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Authors: Suzanne Enoch
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whose unique and frequently scandalous pasts made them her compatriots and allies and friends. And now she’d found Keating Blackwood.
“I am cautiously amused,” she conceded. “If I knew for certain why you seem willing to take the blows meant for me, I would even be tempted to remove the modifier from that sentence.”
A slow smile curved his mouth, and this time his eyes twinkled. “Then we’ll have something to discuss when we go driving tomorrow afternoon, won’t we?”
* * *
Keating resisted the urge to wipe the lingering taste of virginal affront from his mouth as he rode back to Baswich House. Six years ago the females’ papas might indeed have come after him with torches and muskets. Being Bloody Blackwood, however, offered him a kind of protection he’d never anticipated. And apparently he was expected to misbehave to a certain degree.
At least those chits wouldn’t be wagging their tongues about Camille Pryce tonight. Of course Fenton might prefer if they did; any additional incentive to drive her back to the altar would undoubtedly please the marquis. Keating scowled. That likely should have occurred to him before he decided to attempt being a hero. Or his idea of one, anyway.
Hooper informed him that Greaves was attending meetings in Parliament, so he made his way up to his friend’s generous library to answer the correspondence from Fredericks, his estate manager. It was the first time in six years that Fredericks had had actual duties to see to, but the old fellow had also managed Havard’s Glen for thirteen years before that, when he’d had no guidance at all.
The liquor tantalus beneath the library’s center window glinted in the late afternoon sun, but he turned his back on the damned thing and went to find a book. He’d nearly missed his last second chance today because of his drinking. And apparently he smelled of liquor.
Dropping into a chair, Keating lifted his arm and smelled his sleeve. All he could detect was the faint scent of lemons from where the red-haired chit, Sophia White, had grasped his arm. He opened his coat and inhaled again, but perhaps he was too saturated with whiskey to be able to detect it himself.
“What are you doing?”
The Duke of Greaves sank into a neighboring chair, then reached over to pluck the book from Keating’s hands. “Pride and Prejudice ? ” He lifted an eyebrow. “When did you begin reading romantic fiction?”
“Five minutes ago.” Keating retrieved the book and snapped it shut. Wherever his search for insights into Camille Pryce might bring him, he wasn’t about to share any of it with Adam Baswich. “What are your plans this evening?”
“I’ve been asked to a dinner party by Lord and Lady Clarkson. I would suggest that you join me, but considering you assaulted their daughter this afternoon, you might do better to remain away.”
“Ah. Which one was she?”
“The one with black, curling hair.”
“Good to know, then.”
Silence. At the same time, he could practically hear the duke’s razor-sharp mind debating, assessing, plotting. “Very well,” Greaves finally said. “Don’t tell me what the devil you think you’re about. Don’t tell me why you talk about making a new start in the morning, and then become some sort of kissing bandit in the afternoon. In return, I won’t tell you to stop behaving like an ass before the entire House of Lords tars and feathers you.”
Pushing to his feet, Keating tucked the borrowed book beneath his arm. “Fair enough. In fact, in thanks for your fairness, I will refrain from mentioning your … rather colorful past.”
“Good.”
“It’s amazing how much menace you’re able to put in a single word, my friend,” Keating returned mildly. If he hadn’t been far beyond caring, he might have found it off-putting. “As for tonight, I think I’ll step out for an early dinner at The Tantalus Club and then retire for the evening.”
“You— Oh.” Greaves cleared
“I am cautiously amused,” she conceded. “If I knew for certain why you seem willing to take the blows meant for me, I would even be tempted to remove the modifier from that sentence.”
A slow smile curved his mouth, and this time his eyes twinkled. “Then we’ll have something to discuss when we go driving tomorrow afternoon, won’t we?”
* * *
Keating resisted the urge to wipe the lingering taste of virginal affront from his mouth as he rode back to Baswich House. Six years ago the females’ papas might indeed have come after him with torches and muskets. Being Bloody Blackwood, however, offered him a kind of protection he’d never anticipated. And apparently he was expected to misbehave to a certain degree.
At least those chits wouldn’t be wagging their tongues about Camille Pryce tonight. Of course Fenton might prefer if they did; any additional incentive to drive her back to the altar would undoubtedly please the marquis. Keating scowled. That likely should have occurred to him before he decided to attempt being a hero. Or his idea of one, anyway.
Hooper informed him that Greaves was attending meetings in Parliament, so he made his way up to his friend’s generous library to answer the correspondence from Fredericks, his estate manager. It was the first time in six years that Fredericks had had actual duties to see to, but the old fellow had also managed Havard’s Glen for thirteen years before that, when he’d had no guidance at all.
The liquor tantalus beneath the library’s center window glinted in the late afternoon sun, but he turned his back on the damned thing and went to find a book. He’d nearly missed his last second chance today because of his drinking. And apparently he smelled of liquor.
Dropping into a chair, Keating lifted his arm and smelled his sleeve. All he could detect was the faint scent of lemons from where the red-haired chit, Sophia White, had grasped his arm. He opened his coat and inhaled again, but perhaps he was too saturated with whiskey to be able to detect it himself.
“What are you doing?”
The Duke of Greaves sank into a neighboring chair, then reached over to pluck the book from Keating’s hands. “Pride and Prejudice ? ” He lifted an eyebrow. “When did you begin reading romantic fiction?”
“Five minutes ago.” Keating retrieved the book and snapped it shut. Wherever his search for insights into Camille Pryce might bring him, he wasn’t about to share any of it with Adam Baswich. “What are your plans this evening?”
“I’ve been asked to a dinner party by Lord and Lady Clarkson. I would suggest that you join me, but considering you assaulted their daughter this afternoon, you might do better to remain away.”
“Ah. Which one was she?”
“The one with black, curling hair.”
“Good to know, then.”
Silence. At the same time, he could practically hear the duke’s razor-sharp mind debating, assessing, plotting. “Very well,” Greaves finally said. “Don’t tell me what the devil you think you’re about. Don’t tell me why you talk about making a new start in the morning, and then become some sort of kissing bandit in the afternoon. In return, I won’t tell you to stop behaving like an ass before the entire House of Lords tars and feathers you.”
Pushing to his feet, Keating tucked the borrowed book beneath his arm. “Fair enough. In fact, in thanks for your fairness, I will refrain from mentioning your … rather colorful past.”
“Good.”
“It’s amazing how much menace you’re able to put in a single word, my friend,” Keating returned mildly. If he hadn’t been far beyond caring, he might have found it off-putting. “As for tonight, I think I’ll step out for an early dinner at The Tantalus Club and then retire for the evening.”
“You— Oh.” Greaves cleared
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