose of a particularly unpopular officer during the confusion of battle.

Richmond gave a rueful smile. ‘That should have been the case, of course, and likely would have happened if he had lingered in the army overlong, but there was some indiscretion with another officer’s wife, which caused his superior officer to see that he left India sooner rather than later.’

Justin studied the older man’s bland expression for several seconds. ‘And would that superior officer happen to have been yourself, sir?’

‘It would,’ Richmond said grimly.

‘In that case I will bear your warning in mind,’ Justin said. ‘I wish you a good night, Richmond.’ He lost no more time in making his departure as he proceeded out into the hallway to collect and don his hat and cloak in readiness for stepping outside.

‘Hanover Square, if you please, Bilsbury,’ he instructed his driver tersely as he climbed inside the ducal coach and relaxed back against the plush upholstery, the door closing behind him seconds before the horses moved off smartly into the dark of the night.

If any woman was worth the loss of a fabulous hand at cards, then it was surely the one he now hurried to...

* * *

Miss Eleanor—Ellie—Rosewood paced restlessly in the vast entrance hall of the house in Hanover Square as she awaited for word of the response to the note she had instructed be delivered earlier this evening. Hopefully none of her inner anxiety showed on her face as she heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles outside, followed by a brief murmur of conversation. Stanhope moved forwards and opened the door just in time to allow the handsome Duke of Royston to sweep imperiously inside, bringing the cool evening air in with him.

As always happened, at first sight of this powerful and impressive gentleman, Ellie was struck momentarily speechless, as she could only stand and stare at him.

Excessively tall, at least a couple of inches over six feet, with fashionably ruffled hair of pure gold, Justin St Just’s features were harshly patrician—deep blue eyes, high cheekbones aside a long and aristocratic nose, chiselled lips and a square, determined jaw—and his wide shoulders and tapered waist were shown to advantage in the black superfine and snowy white linen, buff pantaloons and high black Hessians fitting snugly to the long length of muscled calf and thigh; he was without doubt the most handsome gentleman Ellie had ever beheld—

‘Well?’ he demanded even as he swept off his cloak and hat and handed them to Stanhope before striding across the vast hallway to where Ellie stood at the bottom of the wide and curving staircase.

—as well as being the most arrogant—

She drew in a breath. ‘I sent a note earlier this evening requesting that you call—’

‘Which is the very reason I am here now,’ he cut in.

—and impatient!

And considering that Ellie had sent the note over two hours ago, she found his delayed response to that request to be less than helpful! ‘I had expected you sooner...’

He stilled. ‘Do I detect a measure of rebuke in your tone?’

Her cheeks felt warm at the underlying steel beneath the mildness of his tone. ‘I—no...’

He relaxed his shoulders. ‘I am gratified to hear it.’

Her chin rose determinedly. ‘It is your grandmother whom I believe may have expected a more immediate response from you, your Grace.’ Indeed, that dear lady had been asking every quarter of the hour, since she had requested Ellie, as her companion, to send a note to her grandson, as to whether or not there had been any word from him. The duke’s arrival here now, so many hours after the note had been sent, was tardy to say the least.

‘This is my immediate response.’

She raised red-gold brows. ‘Indeed?’

Justin looked at her as if seeing her for the first time—which he no doubt was; companions to elderly ladies were of no consequence to dukes!—his eyes glinting deeply blue between narrowed lids as that disdainful glance swept over her from the red of her hair, her slenderness in the plain brown gown, down to the slippers upon her feet, and then back up to her now flushed face. ‘The two of us are related in some way, are we not?’

Not exactly. Ellie’s mother had been a widow with a nine-year-old daughter—Ellie—when she had married this gentlemen’s cousin some ten years ago. But as both her mother and stepfather had since been killed in a carriage accident, it rather rendered the relationship between herself and the duke so tenuous as to be practically non-existent. And if not for the kindness of his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Royston, in taking Ellie into her own household as her companion when she had been left alone in the world without a penny to call her own, Ellie very much doubted she would have seen any of the St Just family ever again following her mother’s demise.

