At Trick’s sardonic pronouncement, Garrick narrowed his eyes. The other men rose, and they all drifted toward the door, presumably to collect their things.
“Who will host?” Trick pressed. “I’ve no intention of spending all my weekends at home. Faraday, Milner? Damn, you both have wives. Garrick?”
“I’m…remodeling. No space at present.”
Trick frowned; the man lived in a fifty-room manor house. Old, yes, and in dire need of renovations, but surely there was an area they could use to play cards and enough bedrooms in sufficient shape to accommodate seven guests.
“We’ll ask Cainewood,” Milner suggested. “Lady Cainewood can go stay with his brother’s wife. I’ll drop by there later this—”
“Cainewood has that sister,” Fielding interrupted. “Er…Lady Kendra, that’s it.”
“Oh, damn. You’re right. He’d have to send her to Greystone, too.”
“Nay, gentlemen. Lady Kendra will be here. Though you’ll address her as Her Grace the Duchess of Amberley.” When the men’s mouths dropped open again, Trick shot them a wry smile. “Aye, the Chases will host—it’s the least they can do. Till next month, then?”
Before they could ask any questions he’d rather not answer, Trick grabbed a fresh cheroot and left to closet himself in his study, where he went straight to the carved walnut cabinet and poured himself a shot of strong Scotch whisky.
Kendra. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to kiss her or throttle her brothers. Perhaps both, although it probably wouldn’t be wise to threaten the Chases. Greystone, especially. From what he’d heard, Colin was deadly with a sword.
Trick sighed and dropped into his favorite worn leather chair. In the six months since King Charles had insisted he take up residence in his father’s ridiculously overblown house, this was the only room he’d redecorated to his own taste—classic, familiar, and comfortable. Lifting a heavy silver candlestick, he lit the cheroot and stuck it between his teeth, then sat back, rolling the glass between his palms and watching the candlelight glint off the faceted crystal.
What was he going to do? Whatcouldhe do? What did hewantto do?
The answer came to him, as clear as the flawless crystal cupped between his hands.
He wanted to marry Kendra.
He’d wanted to bed her the moment he’d glimpsed her in the shadows of that carriage. Then he’d thought it impossible—Cainewood’s sister, of all people. Cainewood, the last bastion of respectability in a society where morals were meaningless.
No one at King Charles II’s court was virtuous; no one, that was, except Kendra. The Chase men had sheltered her for all of her twenty-three years. Even Trick knew that, although he made it a point to keep as far from court as humanly possible.
Having her had been unimaginable, but now it was imminent. Of course, he would have to marry her in order to bed her, but his wedding day might as well come now as later—he had to sire an heir. And Lady Kendra Chase would make as fine a wife as any. She was of suitable aristocratic birth, and Lord knew she set his blood on fire. While it was likely she had no dowry to speak of—Cainewood was as cash-strapped as most of the Royalist nobility—the fact was, Trick didn’t need anyone else’s money. He had more of his own than he knew what to do with.
He blew out a perfect smoke ring and watched it rise to the Amberley crests carved into the oak ceiling. His vision blurred until he could almost see Kendra’s expressive face. Hers was a refreshing, wholesome beauty, and though of course he didn’t love her, he did want her. He supposed he was lucky to find that in a wife.
Aye, he would marry her. Smiling at the thought, he stubbed out the cheroot, threw back his head, and downed the whisky. The warmth of the liquor curled in his stomach. Down lower, his body stirred as he imagined Kendra in his bed. The more he thought about that, the more pleased he became.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t angry as hell at the situation.
“Pardon the interruption, your grace.”
Trick jerked around, still uneasy with the formal address—never mind that he’d held the title for three years. God knew he’d never wanted it; he’d never wanted anything that came from his father. But the damnable cur had died, and now people—most especially his father’s old retainers, like stuffy Compton—insisted on addressing Trick formally.
Trick gazed at the middle-aged man, wondering if he’d been born with a pike for a spine. Compton’s receding gray hair was combed straight back from his forehead, and his jowls shook when he spoke, making Trick want to laugh.
“Aye, Compton?”
“The Earl of Greystone is here to see you, your grace.”
Already? Could this family not leave him in peace for one evening? Trick sighed expansively, causing Compton’s nostrils to flare in disapproval of such a show of emotion.
“Bring him in,” Trick muttered, rising to pour himself another shot.
“Congratulations, Amberley,” Colin Chase said from behind him. “Shall we drink to your wedding tomorrow afternoon?”
Trick paused, then silently set about filling a second glass. “Tomorrow, is it?” He turned to hand the man his drink, meeting his eyes, deeper green than Kendra’s but just as lively and intelligent. “Bloody hell, can you not give a man time to get used to the idea?”
Colin sipped before answering, regarding Trick over the rim. “Jason can pull strings if he wants to. And time is of the essence…your heir may be on his way already.”
