That was probably true, the Duchess thought, at least the respect part. “You will enjoy his company at dinner, ma’am,” she said easily. She raised her glass and Toby, the footman, poured her more lemonade. “Thank you,” she said and smiled at him.
“He should die.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” the Duchess said, ignoring the gasp from Mr. Crittaker, who was sitting next to Aunt Wilhelmina and thus could hear even her muttered words.
“I said the earl would cry over this ham. It is too salty and the pieces are sliced too thick.”
Mr. Wicks sent the Duchess an anguished look. He took another bite then excused himself. The Duchess knew poor Ursula couldn’t budge from her chair until her mother gave her permission to do so. As for Fanny and Antonia, they looked too astonished to budge.
She ate slowly, chewing thoughtfully as she looked at her young cousin James, who was just her age. He would probably be as large a man as Marcus when he reached his full growth. Now, though, he had still a boy’s slenderness. His hair was fair and slightly curly, his eyes a wonderful dark green, and his chin was square as the devil, stubborn, if she didn’t miss her guess. He was also very quiet, perhaps sullen, his eyes on his plate, eating one bite after the other without pause. He seemed oblivious of all of them. She remembered Ursula saying that he was angry because he wanted to be the man of the family, not Trevor. She noted the very beautiful onyx ring on the index finger of his right hand. It was set in an intricate gold design. She wondered idly where he’d gotten it.
The time crawled. She had no more thought, idle or otherwise, she was too bored, too itchy. She wished Marcus would come in. She just wanted to look at him. She also wanted to look at his ribs and his arm to see that he’d healed properly.
Finally, when she knew escape was now possible, she smiled and rose. “Forgive me, but I have business to see to. If you will all excuse me.”
“She thinks she’s royalty, the stupid bitch.”
“What did you say, Mama?”
“I said her gown is lovely, and looks quite rich.”
Mr. Crittaker choked on the muffin he was eating.
She walked sedately from the breakfast room, though, truth be told, she would have preferred running.
She went to the small back morning room she had taken over, and set herself to reading the London Times. She read the society pages, trying to find some amusing tidbits, but failed. It held only a mite of her attention for about ten minutes. She kept thinking about Marcus, wondering where he was.
She couldn’t wait to see what he made of that mincing fop, Trevor.
Marcus slowed Stanley to a canter, enjoying the fresh summer air on his face. The sun was high overhead, a bit warm, but no matter. Where was that wretched coxcomb, Trevor?
The gall of the man, stealing his ill-tempered stallion, Clancy, despite Lambkin’s assurances that the brute was mean and vicious and not to be trusted. Lambkin had said the American gentleman had just laughed, mounted Clancy without a single problem, and ridden off to the east. So Clancy had been feeling charitable, more’s the pity. Ah, but it never lasted. He hoped his cousin wasn’t dead, yet.
Marcus had been riding over three hours now, and still no sign of that poaching sod, Trevor. He’d stopped to speak to his tenants when he chanced upon them, feeling oddly warm inside when they greeted him enthusiastically and welcomed him home. The men had asked him all about the damned Frogs, finally beaten down into the ground just as they’d deserved, f
lattened by our British troops, aye, and about that tyrant, Napoleon, the king—no, bloody emperor—of the clobbered Frogs. His tenants treated him as if he’d been the one to make Napoleon abdicate single-handedly. The wives had smiled at him and given him cider. The children had regarded him with favorable awe.
It had felt good, damned good. For the first time, he’d felt like he really belonged here. As the master of Chase Park, as the earl of Chase. Maybe.
Marcus realized he was hungry. Where was Trevor? Had Clancy finally turned into himself again—treacherous bugger—and thrown him? Was he dead at this moment? A nice thought, that. No, he’d probably sprained his ankle and was limping gracefully back to the Park, one white soft hand pressed against his brow. Maybe he was even quoting some of Byron’s poetry to romanticize his trifling complaints.
Marcus snorted, then chanced to see someone riding toward him from the north. He pulled Stanley to a stop and waited.
It couldn’t be the fop, Trevor. No, as Clancy got closer, he saw that the man riding toward him was big, as large as he was—that is, the top part of him was. Maybe he was a dwarf with short legs, but Marcus didn’t think so. The man rode as one with that brute, Clancy, swaying easily in the saddle, in complete control, his gloved hands holding the reins easily. Damnation. It had to be that bloody Trevor.
When Clancy got close enough, Marcus, absolutely furious, feeling like a damned fool, shouted, “Why the hell didn’t you change your bloody fop’s name?”
The man didn’t answer until he’d pulled Clancy to a well-mannered halt directly in front of Stanley’s nose. He grinned, a white-toothed grin that held mockery, an infuriating understanding, and a good deal of humor. He shrugged, then said, in a soft southern Colonial drawl, “I presume you’re my cousin Marcus? The earl?”
Marcus stared at the man, a man with vibrant, nearly harsh features, strong nose and jaw, thick black hair and eyes as green as the water reeds that grew thick in the pond in the Chase gardens. He was muscular as hell, his body powerful, obviously an athlete, his posture indolent yet bespeaking authority. He simply didn’t look like a Trevor, damn his sod’s eyes.
“Yes. Why didn’t you change your name? Good God, man, Trevor! It’s enough to make a real man puke.”
Trevor laughed, showing dimples that didn’t look at all effeminate, but rather powerfully charming. Marcus would wager this man was a terror with women. He wanted to hate his guts, but he found he couldn’t. He even found himself smiling back at those damned dimples. Trevor said in that lazy drawl of his—stretching out endlessly, like thick honey, just taking its time—that should have made him sound like an affected half-wit, but didn’t at all, “It does tend to lead people to think of me in a different way,” Trevor Wyndham said easily. “That is, naturally, until they meet me. I believe my late father, another one of your uncles, thought it an elegant name. That aside, in all honesty, it is better than the other names he and my mother landed on my head.”
“What are they?”
“Horatio Bernard Butts.”