“You’ve been busy.”
“Well, there wasn’t much for me to do while I was pretending illness to force my wife back into my orbit but send letters.” He shot her a bemused look. “Damon is unlikely to be pleased with me, but not entirely due to bedding,” his voice lowered to a seductive purr. “You.” His eyes dropped first to her mouth then to the tops of her breasts.
“Why?” She lowered her cup of tea, scorched by that look. The love for Roxboro hummed inside her heart, it had been there all along, but afraid to be heard.
Roxboro had told her while they lay in the darkness last night, whispering to each other, that his uncle had wanted a more advantageous marriage for his nephew. He’d planned on choosing the bride himself.
“Because he’s planned a match for you. I can still—no one needknow.” She bit her lip, afraid of what he might say, even after their night together.
“Are you insane?” Roxboro tossed a grape at her. “No.” An exasperated sound came out of him. “You might already be carrying my heir. But even if you weren’t, I don’t want an end to our union. I thought I made my position clear, several times over the course of the evening. But if I must spend the rest of the day and night convincing you with my tongue on your—”
“Roxboro,” she whispered, somewhat horrified. “The servants.”
“Alexander,” he countered. “Besides, Damon would pick someone…tedious. Terrible women such as yourself who know how to hurl a good insultanddetest embroidery are in short supply in theton. Where would I find another?”
“Hmm.” A lovely glow filled her heart.
“Damon will barely notice you once I make my announcement.” Roxboro’s eyes glinted deep green in the morning light, so dark she could barely make out the striations of gray around his pupils. “I plan to take over the management of my own estates. Damon has been doing so for years, first because I was far too young and then after,” he shrugged. “Well, I was far too busy enjoying my immoral lifestyle. But I owe it to my father to take a firm hand. And Damon deserves to enjoy his own life. He has his own properties. He’s got to find husbands for Violet and Rose, which will be a great challenge, to say the least.” He regarded her with a lifted brow. “That pleases you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. You are intelligent, Alexander, as your library suggests.The Lustful Turknotwithstanding.”
“It is historical in nature.”
“But not the volumes on mathematics. Nor engineering. I know you read such when you come to The Pillory, which you do far more regularly than I’d first guessed.”
“Barstow is nothing more than a gossip. Worse than an elderlymatron of theton.”
“I’m not quite so bad, Your Grace.” The butler appeared on the terrace.
“Good God, Barstow. Announce yourself.” But there was no bite in Roxboro’s words. “Do you have word from my uncle?”
“Not yet, Your Grace, however, this has arrived for you.” Barstow’s features remained bland, but the corner of one eye twitched.
Roxboro took the travel-stained envelope from his butler, surprise lighting his features. “This is Oakhurst’s writing. I suppose he’s finally decided to write to me.”
Barstow pulled a newspaper from beneath his arm. “The London papers.”
“I’ll read them later.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I must insist you read them now.”
Dread filled the air. The news, whatever it happened to be, wasn’t good.
Roxboro narrowed his eyes. He set down Oakhurst’s letter and picked up the newspaper. “New bill introduced to Parliament.” One elegant finger flipped the page. “Lord Waller is suspected of falsifying an investment opportunity and thus bankrupting several of his peers. No surprise there. My uncle has always said he couldn’t be trusted. All very boring. Sophie, pass me another piece of toast.”
“Your Grace,” Barstow intoned. “May I direct you to the second to last page?”
Sophia drizzled a bit of honey on the toast and pushed the plate to him, alarmed when he paled dramatically at whatever he read. He glanced at the letter, then back to the paper in his hands.
“Oakhurst is dead. As is Lady Maxwell.”
“What?”
Roxboro jerked to his feet and walked to the end of the terrace, gazing out over the lawn, fingers stretched over the balustrade, gripping the stone.
Sophia reached for the newspaper, which was over a week old. The news that Alfred White, the Earl of Oakhurst had died, was much older. His body, and that of Lady Maxwell had been found at the home of Comte Deleon in Paris. There was a brief mention of a large gambling debt. And how honorable Oakhurst had been in taking the gentleman’s way out.
Her stomach pitched as she took in her husband.Suicide.
