Royal Regard

Chapter Thirteen, Part 3

Behind the secretary desk where he had been working, a bay window overlooked the back garden. Nick opened the curtains to the sunshine, remembering his grandmother, then his mother, ensconcing themselves in the window seat, mending his grandfather's, then father's, shirts while the men tended to business.

The columns framing the window were Grecian to reflect his grandfather's preference for Greek philosophers over Roman. The tapestry hanging upstairs behind his grandfather's desk, showing the siege of Troy, had been stitched by his grandmother, in deference to her husband's inclination. Nick stared blankly into the garden, wondering when the hyacinths had bloomed.

"Does such a plan fit your intentions?"

As he turned back, Nick considered whether it might be time to get rid of the awful rococo furniture his mother had installed. He wouldn't mind replacing it with something much simpler, sturdy rather than stately, perhaps even modern. He could have something plain knocked together on one of his estates or another, or he might consider an American cabinetmaker.

Perhaps he should saddle Blakeley with the task. Or put aside consideration of furniture until he had a wife to see to the details.

"I do not know my intentions."

"Do not know or will not say?" Huntleigh asked.

"I do not know."

At the suddenly vicious tone, Huntleigh poured himself more coffee, surely now cold, and sat back, obviously giving Nick room to explain himself.

"I am many things, Lord Huntleigh, but not a liar."

Nick's hands clasped behind his back and he turned to gaze out of the window again. "You know my reputation—everyone knows—but you may not be aware it is half mythos."

"Which half?" Huntleigh asked quietly.

Nick spat, "The half that says I set out to ruin women, which has never occurred at my hand." As he turned back toward his suddenly unwelcome guest, he felt like a vulture going on the attack. "My relationships are mutual, genuine, and circumspect, not based on misrepresentation or deceit."

Huntleigh nodded. "Other than the husband."

Nick downed another mouthful of brandy. "Other than that. But most often, my arrangements are with women whose spouses are unconcerned about... polite indiscretions. Gads! I play cards with some of the gentlemen in question. I am a duke, Lord Huntleigh; nothing short of murder would make me unwelcome at Almack's. I am well aware the ladies of my acquaintance do not have the same luxury."

Huntleigh agreed, "I've heard you are perfectly discreet. The house on Harley Street is virtually unknown, and I could not identify any particular wife with whom you have dallied; only general agreement you have tumbled half the married ladies of the ton."

"Even assuming your research is half-fictitious, it is remarkable you are asking my intentions instead of my participation in a duel."

"I am far too old and sickly to reliably prevail." Huntleigh waved his cup toward Nick to indicate continued attention.

Nick was beginning to feel his ire misplaced. Huntleigh hadn't meant to bring up a sore subject; he was only doing his best to protect his wife, and doing so politely. Admirable, really, now that Nick thought of it. It was a good thing someone was concerned for Bella's good name, because Nick certainly hadn't been. Still, his reputation as a rake had never sat well with him, even when he deserved it.

"The reason you cannot find the hundreds of women I've supposedly toyed with," Nick remarked, "is that most of them don't exist. I have love affairs for a Season, maybe a year, one woman at a time, and not always married. I will restrain any further reflection, wishing to respect the privacy of the ladies involved, but you may be sure I do not keep a harem or arrange orgies in my country house or debauch innocents or force the unwilling or, most importantly, tell ribald tales about what happens in my bedchamber. I enjoy talking to women as well as tupping them. I just don't want to marry one."