The rules of the rogue, she was beginning to think, were just a load of beastly tarradiddle.
∞∞∞
“I need your advice.”
Aideen groaned. Not that she didn’t want to help Cordelia, but her own life was in rather a pucker, let alone providing advice to anyone else – especially if it concerned matters of the heart.
They lounged on a snug couch in the Rakecombe library, a room which held an ample selection of fine books. And not only of the cultivated bigwig type either, but novels, poetry, and Gothic horror – everything from Swift to Walpole.
She wondered when her husband got the time to read any of them, as she hadn’t noticed him lolling about with book in hand very often.
“Cordy,” she said as she pulled her feet up and yanked a blanket over them. “I’m not sure I’m the best person. My last suggestion was the Miltons’ ball and then we all got into a fine bit of trouble.”
Pursing her lips, Cordelia also slipped her feet onto the couch and decorously placed some blanket over her stockinged toes. “But I’ve no one else to talk with. Whenever I ask Mother about Oakdean, she just mutters mysteriously about a gentleman’s needs and then changes the subject to the square footage of his country house.”
Poor Cordy. At least Aideen always had her uncle to advise her when growing up – a wise old owl. “I’ll try my best. What happened last night?”
“Well, like I told you, he trapped me in that room.”
“Yes, yes, but then what?”
“He said he’d recognised my ears from across the ballroom, so my disguise was hopeless. And then…he prowled over. Honestly he did, and it made me feel so peculiar in the belly area, and he was nearly nude, in no more than shirt and breeches, and I’ve always admired his well-developed form but…” She fanned fingers in front of her face. “Then, he leaned over the bed…”
“Yes?” Aideen propped herself on her fists – this was better than any novel.
“I… His lips came near…”
“Yes?”
“I could smell his cologne. Sandalwood and cigars. Musky and…”
“Yes?” she almost screamed.
“Then he… I think I parted my lips and he…”
“Cordelia! What did he do?” she shrieked.
“He told me I was a hen-witted, totty-headed girl and scolded me like a child.”
Aideen’s jaw dropped, and she leaned forward to pull Cordelia into her arms as her friend bawled like the child that Oakdean had accused her of being.
“Well, a high and windy gallows to him,” she cursed, covering them both with the blanket until Cordelia’s sobs eased. “But I find it strange,” she mused. “Lord Winterbourne said your betrothed was most possessive, and it sounds like he was about to kiss you and yet for some reason held back. Why?”
“I don’t think he wants me at all, only my bloodlines. I’ll be nothing but a broodmare. But…” Cordelia peered up, large eyes moist. “I wantpassion.”
A polite cough from the doorway.
The Duke of Rakecombe stood there, his gaze uniquely riveted on the two of them clutched together on the couch.
Oh, Saint Patrick’s bones…again.
“I believe you will find an invite in the hall for the Duke of Buckland’s soirée tomorrow night. I cannot escort you, but I will be there later in the evening.” He nodded, tapped his ebony cane against the marble floor and stalked off, but not before another repressed glance at them both.
“Lord Oakdean is also attending,” Cordelia muttered menacingly. “And I’ve had enough of being treated as a child.”
“Er. Don’t do anything rash, Cordy,” she warned. “That’s how I ended up being married to a duke.”
But Cordelia tightened her lips in mutiny. “Thank you for the advice, Aideen, but I believe it’s time I took matters into my own hands.”
