What I Did For a Duke (15 page)

She turned and bolted all the way up the stairs wearing an enormous, wicked grin that her brother couldn’t see.

Ian said nothing. She didn’t hear him move at all.

Doubtless he was frozen in place.

Chapter 14

M
oncrieffe decided to spend the hour before he was due to go shooting—one of the advantages of a visit to the country, firing enormous weapons long distance, and mucking about with dogs—in the Eversea library.

He was buoyant with the triumph of the roses. He’d bestowed pearls upon women he’d courted before, he’d indulgently paid lengthy bills for all manner of folderol presented to him by modistes and run up by mistresses, he’d given jewels to his wife, but never, never had he enjoyed giving a gift as much as he’d had this morning, regardless of its strategic purpose. He’d enjoyed the giving as much as Genevieve clearly had enjoyed the getting, judging from the colors she’d turned and that glow in her eyes. A man could grow almost too accustomed to seeking that response to a gift, the way one grew to love opium (not that
he
was familiar with that particular vice) or drink. He could spend sleepless nights imagining how to go about getting it again.

Harry’s response had been almost as much of a pleasure.

Every bit of the large library had been given over to shelves and books that had been kept passionately dusted, and many of which had even been read, judging from the faint creases along the spines. Most were sturdily bound in leather and stamped in gold lettering, and a quick perusal told him the collection was neatly organized, impressively comprehensive, and startlingly eclectic. He’d expected something more haphazard, given the predilections of the Everseas.

And so he roamed the brown, caramel, and cream-colored wool carpet before the shelves, orienting himself. He liked reading about science and nature and geography, he liked reading about guns and sports and adventures of the sort written about by Mr. Miles Redmond—he’d very little patience for poetry or fiction, as real life, he found, was vivid enough when lived properly, and was best confronted directly, rather than obliquely approached through words strung together by dreams and fancies, á la Byron. Who was represented on the shelves, along with a respectable selection of his poetic brethren.

His eyes toured the spines of the science books en route to his goal. Notably—unsurprisingly—missing were the important volumes about the South American land of Lacao written by explorer Miles Redmond, the works that had made him famous and in demand as a dinner guest and speaker.

One might even say they were as missing as
Lyon
Redmond was.

If one possessed a dark sense of humor.

In a row of books about the natural sciences his eyes were arrested by a title on one slim spine. It wasn’t what he’d come to find, but he smiled, and slid it from the shelf. He rifled idly through pages for a moment.

He tucked it under one arm. Likely it would become useful.

He strolled onward. After a few more moments of perusal he found the kind of book he’d in fact been looking for. He pulled it from the shelf, and opened it.

He heard the footfall on marble in the hall outside of the library, and looked up. He wasn’t surprised to see Lord Osborne standing in the library doorway. His expression when the roses had arrived had almost been as priceless as Genevieve’s.

He suspected Osborne had, in fact, gone in search of him.

He cast his gaze up, but not his entire head. “Oh, good morning again, Osborne.”

He dropped his gaze again to the page of the book.

Harry ventured deeper into the room. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Lord Moncrieffe.”

Alex looked up, gazed at him for one, two seconds with a mild, faint, disinterested smile. And then looked down again at the book.

Harry didn’t interpret this as an invitation to leave.

“A fine volume there on sixteenth-century Italian painters. The one you’re holding.”

“Indeed it is,” he agreed sagely, though he could have been holding a volume of French erotica, for all he truly knew the difference between fine and not fine. It
was
a volume of sixteenth-century Italian painters. That much he knew. And that’s why he was reviewing it. It was like taking a peek into the mind of Genevieve Eversea.

“I recognized the binding. That’s how I knew which book you were reading.”

“Did you?” His words were so faint they were barely words. As though the book was absorbing his attention so thoroughly none could be spared for conversation.

Harry came forward, pretended to stand before the shelves. Something was on his mind. His whole being fair vibrated with distraction.

“Genevieve—” Ah, and there it was. Harry let her name ring alone, surrounding it with significant little cushions of silence. Essentially throwing his privilege to use her first name down like a gauntlet. “Miss Eversea, that is—is an admirer of Italian painters.”

