Chapter 8 #3
Nicholas looked puzzled for a minute but then smiled.
“Ah, your Elizabeth. Want to throttle her, do you? I could suggest,” he said with a grin, “that it is in lieu of other forms of intimate contact.” He sobered.
“But no, I never felt that urge. But then we hardly had a normal courtship and Eleanor is not one to stir the coals. And I,” he added, smiling in self-mockery, “I have always prided myself on controlling everything, including my emotions.”
Lucien wondered what lay behind the slightly bitter tone. “Whereas I,” he responded to pass the moment off, “being a de Vaux, have never felt the slightest need for self-control in my whole life.”
Nicholas laughed. “Hardly fair on yourself. So, what does your future marchioness do to stir the coals?”
Lucien found it difficult to express concisely the hundred ways Beth Armitage churned up his emotions, and so he fastened on the most obvious problem. “She’s a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft.”
Nicholas was raising his glass to his lips. It froze. A spark of incredulous humor lit his eyes, escaping in a full laugh. Wine splashed from the glass. “God Almighty!” he exclaimed when he’d got control of himself. “The whole story. Now.”
Everyone else had turned to listen, and Lucien realized he’d gone too far. He shrugged and simply said, “Sorry.”
Nicholas sobered and nodded. “Doubtless illegal,” he said smoothly. “Can’t have things like that with Stephen in the room.” Again, he said, “We’re here for a week.”
Not having heard the first part of the conversation, the others were satisfied with this and conversation became general again.
Nicholas made no attempt to pry, and though Lucien was aware of a few thoughtful looks from his host, there was no further reference to his personal life.
He really didn’t know if he wanted to have a heart-to-heart talk with Nicholas at all. There were too many secrets involved.
When Lucien left in the small hours of the morning it was with Hal. There was a light drizzle, but their greatcoats and beavers were adequate protection.
“Where’re you staying?” Lucien asked.
“The Guard’s.”
“I could give you a bed at the palace for a couple of nights.” They’d always referred to Belcraven House as “the palace.” Lucien could remember wonderfully crazy games with Hal which seemed to involve charging along endless corridors and hurtling down flight after flight of stairs.
The chance of coming across the duke or actually breaking some precious ornament had given the whole thing a delicious, and real, edge of danger.
Hal had found danger even more real since then.
“Just one bed?” teased Hal as they turned off Bentink Street onto Welbeck. “You’re a bit close with your riches, ain’t you?”
“As many as you want,” said Lucien grandiosely and ran a gloved finger boyishly along a railing to disturb the beaded drops of rain.
He felt like a schoolboy again. When they got home he’d maybe try sliding down the banister of the main staircase.
“You can have your pick of at least ten, all well-equipped with the best down mattresses. You can push them side by side to give room to stretch. You can stack the mattresses in a pile until they’re soft enough for your pampered skin. ”
“Like the princess and the pea?” queried Hal with a grin. “I’m far too plebeian for that. Could your blue blood detect a pea through ten mattresses?”
Lucien was snapped back to reality and maturity and all sorts of other unpleasant things. “Probably not,” he said briefly. “But I rattle in the palace like one pea in a pod. Come and take up some space.”
“Are you saying I’m a rattle, too?” Hal demanded lightly but with concerned and curious eyes. But he went on, “I’d like to. The Guard’s is full of fogies. There’s too many well-meant commiserations and altogether too much talk of war.”
“Come along then. I’ll send someone for your things.”
They turned into Marlborough Square. When the Season began there would still be lit windows and traffic at this hour, but at this time of year it was quiet.
Despite the flambeaux burning in front of each great house, the square was rendered eerie by the gray light and the misting rain.
Lucien shuddered. “Come to think of it,” he said, “why don’t you come back to Belcraven and support me through the coming ordeal?
My mother always had a soft spot for you. ”
“Won’t I blight the celebrations?” Hal asked, the first sign he’d shown of awkwardness about his injury.
“Hardly. You’ll be a hero.”
“Heaven forbid.” He looked sideways. “Why is it going to be an ordeal? Anything to do with whatever broke up Nick?”
Lucien wasn’t ready to talk, not even to Hal.
He made a business of finding the key to the big front doors.
“Of course not,” he said. He turned the well-oiled lock and let them both into the high, shadowed hall.
A lighted lamp stood on a small table but, by his instruction, no member of staff waited in case he had need of some service.
His and Hal’s footsteps seemed to echo hollowly on the marble tiles.
He was not used to returning to a lifeless house.
He’d never given such instructions before, and he suspected there were some bewildered hurt feelings below stairs.
All Elizabeth Armitage’s fault. Without saying a word she’d made him vividly aware of all the servants who were the constant fabric of his life.
He suddenly laughed. “Do you need anything else tonight other than a nightshirt, Hal? I’ve sent everyone to bed and it seems damned stupid to be knocking them up at this hour. Apart from the fact that I’ve no idea how to do it other than ringing the fire bell.”
“Of course not. I’ve slept in my clothes in the mud more often than I care to remember. And, yes. I’d be happy to visit Belcraven again. You know your mother is my first and only love. Why don’t you ask Con and Dare, too? They’re merely waiting for orders.”
Which was a very attractive idea, thought Lucien as they went upstairs. Something to do with safety in numbers.