‘We are stepcousins once removed, at best, your Grace,’ she now allowed huskily.

He raised an eyebrow, the candlelight giving a gold lustre to his fashionably tousled hair, the expression in those deep-blue eyes now hidden behind those lowered lids. ‘Cousin Eleanor,’ he acknowledged mockingly. ‘The fact of the matter is, I was not at my rooms when your note was delivered earlier this evening and it took one of my servants some time in which to...locate me.’

Justin had no idea why it was he was even bothering to explain himself to this particular young woman. She was only a distant relative by marriage. Indeed, he could not remember even having spoken to Miss Eleanor Rosewood before now. He had noticed her, of course—bored and cynical he might be, but he was also a man!

Her hair was an intriguing shade of red, despite attempts on her part to mute its fieriness and curl in the severity of its style. Her eyes were a stunning clear green and surrounded by thick dark lashes, freckles sprinkled the tops of her creamy cheeks and the pertness of her tiny nose, and her mouth—

Ah, her mouth... Full and pouting, and naturally the colour of ripe strawberries, it was far too easy for a man to imagine such a mouth being put to far better uses than talking or eating!

She was tiny in both stature and figure, and yet the fullness of her breasts, visible above the neckline of her plain and unbecoming brown gown, emphasised the slenderness of her waist and thighs, her hands also tiny and delicate, the fingers long and slender in wrist-length cream lace gloves.

Justin was well aware that his grandmother had lost no time in gathering this orphaned chick into her own household as her companion after Eleanor had been left alone in the world, following the death of her mother and stepfather, Justin’s own profligate cousin Frederick; Edith St Just might like to give the outward appearance of haughtiness and disdain, but to any who knew her well, it was an outer shell which hid a soft and yielding heart.

‘Your note implied the request was urgent in nature,’ Justin now drawled pointedly.

‘Yes.’ Colour now warmed those creamy cheeks. ‘I—the physician was called to attend the dowager duchess earlier this evening.’

‘The physician?’ he repeated sharply. ‘Is my grandmother ill?’

‘I do not believe she would have requested the physician be called if that were not the case, your Grace.’

Justin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he privately questioned whether or not she was daring to mock him; the green of her gaze was clear and unwavering, with no hint of the emotion for which he searched. Which was not to say it was not there, but merely hidden behind that annoyingly cool façade. ‘What is the nature of her illness?’ he enquired coldly.

She shrugged. ‘Your grandmother did not confide in me, sir.’

Justin barely restrained his impatience with her unhelpful reply. ‘But surely you must have overheard some of her conversation with the physician?’

Her gaze lowered from his piercing one. ‘I was not in the room for all of his visit—’

‘Might I ask why the devil not?’

Eleanor blinked those long dark lashes as the only outward sign of her shock at the profanity. ‘She asked that I collect her shawl from her private parlour. By the time I returned Dr Franklyn was preparing to leave.’

Justin’s impatience deepened. ‘At which time I presume my grandmother asked that I be sent for?’

She nodded. ‘She also requested that you go up to her bedchamber the moment you arrived.’

A request this lady had obviously forgotten to relay to him until now. Because his arrival had diverted her from the task, perhaps...? It was a possibility he found as intriguing as he did amusing.

He nodded. ‘I will go up to her now. Perhaps you would arrange for some brandy to be brought to the library for when I return downstairs?’

‘Of course.’ Ellie found she was relieved to have something practical to do, her usual calm competence seeming to have deserted her the moment she found herself in Justin’s overpoweringly masculine presence. ‘Do you wish me to accompany you?’

The duke came to a halt on the second step of the wide staircase in order to turn and give her a pointed look. ‘I believe I am well aware of where my grandmother’s bedchamber is located, but you may accompany me up the stairs, to ensure I do not attempt to make away with the family silver, if that is your wish.’