“Yes,” the duke confirmed decisively.

Yes
was clearly not the word that Harry wanted to hear.

He instantly set to meandering restlessly. He poked up the lid of a humidor and peered in at the cigars; he drew a finger across a collection of liquor in carafes as though strumming a harp, he sat briefly in a heavy brown velvet high-backed chair; he rose again, wandered over to the hearth and stood near the fire, which had been lit and was burning healthily. An extravagance, but then it was a well-used room and the Everseas could afford to burn wood profligately. He craned his head up and peered at the gigantic Eversea ancestor peering down from over the fire. Someone in a ruff, possessing that handsome face stamped on the Eversea men, attended by a skinny, long-nosed dog.

“I’ve always loved this room,” Harry finally proclaimed, with exaggerated—and pointed—affection.

The duke decided to play.

He hoisted his head from his book. “You’ve spent much time in it?”

“As much time here as in my own father’s library, it seems.” He presented this triumphantly.

“I hope to spend a good deal of time here as well,” the duke allowed cryptically. He returned his eye to the page of the book.

A blessed second of quiet passed as Harry attempted to decipher this.

“Genevieve and I have read that very volume you’re holding . . .
together
. I remember one spring picnic we brought it along and had a
cracking
discussion of Veronese as we turned the pages. Together.”

“Did you?” What Moncrieffe was thinking: You had an
entire
discussion about one painter? What could be said about
one
painter? He was pleased to not have to attend that particular picnic.

Finally his thumbing rewarded him with what he was seeking.

Veronese . . . Veronese . . . of course! As he’d told Genevieve, he’d seen a Veronese painting when he’d visited Italy. Memorably because he’d found it erotic: Venus and Mars again, and this time Venus was wearing not a shred, and Mars was kneeling, getting ready to, as he’d inappropriately shared with Genevieve, give Venus a pleasuring.

“Genevieve loves a particular
kind
of painter . . .” Harry began in a lecturing tone.

“She likes light and a grace of line, mythological subjects rich in subtext. She believes Botticelli is not rated highly enough as a painter. I happen to agree. I’ve seen his
Venus and Mars
and I am quite moved by his use of mythological subjects. Very sensual.”

Harry looked thunderstruck.

Hmm. The duke didn’t know why he should feel authentically pleased by the fact that Genevieve had entrusted him with a confidence she hadn’t yet confided in Harry.

“She hadn’t shared that particular insight with you about Boticelli, Osborne? Perhaps it’s a new one. One she’s had only recently.”

“I suppose I shall need to reconsider his work,” he stammered. “I know very little of it can be found outside of Italy.”

“Perhaps you ought to hie off to Italy straightaway to have a look at it. Ha-ha!”

Harry was now frozen in place. He was staring at the duke, and was that . . . oh yes it was!
Temper
actually narrowed his eyes. It was clearly a relatively new condition for him.

“Ha-ha!” Harry laughed unconvincingly. “Perhaps I
should
. Perhaps I should. Italy is a beautiful country. But I should hate to miss the merriment here at Eversea House, so . . . I think I shall stay.”

After a moment Moncrieffe allowed himself a faint, faint puzzled frown, as if this was all the same to him.

He returned his attention to the book, of which he’d read only about five or six words. He’d also changed his mind about house parties. Tormenting young lords was proving to be far more entertaining than he’d ever anticipated.

Harry was clearly unprepared to leave the library just yet, as though he thought leaving the duke alone with that volume on sixteenth-century artists was akin to leaving him alone with Genevieve.

Instead he strolled over to the window and pushed away a sable-colored velvet curtain and peered out. His profile was quite nobly abstracted and troubled.

“We may have rain soon,” he said uselessly.

The elephant in the room, of course, was the bouquet of hothouse flowers the height of a three-year-old child the duke had sent to Genevieve anonymously.

“Well,” he said brightly, turning around, having made a valiant effort to. “Perhaps we can have a good chin-wagging about art sometime, as I fancy myself something of an expert.”

A predictable tactic: befriending one’s rival.

Unless this was strictly a display of possessiveness from someone accustomed to basking in unilateral admiration.

