Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“Icould not go home,” Hugo scoffed as he took a long sip of Scottish whisky.
The irony of his choice of drink was not lost on him.
The gaslights of the tavern cast a warm, amber glow over the wooden chairs and mahogany tables. Hugo stared into the swirling depths of his drink, a familiar scowl etched on his face at an unseemly hour.
Across from him, the Marquess of Sarford was already halfway through his second glass of claret. In contrast, he had a wide, amused grin on his face.
“Still brooding, old chap?” he inquired, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “One would think you’d spilled ink in your morning porridge, not merely spent an evening in the company of a charming, if somewhat outspoken, lady. From all I could see, she did quite well.”
Hugo grunted, taking a long swig. “Charming? She is a menace. And she is getting entirely too good at this charade. She even managed to dance with Middleby.”
“Ah, Middleby.” Aaron chuckled. “Dull as dishwater, but not without his charms. Too good, you say? Sounds like your grandmother’s done some heavy-duty polishing, just as I predicted.
Perhaps you are feeling a bit unsettled by this new, refined bloom, eh, Hugo?
Less prickly thistle, more well-mannered rose? ”
Hugo shot him a dark look. “Do not be so ridiculous. I merely wish to see her settled so I can sell Inverhall and be rid of the entire Scottish entanglement. I will never again set foot in that cursed country if I can help it. But I must say, this is some damn fine whisky.”
“Right, right.” Aaron let out a theatrical sigh. “And the moon is made of cheese. Come now, Hugo, you are tighter than a corset on a whale tonight. Let us find you a proper distraction. There are plenty of lovely ladies here who would be delighted by a duke’s attention, even a grumpy one.”
Before Hugo could protest, Aaron caught the eye of a striking blonde across the room, who smiled demurely.
“Ah, Miss Beatrice! A vision, as always!” he called out, then nudged Hugo. “Go on, Hugo. Show her that famous Arrowfell charm. Or, at least, your best attempt at it. If that fails, I am sure your deep pockets will soften the blow.”
I will show him charm.
Hugo, spurred by a desperate need to prove Aaron wrong and perhaps, more importantly, to prove it to himself, rose. He approached Beatrice, a strained smile on his lips.
“Miss Beatrice,” he began, his voice stiff at the thought of addressing her as a lady. “You look, well, you look… well.”
Beatrice blinked, her smile faltering. “I look well, Your Grace? Thank you kindly for the compliment.”
Hugo cleared his throat, feeling a sudden, uncharacteristic awkwardness. He took another hearty sip of whisky.
“Yes. You look very well and present. Here you are.” He gestured vaguely to her gown. “And your gown is certainly a gown.”
Aaron, watching from their table, buried his face in his hands, muffling a snort. It took everything within Hugo not to walk over and break his perfect nose.
Miss Beatrice, clearly bewildered, offered a polite, if strained, smile. “Thank you, Your Grace. I believe I saw my friend across the room. If you will excuse me.” She curtsied hastily and practically fled.
Hugo returned to the table, his face a mask of irritation. “She clearly has no appreciation for more subtle compliments.”
Aaron burst out laughing, a full, unrestrained sound that drew curious glances.
“Subtle? Oh, Hugo! You sounded like a man describing a particularly sturdy piece of furniture! You look well. Yes, and very present. Truly, a poet in the making! They will have you as the hero in all the romance novels before you know it.” He wiped a tear from his eye.
“Try again, my friend. Perhaps something with a little more flair.”
Hugo glared at him. “This is pointless. I am not in the mood for such frippery. I came here to relax, not to be prodded.”
“Oh, but you must be!” Aaron insisted, pushing him toward a group of giggling young ladies. “Go on!”
Reluctantly, Hugo approached another group. This time, he decided to try a more direct approach, something he imagined a rake like Aaron would employ.
“Ladies,” he greeted, his voice deeper than usual, trying for a seductive tone. “I find myself quite captivated by the sparkle in your eyes.” He focused on a young woman with bright, curious eyes.
In another life, he would have thought her pretty, yet the particular sparkle in her irises only made him think of…
No, he would not think of her.
The young woman giggled. “Oh, Your Grace! Are you quite well? You sound as though you have swallowed a frog!”
Her friends erupted in laughter, and Hugo felt a hot flush creep up his neck.
“I assure you, Miss Clara, I am perfectly well. My voice is merely resonant. Perhaps you are not used to such men as myself.”
“Resonant, indeed!” Miss Clara teased, still giggling. “Like a foghorn in a storm!”
Hugo retreated, defeated, to his table. Aaron was now openly roaring with laughter.
“A foghorn, Hugo? A foghorn?” Aaron gasped, clutching his belly. “My dear Duke, you have the romantic prowess of a turnip! Whatever will we do with you? Not everyone shares your schedule, you know. Some of us actually get out and have a little fun from time to time.”
“I fear a little too much fun.”
“To each their own. Judge me all you want, but I am having a fabulous time.”
“And frankly, I found their conversation utterly unstimulating.”
“Perhaps,” Aaron said, finally regaining his composure, though a smile still played on his lips, “it is not them, Hugo. Perhaps it is you. Or rather, perhaps it is because your mind is already occupied.” He leaned back, his gaze shrewd.
“You know, if all these attempts to find Lady Inverhall a husband have… failed so far, perhaps there is a simpler solution.”
Hugo raised an eyebrow, wary. “And what exactly might that be? I am sure I would have thought of it already.”
“Keep her for yourself,” Aaron answered simply, as if he was suggesting something as normal as a walk in the park.
“Marry her. Problem solved. You get to keep your annoyance close at hand. If she bothers you so much, you can let her stay at Inverhall and do as she pleases, for that matter. You have enough money to—”
Hugo nearly choked on his drink. “Are you mad, Aaron? Marry her? The woman who drives me to distraction, who challenges my every word, who sends fire into—”
“Your very soul? Who clearly gets under your skin like no other woman ever has,” Aaron finished, his eyes twinkling.
“Come on, Hugo. You have been a walking thundercloud since she arrived. And tonight, you are trying to flirt with other women and failing miserably because you are clearly thinking of her. It is written all over your perpetually scowling face. Besides, even I know these women pale in comparison to her.”
“Nonsense,” Hugo scoffed, though he could not quite meet Aaron’s gaze.
“It is merely the inconvenience of the situation. I need a suitable duchess if I am to give in to the wheel of Society. It must be a woman of gentle breeding and decorum who understands her place, not a wild Highland banshee who argues with me at every turn and causes scenes wherever she goes.”
He downed the last of his drink and slammed his glass hard on the table.
“A banshee who also happens to be quite beautiful, witty, and, dare I say, rather captivating when she is not trying to infuriate you,” Aaron countered smoothly.
“And who, by the looks of it, has you more tied in knots than any suitable duchess ever could.” He paused, taking a sip of his claret.
“Dismiss it all you like, Hugo. But the truth, much like a good whisky, eventually reveals itself.”
Hugo merely grunted, beckoning the barkeep for another drink.
I cannot consider the idea, of course. It is preposterous. Utterly, completely preposterous. And yet…
As Hugo half listened to Aaron tease him, a small, unwelcome thought began to take root in the back of his mind, a thought that he quickly, fiercely, tried to drown in the amber liquid.
Keep her…