“I love how you say that. No. It is as if you assume the world will conform to your preferences. Your birth and position give you that confidence. If you want to preserve the privileges both bestow, you will agree I am correct.”
“Only this is not my preference. I do not want this.”
She laid her hand against his face. Her eyes sparkled up into his. “Idowant it. We both knew how it would be.” She kissed him again, then went into the house.
He stood there a moment. Then he walked down the stairs. Only at the bottom did he accept what had just happened.
Padua Belvoir had thrown him over, totally and completely.
***
Padua returned to the bedchamber. She stood in the middle, hands on her hips, enumerating the things she would do to make a home here. Yes, a bookcase, good sized, right over there. A decent set of bedclothes, too, so it did not remind her of Mrs. Ludlow’s too much. She would tell Hector to bring someone in to check the fireplace. She did not want the room full of soot the first time—
She ran to the door to the stairs and looked out. Ives was just leaving by the garden portal. Her heart knew relief that he had heard her words, and it was over. It also began breaking.
She hurried back to the chamber and closed the door before her effort to hold in the tears failed. As soonas the latch clicked, the flood started. The pain inside built until she thought it would suffocate her. She gasped for air as she wept, doubled over. Her strength left her and she slid down until she sat on the floor, sobbing into her hands, trying to smother the sound.
CHAPTER18
Ives firmly believed that when a lover said it was over, it was over. Not for him the humiliation of cajoling and begging. Not only would that be undignified but it would also be hopeless. His experience had been that women know their own minds very clearly on the question of whom they wanted to be naked with.
Rarely had he been thrown over, but it had happened. He knew what to do. First, a night of drinking with friends—male friends—to balance out too much time spent in feminine company. Second, renewed energy to matters of the mind—his cases, reading, and intellectual pursuits. Third, the very prescription Padua had given him—find a mistress.
The steps did not have to be taken in order, or even one at a time. And so it was that two nights later, hefound himself deep in his cups at Damian’s gaming hall, commiserating with Belleterre about the complications women brought to one’s life.
Belleterre had his own problems, far more colorful than Ives’s. A well-known courtesan had pursued him last season, finally running him to ground at the very end of the festivities. She had then discarded discretion and all sense, and fallen in love. All summer long high drama built, until even Belleterre’s wife became aware of the affair. Not a woman to suffer whores gladly, she had four days ago confronted him and issued her terms. The mistress, or her. He had dutifully broken with his paramour, who now went around town announcing she would kill herself due to a broken heart.
“She has broken all the rules,” Belleterre complained. “Miranda has never minded before, when it was kept quiet. This might as well have been a theater show listed in the papers. Now should anything happen to Charlene, it is my fault. Don’t tell me I won’t be blamed. I am sure to be, and all I did was take a bite out of an apple that fell onto my head.”
“It will pass. She won’t kill herself. You aren’tthatfascinating, and you sure as hell are not irreplaceable. None of us are.”
“Hell of a thing anyway. It is all backward.” Belleterre gulped more of the whiskey they shared.
“I can tell you about backward, but—” He pantomimed at locking his lips.
“Have you been busy? A secret affair? Who is she? Do I know her?”
Ives shook his head and locked his lips again. “The important thing is we must get back on the horses again. And ride.”
Belleterre cackled into his glass. Ives realized that had sounded more bawdy than he intended, but laughed too.
“You should call on Mrs. Dantoine. My situation with Charlene need not stop you. Mrs. Dantoine was most interested in you, as I said. She is sweet. If it did not mean sailing too close to the rocks already battering my ship, I would set my course there myself.”
Ives idly wondered if Mrs. Dantoine would fit any of the qualities on that list he had made. Not that the list existed anymore. He had burned it last night when it fell out of the book he was moving. Why have such a list if the woman who fit every adjective did not want you?
“What ho, are you going to drink all of that yourself? I could use a few fingers.”
The voice hailing them came from Strickland. He dangled a fat, heavy gambling purse from his hand. Ives gestured for him to sit beside him. He pointed at the purse.
“Winning again?”
Strickland patted the purse and smiled like a contented cat. He helped himself to some whiskey. “Good to see you are back in town. Word was you had left for parts unknown.”
“Were you out of town?” Belleterre asked. “No wonder you did not know about my sorry plight.”
“I went down to Merrywood. My brother Gareth returned from the Continent.”
“Your half brother, you mean,” Belleterre said with a smirk.