“If I could count the number of times I’ve discussed it with Miss Eversea . . .” Harry said driftingly.

“You’ve discussed it many times with her?” the duke said thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Harry said triumphantly.

“And yet in not one of those discussions did she mention Botticelli and his . . .
Venus and Mars
?”

And the duke casually lifted his head and looked Osborne evenly in the eye.

You’re outmatched, Osborne
.

Harry stared. He breathed in and out, audibly. He likely agreed with the duke’s silent assessment. And wasn’t at all happy about it.

Moncrieffe thumbed through the pages to the
T
s and there it was. He studied the engraving to see if he could determine anything “magical” from it. He saw a nude woman. He approved of nude women.

“. . . I understand Lady Blenkenship is a lover of art, as well.”

“She is!” Harry agreed hurriedly.

“She shared with me her sketches of kittens. I found them very affecting.”

There was a hesitation.

“She does love kittens.” Harry sounded a bit despondent.

“Who doesn’t love a kitten?” the duke murmured, flipping a page.

He in truth wanted to be alone again. He couldn’t say he was any more passionate about art today than he was yesterday, but he
did
want to actually
read
a page or two.

“She didn’t seem to know much about Botticelli. Or Veronese. Or Titian, Lady Blenkenship. Then again, not one of those artists has ever painted a kitten, to my knowledge.”

A hesitation.

“Quite so,” Harry acknowledged, a bit glumly.

“In fact, she’s a delightful girl, Lady Millicent. So lively and pleasant.”

And she was a lush thing, too, with hips a man would be happy to clutch, but that was a conversation for men who were less sober than they were.

“She certainly is.” Harry brightened a little. But then frowned and looked uncertain again. He wrapped his hand around the cord of the curtains and twisted the soft thing absently.

The duke studied Harry again objectively. He was a little puzzled. He could see why Genevieve Eversea’s head was filled with dreams of the man in front of him. And even twenty years ago Moncrieffe doubted anyone would consider him a handsomer choice than Harry.

And doubtless Harry had never dreamed the duke was a serious rival for Genevieve’s affections.

What Moncrieffe had always possessed was
presence
. Like iron filings to a magnet he’d always drawn eyes to him when he entered the room with a gust of certainty and arrogance, comfortable in his rank, his intelligence. He’d never been a weathervane. Rather the opposite, in fact: he could be perversely unmovable for someone who thought and moved rather quickly.

But for a man who intended to set in motion an engagement to Lady Millicent Blenkenship during this very house party, Lord Harry Osborne was showing signs of ambivalence rather quickly.

He knew what to say next. He had an obligation to Genevieve to say it.

“My own art collection is in want of someone who will show me how to love it even more than I do,” he said offhandedly.

Those words were potent weapons, he knew. My. Own. Art. Collection.

The unspoken words were of course: Who better than Genevieve Eversea to preside over my art collection?

Harry was deciding what to say. “How fortunate you are to have an art collection,” he finally chose. Harry was struggling mightily to contain a note of bitterness.

“Oh, it’s ancestors, primarily,” he said, all but yawning, and flipped a page of the book despite the fact that he hadn’t yet read it. “Row upon row of men and women who resemble me. And some ancient Italian paintings I know nothing about but I’m confident Miss Eversea would be able to identify and appreciate.”

He glanced up long enough to reassure himself that Harry was motionless and struggling to prevent his features from arranging themselves in a stricken expression.

And then he returned his attention to his book.

They both swiveled their heads when brisk boot heels echoed on the marble outside the door.

“Ho, Osborne, Millicent said she’d thought you’d gone into the library. We’re getting ready to set out for—”

Ian Eversea came to an abrupt halt at the library entrance. The sight of the duke fairly guillotined his sentence.

Moncrieffe straightened lazily to his full height, rather like a puma roused from a nap, and greeted Ian with a steady, inscrutable, very black stare.

Ian was helpless not to stare back.

There were dark purple crescents under Ian’s eyes, as though he hadn’t slept since . . . oh, since the duke had arrived, likely. Likely had pushed a chair beneath his doorknob. Perhaps slept surrounded by loaded pistols and knives.