“I do not. Who do you think arranged for you to become Lady Kilcairn? It wasn’t that flighty Miss Gallant. You may be assured of that.”
“But, Mama—”
“Bah. Your viscount will find out eventually. He doesn’t signify, Rose. The sooner you realize that, the better.”
“Well, on that note,” Lucien said, retreating to the door, “I’ll leave you two to chat. I have some arrangements to make.”
Predictably, Fiona didn’t object, and he went downstairs to collect his hat and send for a mount. “I may be some time,” he informed Wimbole.
The butler pulled open the front door for him. “Any special instructions in your absence, my lord?”
He nodded. “If—and only if—Fiona goes visiting, you may show Rose my selection of special wines.”
“Yes, my lord. I will, of course, make certain the wines are kept in their protected environment.”
“My thanks, Wimbole.”
When Vincent appeared around the front leading his black gelding, Faust, Lucien swung up into the saddle and headed for Hanover Square. He didn’t want anyone—much less any of his servants who might have contact with Alexandra—to know his destination.
As he arrived at one of the long line of elegant houses and dismounted, he was surprised to realize that he was nervous; not for himself, but for Alexandra. And because if he made a bad step now, she would never forgive him.
He swung the brass knocker against the solid oak door. When it opened, he caught the elderly butler’s startled expression before it melded back into stuffy blandness. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
Lucien handed over his calling card. “I need to speak to His Grace.”
“If you’ll wait in the morning room, I’ll inquire.”
“I suggest you inquire strongly.”
“Y-yes, my lord.”
It had only been an hour since he’d last seen Alexandra, and he was already chafing to be with her again. It was new to him, this need to have someone in his life, this yearning to hear her voice and feel her touch. Love had seemed cloying and suffocating—not a genuine emotion so much as a clinging neediness. But this was not like that. It was nothing like he’d expected, and it alternately amused, pleased, and horrified him.
He looked up as the morning room door opened. The Duke of Monmouth had the remains of what must have been an impressive demeanor: tall and big boned, he had lost the meat that would make him capable of intimidating by his physical presence alone. Evidently no one had informed him that without the gristle to back up his famous hostility, he only looked blustery. Lucien wondered how long it had been since Alexandra had actually seen him.
“I am not going to take her and whatever damned by-blow you’ve gotten on her into my house,” the duke growled.
Lucien lifted an eyebrow. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” His gaze returned to the shorter figure following in the duke’s shadow. “Didn’t I specify that I wanted a private audience with you?”
“You’re lucky to be allowed into this house, Kilcairn,” Lord Virgil snapped, a lion now that he was in his father’s formidable company.
“I beg your pardon. Should I be addressing myself to Lord Virgil?” Lucien barely stifled a smile. This politeness of Alexandra’s did have its uses—it was blasted difficult to defend against, as he’d discovered firsthand.
“What do you want, Kilcairn? I won’t allow you to blackmail me. I’m ready to disown her, you know. Wash my hands of her completely.”
Lucien seated himself. “I don’t recall that I’ve threatened anything, or that I’ve asked for anything but a few moments of your time.”
“We know you, Kilcairn,” the younger Retting snarled.
“Apparently you don’t.” Lucien kept his gaze on Monmouth. “Nor do I intend to enlighten you until we can speak in private.”
Blustery black eyes met his cool gray ones. Monmouth should never have allowed Virgil into the room in the first place. It put the duke in the position of having to concede a point before the conversation had even begun.
“You’ve a head on your shoulders, Kilcairn,” the duke said grudgingly. “Virgil, get out.”
“But, Father—”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
