Page 39 of A Deal for the Duke’s Virgin

CHAPTER 11

“This is your evening off, isn’t it, Hooves?”

The butler paused in the act of clearing the tea tray and glanced up at Christian with trepidation. “Yes, Your Grace. Do you wish me to defer it? Do you need me?”

“No, no, of course not. You work hard; I shan’t get in the way of your free time. I was only going to ask what you would do with it.”

Hooves relaxed a little. “I plan to visit my mother, Your Grace. She lives only a little way off. I shall stay there tonight and travel back early in the morning. It is what I usually do. Nothing exciting, I’m sure. We play cards, eat a meal together, and talk. I am close to my mother.”

Christian sighed and continued to stare out the window. It was growing dark outside, so instead of seeing the grounds below, he only saw his own blurry reflection eyeing him mournfully.

“I share a house with my own mother, Hooves, and yet I don’t spend such quality time with her. I have a great deal to learn from you.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true, Your Grace. But if I may be so bold, is something wrong?”

Christian glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Hooves hesitated, gloved fingers tightening on the handles of the tea tray. “You seem a little melancholy, Your Grace, but simultaneously full of energy. You have been restless since you returned from your outing earlier.”

“My outing,” Christian echoed.

That wretched gallery. That wretched woman.

He could still feel the softness of Thalia’s lips on his own. He could still taste the salt of her skin and feel her fingertips digging into his shoulders. She had wanted him too with a hunger that made him want to lift her into his arms, carry her away, and make her his.

Of course, such an intense desire could never last. They had been interrupted, and the moment was over. She regretted it; that was clear.

I had better not upset her. If she decides not to help me, I cannot say if I will ever find Laura by myself.

No, he would have to be exceptionally careful. If not, he would pay the price. And yet the memory of that damned kiss lingered in his mind like an itch he could not quite scratch.

It was no good. He could remain in the house, kicking his heels by the fire.

“Your Grace?” Hooves prompted.

Christian turned to find the butler eyeing him with trepidation. “Before you go,” he managed, “I wonder if you could do one last thing for me.”

“Anything, Your Grace.”

“Could you fetch my coat and hat? I am going out tonight. Warn the footmen, and tell my mother not to wait up for me. I will be back exceptionally late.”

I’m going to get an itch scratched.

A membership in one of the main clubs in London was a must for any enterprising young gentleman. Christian had a membership at White’s, and one or two other notable places.

However, those clubs were all about connections. One went there to be seen, much like ladies promenaded in the Park. They were the proper places.

And then, of course, there were the other clubs. There were hosts of them, with more popping up every other day, it seemed.

For example, there was this place. Maeve Hartley’s, it was called, or Hartley’s for short. Run by the most dashing widow Christian had ever seen, it was a wild ride of a club.

The music was generally too loud to converse easily, which meant that everybody shouted. There was dancing, but not the kind that would be permitted at Almack’s. There was gambling—high-stakes gambling—and cards and dice and all sorts of shocking games. Too much drink was served and generally not enough food, and the servants were always insolent.

Another difference between Hartley’s and other, more respectable gentlemen’s clubs was, quite simply, the presence of ladies.

Once again, these were not the sort of ladies who would be permitted at Almack’s.

Now, Hartley’s was not a brothel or any such unsavory place. Any ladies who attended arrived of their own volition. Some did require a few little trinkets in exchange for their favors, but most sought something a little more permanent.