“I do not desire to become your wife, contrary to what your inflated ego likes to believe.” Sophia glanced at the settee where Mama observed them, her brows drawn together. “I thought I’d made my feelings clear during our carriage ride. I’ve begged for my father to send me to a convent rather than wed you.”
The green of Roxboro’s eyes deepened. “You? A nun?” A soft chuckle came from him. “God help us.”
The tense set of Mama’s shoulders relaxed. She sat back against the cushions assuming, incorrectly, that Sophia and Roxboro were having a pleasant conversation.
“I think I’d be rather good at it,” she hissed back. “Please refrain from your continued assumption that I concocted some scheme to become your duchess—”
“I thought,” he interrupted her calmly. “We’d agreed to blame Lady Brokeburst. At any rate, I do hope we are seated beside each other at dinner so that I may enjoy more of your wit, my lady. I cannot wait for a lifetime of it.”
“A much briefer length than my own, I’m certain. Given the misfortune you attract and the spirits you indulge in.”
“Bloodthirsty as well as annoying and hostile.” His nostrils flared. “What a joy our union will be. I count the minutes until our wedding day,” he said with barely a hint of sarcasm. Without looking away from her, he said to their butler, “Powell. A glass of scotch, if you have it.” Roxboro leaned forward once more and whispered, “I like it almost as much as brandy. And if I hadn’t a reason to become foxed tonight, I believe I’ve found one.”
*
He hadn’t meantto lose his temper.
Nor…feel such a rush of feeling at the sight of his unwanted bride to be. Annoyance, of course. Anger. But also…the unexpected need to cover that scathing, but completely decadent mouth with his own.
Alexander instructed his butler, Timmons, to pull out a copy of Debrett’s from a dusty shelf in the library—because, God knows, he’d never actually looked at the bible of society himself—and write out all the names for women beginning with the letter S. He had an entire collection now, ready to be hurled at his future duchess.
Alexander didn’t bother to acknowledge why he needed such a list.
Nor why, since the day of the carriage ride through the park with his little shrew, he had not ventured to Binson’s. He put it down to the absence of Oakhurst, but there were dozens of acquaintances Alexander might have joined there. Nor did he visit Florenza, his mistress, not even to say goodbye. Instead, he’d sent her an overly expensive diamond necklace with his regrets.
Oakhurst would be so disappointed. Alexander was a poor excuse for a libertine.
Her fault. All of it.
Powell handed him a glass of scotch which smelled heavenly.
Alexander took two large swallows, enough to ask for the glass to be refilled. As discreetly as possible, he gestured the butler to his side.
“Make sure,” he said in a low tone. “That my scotch is served well-watered during the meal. I have plans later.” Alexander didn’t have anywhere to be, but he also didn’t want Powell gossiping with the servants that the Duke of Roxboro had asked to have his scotch watered. Nor did he want his uncle to question why he was doing so.
Alexander had no intention of giving up any of his vices, no matter how…unappealing they’d become as of late. Not yet. But the urge to…tamp them down had appeared the last week and refused to go away.
Also, her fault.
A temporary pause, only. When Oakhurst returned, things in Alexander’s life would return to normal. But in the meantime, he meant to keep his wits about him, especially in dealing with Canterbell and his daughter. Neither of whom he trusted.
He observed Sophia from across the room, pleased when she twitched at his pointed perusal. She was not…beautiful, not like Lady Mara who was frankly, nothing short of exquisite. But Sophia had claws. Claws that dug firmly into Alexander’s chest. He’d taken himself in hand at least twice since that carriage ride with her in the park, imagining how it would feel to—dominate Sophia. Hear her moan his name. Beg him.
Which was rather unseemly. There wasn’t any reason for Alexander to stroke his own cock. Florenza was a perfectly good mistress. Or had been.
Most definitely Sophia’s fault.
Scowling at her, Alexander drummed his fingers along the edge of the chair he’d settled in, wondering at the odd turn his life had taken. He couldn’t even ask Oakhurst’s advice because he still had no idea where his friend had gone. Inquiries to the residence of Lady Maxwell proved just as fruitless. Uncle Damon was equally mystified over Oakhurst’s disappearance, and suggested gambling debts. ButAlexander had only laughed. Oakhurst had never once mentioned any pending impoverishment or debts of any kind.
Although his friend had also never mentioned bedding Lady Maxwell.
Powell returned with another glass of scotch.
Alexander took a sip and nodded. There was enough scotch to make the taste palatable and ease his thirst, but little else.
“Perfect, Powell. I will expect the same all during dinner.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
