Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (4 page)

“I hear you’ve taken a mistress.”

Rafe jerked up his head, his eyes—the same crystal blue as Tristan’s—hard, his mouth set in a thin line. “I’ve not seen you in months and that’s how you greet me?”

Tristan almost blurted that turnabout was fair play. After not seeing Tristan in twelve years, Rafe had merely reached back, grabbed a tumbler, poured whiskey in it, and set it at the edge of the desk. His face had held no expression, his eyes had been as calm as the sea before a storm. There had been no surprise, no rising from his seat, no embrace. His first words?
Sebastian has yet to show.

“I would have thought you’d learned by now that I believe in getting to the point,” Tristan said, giving his brother what he knew was a devilish smile that would only serve to irritate him. “So who is she?”

Rafe grabbed two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He began to pour as Tristan ambled over and took a chair, then pushed the full tumbler toward him. “I don’t see that it’s any of your concern.”

Tristan lifted the glass, inhaled the fumes, and took a small sip. His brother did have damned good taste in whiskey. “Is she pretty?”

Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Thinking of taking her when I’m done with her?”

Tristan belted out a laugh. “God, no. Anne damn near kills me with her desire for me. I could hardly keep another lady satisfied.” He relished another sip. “Besides Anne is everything to me. When you have everything, you neither need—nor want—anything more.”

“Spoken like a poor besotted fool.”

“You don’t believe in love?”

Leaning back in his chair, Rafe took a good long swallow.

Not going to answer,
Tristan thought. But then he hadn’t really expected him to. He knew Rafe had yet to forgive him and Sebastian for leaving him behind. They’d had no choice. Separation had been the best chance of ensuring at least one of them survived to manhood in order to reclaim the dukedom.

“Don’t suppose I can blame you. I didn’t believe in it either, not until Anne graced my life.”

“Do take your leave before you begin spouting poetry. I have no stomach for it.”

Tristan disliked that Rafe was becoming more difficult and more of a recluse—at least where he and Sebastian were concerned. He accepted none of their invitations, but he wasn’t yet ready to give up on him.

“You know,” Tristan began, eager to change the subject, “most fellows would at least inquire as to what a man was holding if he walked into a room carrying a large box.”

Rafe shifted his gaze over. “I would have to care to ask. I don’t. It’s your box.”

“Actually, it’s not.” Tristan set it in the center of the desk. “It’s yours. Well, not the box really. But what’s inside. Although you’re more than welcome to keep the box.”

He didn’t know why he was rambling on stupidly. He wasn’t anxious regarding what Rafe might think of his offering. He’d battled the sea, tempests, pirates, and sharks. He had no worries here. Still he watched as Rafe eyed the package as though he thought it might attack him.

“What do you mean it’s mine?”

Tristan wondered once again, as he often did, what sort of life his brother had led since the night they escaped Pembrook. None of them ever talked about their years apart. Sebastian had left half his face on some godforsaken battlefield in the Crimea. Tristan bore the scars of a lash that had flayed his back. He suspected, had always suspected, that Rafe bore scars as well, but that they ran much deeper than the skin, and he had little doubt that made them much harder to heal. “It’s a gift.”

“Why?”

“No reason in particular.” He knew he should have said
because you’re my brother and I love you,
but the words were as difficult for him to speak as he suspected they would be for Rafe to hear.

Rafe set his tumbler aside and pulled the present nearer. He removed the lid from the box, tipped it cautiously toward him—

Jerked his gaze up to Tristan, who squirmed, feeling a bit self-conscious. “I know it’s not perfect. I carved it during the two years I was at sea, after Sebastian again had his title.”

Slowly Rafe stood, reached in, and withdrew the wooden globe attached to a stand in such a way that his brother could spin the world as he pleased.

“Although I’m not so nimble with a brush, I thought about painting the land masses green and the ocean blue—”

“I like it plain.” Rafe was trailing his fingers over every indention and relief, studying them as though they were of great importance.

“Do you? Like it, I mean?” Tristan asked.

Rafe nodded. “I didn’t know you carved.”

There’s a lot you don’t about me, Brother, and I suspect even more that I don’t know about you.

