Not Quite A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 6) (2 page)

He waited for her to take a seat herself, before lowering himself onto the seat which reminded him of a school bench for all its comfort.

Sitting, he contemplated Lady Patience.

Aside from the grace of her hand, she was everything that was considered undesirable in a female, he realized.

Plain, forceful, direct, and athletic in her body.

And for some reason inexplicable to him, he liked her for it.

He liked her for presenting herself so honestly to the world.

And so. . . He would honor her with a bit of honesty from himself. . . A rarity if ever there was one.

Before he could begin, a butler entered.

The middle aged, ginger-haired man dressed in simple blacks, bowed slightly.

She didn’t smile but rather said, “Tea for two.”

Charles was tempted to suggest it was unnecessary to provide refreshment but he’d already put his foot in it and didn’t need to be blatantly rude. After all, he was supposed to be somewhat charming, even if it didn’t seem to affect Lady Patience.

The butler left them and she folded her hands, her beautiful hands, before her.

“Please, Lord Charles,” she said calmly, “do impart whatever bad news you have.”

“No tea first?” he queried, leaning back.

“I shall drink it to fortify my battered self if the need arises.”

He nearly laughed. Her reply was so impressive but, unsure if she was as serious as she seemed or making fun as he hoped, he managed to cough. “Very wise.”

She blinked. “In truth, I am not as patient as my name and would prefer if you came out with it.”

There it was again.

She had a seriousness, not to mention directness, to her that belied the youth of her appearance. “Lady Patience, your uncle, was he a prudent man?”

“No.”

He found himself grasping for words. She’d replied too quickly and tersely. He was stunned. Again.

She let out a tired but resigned sigh. “Oh dear. Uncle Reginald must have done something quite foolish for a man of your nature to be so stymied.”

Charles arched a brow “My nature?”

Lady Patience gave a simple nod and said factually, “Notorious and untrustworthy.”

It wasn’t often his nature was so casually laid out before him, especially by a young woman who had known him less than the course of half an hour, and so he found himself feeling a trifle indignant.

“Indeed?” he replied ineloquently.

Those magnificent eyes traveled up and down his form as if he were a bit of bread which, having molded ever so slightly, should be chucked to the ducks. “Oh, yes. It’s written all over your beautiful face.”

“My beautiful face,” he echoed. He was aware that his face was appealing to ladies. He and his brother had been the toast of London. He didn’t spend much time thinking on it, but his looks had usually proved advantageous.

“I say, you’re doing it again.” She cocked her head to the side, assessing him further. Said assessment sent her spectacles to the tip of her nose. She pushed them back up. “Are you certain there’s nothing—

“My hearing is exceptional,” he cut in, feeling completely off foot. In general, it was he who sent people reeling. After all, he lived beyond the bounds of society and he did have a notorious reputation. She’d gotten that right. However, proper young ladies usually fluttered and babbled in his presence.

What the devil was happening?

“You’ve merely surprised me,” he explained.

She gave the barest shrug.

And how had they gotten so far afield from her uncle’s lack of rectitude? Surely, he should direct the conversation back and yet, instead, he heard himself ask, “How do you draw such a conclusion?”

She sighed, a long suffering sigh. “My lord, do you truly wish me to detail your shortcomings?”

As he stared at her, he didn’t know if he should be amused or horrified. In all his life, as the son of a duke and then the brother of one, no one had ever dared speak thusly to his face.

Oh he’d been insulted. When one slummed in riverside taverns, one was likely to be called a host of colorful things. Or if one was in and out of married ladies’ boudoirs, scenes with husbands yelling were prone to occur.

But this somehow felt different.

She wasn’t judging him. It felt more like she was one of those new and fashionable archaeologists, like his twin’s new wife, who made studies of things.

Well, he wasn’t a thing. And he wasn’t going to be examined. Especially not by a young woman whose worldly experience was almost certainly limited to novels (not that he didn’t adore novels) and the fields about the estate.

He cleared his throat. “Your elucidation on my character is unnecessary.”

