“Sorry. I’m still recovering from last evening.” Alexander sat up and cracked an eye to survey the room. “Oh, they’re gone. Thank goodness. The entire discussion was ridiculous. I wouldn’t ruin that little harpy if you begged me. Did you hear the way she spoke to me? I hope you sent them packing and informed Canterbell that under no circumstances would I wed the shrew. I don’t care what they claim.”
“You missed a few pertinent points, Your Grace,” Damon returned in a tired voice.
“She’s lying. Anyone can see it.” Alexander said, his legs only a little unsteady, as he stood and made his way to the sideboard. “Another brandy?”
Damon did not look pleased. Not at all. “Yes, thank you.” The lines of his jaw grew taut. “You were at the Perswick ball, Alexander.”
“I was not. I was with Oakhurst and Lady Maxwell. I distinctly recall Lady Maxwell commenting on my coat and asking when I’d had time to change it.” Alexander shrugged. “I’ve no idea what she meant. But at any rate, I wasn’t there. Lady Perswick detests Oakhurst even more than me. We would never have attended.”
“Oakhurst is untrustworthy.” There was an ugly glint in Damon’s eye. “And you are usually full of scotch in his company. How wouldyou know…anything?” His uncle took the refilled glass from Alexander’s hand.
“Even if I had been there, by some…miracle. I would never have touched that girl.”
“Alexander.”
“If she were compromised, which considering her personality I find…improbable, it would have to be a desperate man, or perhaps one that was blind. Or, someone far worse than I.”
“Worse than you?”
Alexander waved a hand and nearly fell into a table. “Yes. A…tradesman perhaps. Or a footman.”
“So this tradesman resembled you?” Damon scoffed. “Enough to convince Lord Canterbell and Lady Brokeburst? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?”
It did sound unlikely. Alexander, while he enjoyed his brandy a great deal, also dressed exceedingly well. No footman could carry off the coat he was presently wearing, for instance.
“Perhaps it is a scheme of Canterbell’s to make his daughter a duchess.”
“You can’t possibly—does Canterbell strike you as the sort of gentleman to make false accusations? Do you sense any dishonesty in one of Her Majesty’s most trusted confidants?” Damon’s voice rose.
“But even had I—she’s unappealing.” Alexander took a swallow of brandy, letting the liquid burn a path down his throat. “I would never have engaged that chit in conversation, let alone lured her into the darkness for a kiss,” he stated dramatically before falling back into his chair. “Good lord, she’s terrible.”
Alexander, as a rule, didn’t mind terrible. Had she behaved in such a manner towards him at the Perswick ball, he might have—No, absolutely not.He wasn’t there.
“Just because I’m accused of lechery by that old bat, Lady Brokeburst, doesn’t mean I must wed Canterbell’s daughter. LadyBrokeburst is nearly eighty. She has terrible eyesight and—”
“Marriage.” Damon paced back and forth across the rug before pausing before the window, his back to Alexander.
“Marriage,” Alexander repeated, bitterness flooding his tongue. This was a catastrophe. He didn’t want to wed anyone. Honestly, he’d always assumed he’d drop dead before having to do his duty and provide Roxboro with an heir given the way he lived. Damon was still hale and not yet fifty. He’d inherit and make a much better duke than Alexander.
“I’ll find a way out of this quagmire. This is only a setback to my plans,” he said, turning to face Alexander. “All is not lost.”
Damon’s plans. His political aspirations.
A wash of regret filled Alexander. Damon’s sole purpose in life was not…him.Or at least it shouldn’t be any longer. “I—played hazard at Binson’s. Tupped Lady Hastings. Stopped at the opium den.”
Damon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should hang Oakhurst from the rafters for his care of you last evening.”
“The visit to the brothel after the opium den is less clear.” Except for nearly having his throat slit, which he decided not to share with his uncle. Damon disapproved of Oakhurst. “There was a great deal of scotch involved. Possibly gin. Opium. Naked breasts on at least two occasions. I don’t recall much after that,” he admitted.
“A walking vice. You are living up to your name, nephew, and which taints Violet and Rose by association.” Damon raised a brow.
“I’m not to blame for their behavior.”
“Not all of it. But you set a poor example of a duke. When I encouraged you to enjoy life, take your pleasures as Charles never had a chance to—well, I didn’t think you would become London’s worst libertine.”
The mention of Charles Viceroy never failed to dampen the mood.
Damon lived with the knowledge he hadn’t been able to save the older brother he’d adored. Alexander’s father, Charles, had beenmurdered by thugs. Dragged from his carriage and stabbed so many times the wounds couldn’t even be counted properly. Damon suspected the assailants had been hired by Lord Cotswold, the lover of Alexander’s mother, Marianne.