“One gets bored on a ship. Unlike working here, in a gambling den.”

“It gets boring, looking at ledgers and such all the time.”

Tristan grinned. “What do you do when you get bored?”

Rafe looked at him as though he’d asked if he could fly. “I continue working. Boredom is not an excuse not to work.”

“Do you ever go sailing?”

Rafe returned his attention to the sphere. “No.”

“I’ve started a business of designing yachts, having them built. The first, I just finished, is mine of course, but I thought the second could be yours.”

“I have no need of a boat.”

Tristan fought not to clench his jaw. A yacht was not a
boat
. Especially the ones he was designing. By God, the luxury built into his own vessel was appalling. “You might be surprised. The sea can bring calm to the soul.”

“If one has a soul, but still it’s not something on which I wish to waste my hard-earned coin.”

“I wasn’t going to have you pay for it. It would be another gift. God knows I don’t need the money, and I enjoy designing something that so closely resembles a ship.”

Rafe studied him. “What are you doing here, Tristan? We’re not friends, acquaintances, or even brothers, really.”

Tristan shoved himself to his feet. “We
are
brothers.”

“Why? Because we came from the same mother, had the same father? Being a brother is more than that.”

“Why will you not let go of the past? It’s tearing Sebastian up that you’ve yet to forgive him for leaving you at that blasted workhouse. Do you really think he had a choice?”

“We all have choices.”

Tristan knew this discourse was pointless. Rafe was beyond listening. Tristan took some comfort in the fact that Rafe hadn’t flung the globe across the room. He sighed. “I’m going to christen my new yacht in two weeks. I thought you might like to go sailing with us.”

“I shall be too busy.”

“Enjoying your new mistress?”

“She’s none of your concern.”

“Bring her.”

Rafe’s brow furrowed. “You’re joking. She’s the by-blow of an earl. I’m sure her presence would offend the sensibilities of your wife.”

“If you think that, then you don’t know my Anne very well. And I wish you did. She’s a remarkable woman. You’d like her. Anyway—” Tristan set his empty glass on the desk. “—the invitation is open should you change your mind. Two weeks from Friday, be at Easton House at eleven.”

“Sebastian’s invited as well.”

“Of course he is. He, his wife, and his heir.”

“My schedule is full.”

“Your loss.”

Tristan turned on his heel and marched from the room. He wouldn’t give up on Rafe, not yet.

R
afe had never expected to be glad of a visit from his brother, but for a few moments he’d been spared thoughts of Evelyn Chambers. She’d been haunting him all day, and he knew that as of twenty-two minutes ago—if Wortham were punctual at all—she had arrived at his residence. Laurence would show her to her bedchamber, introduce her to the maid—Lila—who would see to dressing her, fixing her hair, and whatever else ladies’ maids did. Servants would assist in unpacking her things. They would see that she was settled and comfortable as she waited for his arrival.

Spinning the globe, he suddenly wished he was somewhere else—someone else. If his brothers ever learned the truth about the sort of man he truly was, they would want little to do with him. He shoved back the rancid thoughts.

Mick, his main man, stepped through the doorway. His slender physique hid a well-toned body that often gave Rafe a good going over when they sparred in the boxing room hidden away downstairs.

“I thought you should know that Lord Wortham has settled his accounts.”

Rafe fought not to look surprised. “Where did he get the money I wonder?”

“I can ask around.”

“No need. It’s not important.” The reckless way he played at cards, he’d be back in Rafe’s debt soon enough. “Has Ekroth made an appearance?”

“About an hour ago.”

As a general rule, Rafe didn’t allow cheating in his establishment. Not from his customers and certainly not by those hired to oversee the games. But sometimes exceptions were needed. “See that the games don’t favor him tonight.”

Mick arched a thick dark brow. While he might have been hoping for an explanation, he knew better than to insist upon one. “I’ll arrange it.”

“You may also inform him that he is barred from spending any time with the girls.”

“He’ll take his business to another club if he’s not satisfied here.”

“I’ll ensure no other club will have him.”

