CHAPTER 5
Dear Chauncey,
I’ve watched you leave for the second time since we first met, and I must admit it was much more difficult to bear this time. I believe it’s because over the past few months, you’ve become my best and only friend. Your letters have been my constant companion. I look forward to receiving one as soon as you arrive. I am counting down the seconds until the end of the term when you finally return to me
Your Friend,
Kitten (The Chemist)
Entering the parlor of his home, St. Clara pulled at his cravat, throwing it across the room that reminded him so much of his father. In fact, the entire townhouse was exactly as his father had left it upon his death. The deep-burgundy walls and black curtains of the parlor were all pieces from the former duke.
In desperate need of a drink, he marched over to the sideboard. Opening the decanter of Scots whisky, he closed his eyes and let the rich amber scent wash over him.
Reading his father’s hateful words about Pippa and learning that the man had actively investigated her family and tried to bribe her left St. Clara feeling betrayed and alone. It was proof that his father had deceived him all those years ago. He had never wanted to leave on a Grand Tour, but his father had been persistent, and when St. Clara returned, he and Pippa were no longer engaged.
Was his father the reason Pippa ended their engagement, or was it something else?
Pippa and St. Clara had been close since they were children, so close that some days he did not know where he ended and she began. It was a fact that his father commented on often. Now, he knew how much the late duke had despised their connection.
As St. Clara took a large gulp of the liquid, hazel eyes teased him behind his eyelids, bringing a pang of longing to slither from his abdomen to his chest. Soon the owner of those hypnotic eyes would be married to Summerset.
St. Clara wanted to run next door and pummel Wayford for arranging the match. After Wayford had run off to France with his mistress, St. Clara couldn’t believe the man had the audacity to return to England without a farthing. Of course, the first thing he would do was arrange a match for the only available woman in his home. His two daughters had long since been married: one to a vicar, the other to her cousin, the current Earl of Barksdale. Pippa was his only bargaining tool, and St. Clara was sure that the desperate Summerset would do anything to guarantee that O’Brien would not inherit his family dukedom.
Groaning, he drank the remainder of the whisky, resolving to leave Pippa Price in the past and focus on his future. He was no longer a boy who needed a friend; what he needed was a wife.
Before he could pour himself another drink, there was a brisk knock at the door before his butler, Turner, entered. “Your Grace, the Earl of Allendale requests an audience.”
Furrowing his brow, St. Clara tilted his head. What in God’s name did Allendale want with him?
“Send him in.”
Reluctantly, he sat his glass down, wishing he could pour one more shot of the decadent whisky before he faced Allendale. The man was a pariah, and whatever he wanted with St. Clara could not be good.
The earl glided into the room, his features set in determination. “St. Clara, I hoped to speak with you.”
Rising, St. Clara eyed the man suspiciously. “Allendale, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Straight to the point, that’s what I’ve always liked about you.” He removed his gloves, slapping them in his hands.
“I’m a duke. I have no time to waste.” St. Clara turned toward the sidebar, still needing the whisky to calm him. The addition of Allendale in his home only made him more on edge than discovering his father’s dubious ways. “Drink? I only have Scots whisky; you will find none of the Irish whiskey here, I’m afraid.”
“Just a little indulgence for me. It is the middle of the day after all.” Allendale went to sit on the sofa before stopping to look at St. Clara. “May I?”
“Yes, forgive my manners.” St. Clara turned and poured Allendale a glass before pouring his own, grateful that the man wanted a drink.
Why was Allendale there?The two men had never been friends or even closely acquainted like St. Clara was with other members of society. He and Allendale existed in two different circles and rarely spoke or interacted even when in each other’s vicinity.
Taking heavy steps toward Allendale, St. Clara held out the glass before sitting in the weathered armchair. He could not determine, for the hundredth time, why Allendale had visited him, of all people.
The older man gulped down the whisky like it was water, humming his approval. Sitting back, Allendale folded his short leg over his knee. “You need a wife.”
Suddenly it was perfectly clear to St. Clara why Allendale was there for a visit. Dear God, did the fates hate him that much?
“I do, and you wish for me to marry Lady Florentia?” He couldn’t hide the obvious flinch at saying her name.
Lady Florentia Vaughn was beautiful, yet that was her only redeeming quality. Her countenance was rude, abrupt, and entitled. If the chit wasn’t such a spoiled brat, St. Clara was sure she would’ve been married two Seasons ago.
Allendale shrugged his right shoulder, his right hand wide in invitation. “You need a wife, and I need a son-in-law. One preferably with a title and not a known cruelty to the weaker sex.”