She waved his comment away. “In any case, you were going to tell me about Uncle Reginald. Did he lose a considerable sum?”

“You are familiar with his unfortunate gambling?” He couldn’t hide the shock from his voice.

“Oh dear.” She glanced askance.

For one moment, he could have sworn she was eyeing the brandy but proper young women didn’t drink brandy in the afternoon.

She folded her beautiful hands. “What sum has he lost?”

“It all depends,” he replied, not entirely sure how to answer her question. Was a house a sum?

Her hazel eyes narrowed. “You are being vague, my lord, and it isn’t appreciated.”

“I apologize for my vagueness, but you see, I do not know the value of the house and its surroundings.”

“The house,” she repeated, her face blank.

Here it was. The point of no return. He had a strong suspicion that overt gentleness wouldn’t be the correct course with Lady Patience and so he said plainly, “I hate to tell it to you, but your uncle deeded Barring House over to me just a few nights ago. Clearly, he has not told you?”

He wouldn’t have been surprised if the uncle had run for the continent rather than return and face this gorgon.

Instead of horror or fainting fits, she replied coolly, “Such a thing would be impossible, my lord.”

“Indeed?” Charles knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t help teasing, “Afraid is he? A man is often afraid when he’s done something so—”

“Uncle Reginald is afraid of nothing now,” she cut in.

A sinking sense of dread rested in Charles innards.

“
Now
?” he prompted.

“He’s dead, Lord Charles.”

Chapter 2

Lady Patience, daughter of Baron Montbank, eyed the man who’d come to toss her out of her home and found herself wondering how far she could push him.

He was beautiful. Beyond beautiful really. Obsidian eyes peered out from black-winged brows. A chiseled jaw framed an aristocratic nose and lips which promised sin. Black hair shone so black it had the barest blue hint to it. And he was dressed as sharply as his cheekbones in simple black and buff. Nothing of the dandy about him.

Or at least, this is how her pseudonym Mr. P. Auden, author, would have described him. Patience was quite good at describing things in the style so popular today as evidenced by her numerous popular works. Works which had kept Barring House afloat whilst her uncle had gambled his yearly funds away.

P. Auden would have found Lord Charles to be the dearest inspiration for a hero that would make every lady within a country mile swoon.

Lady Patience, on the other hand, knew him for what he was, a bounder and a cad.

It was unfortunate that she liked cads. Oh, not to have as true friends, but as subjects of study. They did make the best fodder for her novels. Usually, she had to travel up to London to find such interesting material for her works. Chance had brought a rake, a clearly excellent rake, to her.

Yes. . . Perhaps, she shouldn’t push him too hard so that he wouldn’t promptly evict her. Then she could draw a proper sketch of his character and use it for her newest work.

The news of Uncle Reginald’s tragic death had not caused her too much pain. Though she knew it did not reflect well upon her, she’d found the news to be that of wearied relief.

Uncle Reginald had been a sorrowful and broken figure. One who had succumbed to the French disease. She knew the symptoms from her research and every time he gambled, she’d seen him break down further.

Death, in many ways, had been a blessed relief from the drawn out, brutal end that had awaited him and the continued heartbreak of the gambling house.

Still, he’d taken her in when no one else would. As a girl, she’d been nothing more than the impoverished orphan of a gentleman.

Once, Uncle Reginald had been a kind and good man.

Despite the fact that Uncle Reginal had been doomed to a sad end, she’d not let Lord Charles off too easily. Such a dissipated man needed to understand the effects of his actions. . . Then again, Lord Charles was not why Uncle Reginald gambled. That she knew.

Even so, Lord Charles had grown remarkably serious as if her news had caused her more pain than his had caused her.  

Then again, unlike Lord Charles, she wasn’t surprised by the news that Barring House was lost to her. Uncle Reginald had been gambling away bits and pieces of the household goods for years.

Such actions had helped her to understand why an entail could be a very good idea. At least then, one couldn’t throw away all the beautiful art in one’s house in a drunken and regrettable episode.