After Mick left, Rafe set the globe on the corner of his desk and gave it one final spin. He’d not relegate it to a shelf. He wasn’t quite certain how he felt about it. Grateful, but not quite comfortable with the gratitude.

It was nearly four hours later before he left his office and made his way to the back stairs at the rear entry of the building. He’d never had a guest at his residence, few knew where he lived. He didn’t know why he had given Wortham his address instead of simply sending for the girl. For some reason, the night before, his ability to think coherently had left him completely for a time. Thank goodness it had returned.

He climbed into his carriage. He was not avoiding what awaited him at the residence. He simply had a great many items at the club that required his attention: bills, deliveries, cheaters.

It was dark, a light drizzle falling, by the time his carriage clattered to a stop in front of the monstrosity that he owned. He didn’t know why he’d bothered to take it for payment of a debt owed, except that at the time he’d wanted it and he’d felt that a man of his wealth should own a residence. Even if he seldom spent any time here.

He preferred his apartments at the club. They weren’t as quiet. The walls thrummed with the activity that took place on the floors below. He could be in a room alone, but not feel lonely. Here, the servants were so blasted quiet that they might as well be ghosts.

Like some ominous harbinger of ill winds, lightning flashed as he stepped out of his carriage and strode up the steps. It was chilly tonight, but he would have a woman to warm him. Already he was reconsidering his misgivings about this arrangement. She would come in handy after all.

Before Rafe arrived at the landing, Laurence was opening the door. Sometimes he thought the butler did little else except stand at the ready to open the door for him. He handed over his hat and coat. He began tugging off his gloves. He wanted to go to his room and remove everything but that would have to wait. “Is she here?”

“Yes, sir. Waiting in the parlor, but I’m not sure . . .”

His voice trailed off. Rafe stilled and gave him a hard glare. “But what, man? Spill it.”

“I’m not quite sure she understands her purpose in being here. She seems to believe she is to manage the household.”

Rafe shrugged. “She can do that if she wishes.”

Laurence scowled. “I am given to understand that she believes it is to be her only duty.”

Rafe swore harshly. Wortham, the stupid little sod, wouldn’t explain things, would he? It was his lack of guts that characterized his losing at the tables. What did she think last night was about?

“She brought her things, did she not?” he asked, slapping his gloves into Laurence’s waiting palm.

“No, sir, I fear she brought nothing save herself. Lord Wortham made quite the hasty retreat. It left her a bit flummoxed.”

“No matter. I’m sure she knows why she’s here.” And that he would be providing everything she required. He headed for the parlor.

“What time will you be dining, sir?” Laurence asked.

“Give us half an hour.” That should be all the time he needed to set things right with her, to lay out her duties, his expectations.

Opening the doors to the parlor, he strode in, staggered to a stop. She was in profile, standing by the window, gazing out on the rain, looking as forlorn as the weather. She turned slightly at his entry. She was wearing black, a hideous color. It made her look ill. He wanted to see her in blue, a deep blue that would enrich the shade of her eyes. It appeared she was baring very little skin, that her dress buttoned up to her chin, but it was impossible to be certain because she was wearing a cloak.

“I see Laurence didn’t adequately see to your comfort, didn’t bother to take your wrap.”

She brought it more closely about her. “No, he offered, but I’ve been chilled, even with the fire.”

“Scotch should help there.” He went to a table in the corner and poured a generous amount into two glasses, concentrating on his actions because for some damned reason his hands were shaking. It had nothing to do with the notion that he would soon be touching her, stripping her clothes from her body, ordering her to lie on his bed—

Later, that would all come later. He’d been fighting all day not to think about it. Lust. It was all lust, animalistic, barbaric needs that a man possessed, that consumed him. He shoved aside all thoughts of what secrets might be hidden from him beneath her clothing, picked up the glasses, and crossed over to where she waited beside a chair near the fireplace. At least she’d moved away from the window.

He could not mistake the wariness in her eyes as she took the glass he extended toward her. She was right to fear him. He wouldn’t abuse her, he would never willingly hurt her, but he had little doubt that eventually he would cause her pain. Even the women he paid for his pleasures suffered some because he gave them nothing beyond the physical, and women, bless them, seemed to need more than that.