‘Is that “family silver” not already yours?’ she asked, trying hard to keep hold of her composure against his needling.

‘It is.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Then perhaps you fear I may become lost in my own house, Cousin?’

Ellie was well aware that this was his house. As was everything connected with the Duchy of Royston. ‘I believe my time might be better served in seeking out Stanhope and requesting the decanter of brandy be brought to the library.’ Even the thought of accompanying the duke up the stairs was enough to cause Ellie’s cheeks to burn—something she knew from past experience to be most unbecoming against the red of her hair.

‘And two glasses.’

She raised surprised brows. ‘You are expecting company?’ The fact that the duke had been so difficult to locate this evening would seem to imply that he had been otherwise...occupied, and perhaps less than reputably. Even so, Ellie could not imagine him inviting one of his less-than-acceptable friends here, especially if he had been spending the evening in the company of a lady.

‘It is you whom I am expecting to join me there,’ he explained with a sigh.

Ellie’s eyes widened. ‘Me?’

Justin almost laughed at the stunned expression on her face. A natural reaction, perhaps, when this was the longest conversation they had ever exchanged.

Surprisingly, he found her naivety amusing, and, Justin readily admitted, very little succeeded in amusing him.

His childhood had been spent in the country until the age of ten, when he had been sent away to boarding school, after which he had seen his parents rarely and had felt an exclusion from their deep love for each other when he did, to the extent that it had coloured his own feelings about marriage. He accepted that a duke must necessarily marry, in order to provide an heir to the duchy, but Justin’s own isolated upbringing had dictated his own would be a marriage of convenience, rather than love. A marriage that would not exclude his children in the way that he had been excluded.

His three years as the Duke of Royston had ensured that he was denied nothing and certainly not any woman he expressed the least desire for—and, on several occasions, some he had not, such as other gentlemen’s wives and the daughters of marriage-minded mamas!

Eleanor Rosewood, as companion to his grandmother, was not of that ilk, of course, just as their tenuous family connection ensured she could never be considered as Justin’s social equal. At the same time, though, even that slight family connection meant he could not consider her as a future mistress, either. Frustrating, but true.

‘Your Grace...?’

He frowned his irritation with her insistence on using his title. ‘I believe we established only a few minutes ago that we are cousins of a sort and we should therefore address each other as Cousin Eleanor and Cousin Justin.’

Ellie’s eyes widened in alarm at the mere thought of her using such familiarity with this rakishly handsome gentleman; Justin St Just, the twelfth Duke of Royston, was so top-lofty, so arrogantly haughty as he gave every appearance of looking down the length of his superior nose at the rest of the world, that Ellie would never be able to even think of him as a cousin, let alone address him as such.

‘I believe that you may have implied something of the sort, yes, your Grace,’ she said stubbornly.

He arched one blond brow over suddenly teasing blue eyes. ‘But you did not concur?’

‘I do not believe so, no, your Grace.’

He eyed her in sudden frustration. ‘Perhaps it is a subject we should discuss further when I return downstairs?’

She frowned. ‘I—perhaps.’

He scowled darkly at her intransigence. ‘But again, you do not agree...?’

Ellie believed such a conversation to be a complete waste of his time, as well as her own. What was the point in arguing over what to call one another? They’d probably not speak to each other again for at least another year, if this past year—which consisted of this last few minutes’ conversation for the entirety of it—was any indication! ‘It is very late, your Grace, and I believe the dowager duchess, if she has been made aware of your arrival, will be becoming increasingly anxious to speak with you,’ she prompted softly.

‘Of course.’ He now looked annoyed at having allowed himself to become distracted by talking to her. ‘I will expect to find you in the library, along with the decanter of brandy and two glasses, when I return,’ he added peremptorily before resuming his ascent of the staircase.

Almost, Ellie recognised indignantly, as if he considered her as being of no more consequence than a dog he might instruct to heel, or a horse he halted by the rein.