“Dead. I understand that,” Lord Charles at last repeated.

There it was again.

He did love to repeat what she said. Was she so very odd to him? Yes, she realized. She was. No doubt, a man like him was used to bits of lace. Ladies with no thought or ambition beyond pretty jewels and the best seat at dinner.

He seemed to take in her attire with new interest. Lines formed about his mouth as he asked, “How did he die?”

This was complicated and the only thing she could do was answer simply. “The report is drowning.”

He didn’t ask, but the unpleasant question hanged in the air. So, she decided to answer it.

“An accident,” she said softly. Then she cleared her throat forcing herself to face the reality of her uncle’s death. “Or so they’ve decided. He was coming home from London, fell off his horse, and drowned in the river on the edge of the estate.”

Lord Charles was silent for a long pause before stating, “I see.”

And she felt certain he did, indeed, see.

It was possible that her uncle had met with an unfortunate accident. She didn’t add that since he had stripped off his boots and his coat that it was unlikely he had fallen into the water.

Truthfully, she couldn’t bear thinking about it.

Uncle Reginald might have succumbed to his worst demons, but she could never have wished him ill.

Her own fascination with the demimonde and its often dark world arose from her own uncle’s descent into it. She was very aware of that. That fascination had also saved them from financial ruin. P. Auden was the most successful author of the day. Something for which she was grateful.

Reginald had known her secret. One of only four people that did. To her surprise, he’d been proud of her.

Tears stung her eyes. The old man had been so much trouble. And yet. . .

“Lady Patience, please accept my condolences.”

She drew herself up and forced her voice to be strong. “Better not to gamble with such broken men, my lord. That would be a better apology.”

“I had no idea he had dependents.”

“Would such knowledge justify your actions?”

Lord Charles didn’t look overly repentant but nor did he look disdainful.

“I did not force him to the tables,” he said.

She sighed. “No. You didn’t.”

A strange expression crossed his face. “I cannot be the conscience of every man who crosses my path.”

“Of course. After all, how can you be since you do not have one of your own?”

It was exactly what Lady Patience would say. The lady she had carefully constructed over the years. The lady who hid her true personality behind the perfect veneer of icy and rigid respectability.

Lady Patience was the opposite of her true self. The self she often longed to be all the time and not just when she wrote and traveled to London to do her research.

She waited for him to argue with her statement or make some cutting reply. He didn’t and she found herself suddenly wishing to backtrack. Perhaps, he did have some conscience. . . But she doubted it.

It was there in his beautiful, hard face.

Lord Charles had abandoned goodness some time ago.

The butler returned at that moment with tea.

After waiting for him to place the tray on the table near her favorite settee and wishing again that she could have a brandy as she truly wished rather than tea, she took up her duties and poured.

“How do you take it?” she asked as though they weren’t about to discuss her entire future.

Because while P. Auden could do whatever he wished and live however he wished, as could her secret self that ventured out into London’s scandalous society by night, Lady Patience had to do what the moral society dictated. And that society would expect her to accept the loss of the house she’d grown up in and find new lodgings.

“I take it black,” he replied tersely.

He suddenly stood.

At present, he was so beautifully tense, his body humming with some unknown emotion. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his intense figure.

He stalked to the window.

“So, what shall we do, my lord?” she asked calmly.

Staring out the panes and down to the gardens, he replied over his shoulder, “In all honesty, I have no idea.”

“It sounds as if you are unaccustomed to our present situation.”

“I am,” he said darkly. “You are an unexpected accoutrement to this asset.”

“The asset being the house?” she queried, straining the tea.

“Yes.”

“You have many assets?” she asked lightly, staring his broad back.

“Yes.”

It was a bit of a surprise. Usually men like him had few assets at all. The only thing that separated Lord Charles from her uncle was age, time, and luck.

“If you must know,” he said, “I planned on selling the house but that seems in bad taste now.”

She felt a twinge of astonishment. “Why should you alter your plans? I can leave within a fortnight if necessary.”