Chapter Eleven #2
“That’s me to a fault.” He chuckled delightedly.
“It’s almost as if we were old friends, yet we’ve only just met and hardly know each other.
Shall we take a turn around the room and remedy that situation, Miss Crewe?
” He bowed and offered her a sturdy arm, which she took gladly, smiling into his appreciative face.
Dex fought a sudden urge to knock their arms apart.
How had he never noticed how handsome and charming Patrick was?
He was a bachelor by choice, but perhaps all he had needed was to meet the right young lady.
One who already appeared to idolize him though they had only just met.
The way she was looking up at him, laughing at every word he uttered.
His speech was easy and intelligent and .
. . he already had a child. A family of two just waiting for an agreeable third.
“Stop glaring daggers at my brother’s back.” Dalton, Duke of Osborne, joined Dex at the refreshments table.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You are. If looks could wound, he’d be writhing on the floor in agony. Your ward is quite safe with him. He’s a lawyer, not a rake.”
“He’s too handsome.”
“He’s my brother, isn’t he?”
The story of how the two brothers had been separated, raised in different countries, and reunited was a fascinating tale.
“Why hasn’t he married already?”
“Too busy working. He’s defending an accused murderess right now. He believes she’s innocent. He’s gaining quite the reputation for defending the unfortunate, those that might otherwise be written off by a judgmental society due to lack of connection.”
A respected advocate with noble goals and the gift of a silver tongue.
And damnably good-looking and charming and .
. . why should Dex care about that? Wasn’t his goal to marry her off, and quickly?
It would be a brilliant match. It would fulfill all he felt he owed her father, ease the burden of his overdrawn conscience.
So why did he feel like murdering Patrick with his bare hands? The answer that followed was an unwelcome one. She’d been right. He was jealous. Which was ridiculous since he was complete unto himself, he needed no one. She was an obligation to meet, a promise to fulfill, and nothing more.
“Is there something between you and Miss Crewe?” Dalton asked.
Dex shook his head vehemently. “Nothing untoward.”
“I observed you walking about the room and it appeared to me that she takes every pretext to touch you. And you can’t seem to tear your gaze away from her, even during a conversation with your best friend.”
Dex returned his gaze to Dalton with a mighty effort. “She’s lost, lonely, and I’m the one who rescued her. I care about her safety and happiness.”
“It’s more than that, isn’t it?”
“She’s impossible to ignore. Yesterday she had my footmen fighting mock duels in the ballroom, all in the name of research for a novel she’s writing. My aunt threatened to quit the post of chaperone.”
“I like her already,” Dalton said. “She’s shaken you out of the fog you’ve been buried in since I met you. Perhaps she’ll be my sister-in-law. Thea would dearly love to see Patrick settled with a good woman.”
Dex grunted, not trusting himself to comment. What he felt like doing was striding across the room and punching Patrick square in his noble nose.
The duke’s gaze followed her as she moved about the gallery with Patrick Fellowes. It made her stand up straighter, sway her hips as she walked to make her skirts swish around her limbs. For some unaccountable reason, she wanted him to think her attractive.
“Your guardian is protective of you,” Patrick remarked. “He’s been glaring at me this entire time.”
“It took him years to find me—he’s trying to make up for lost time by vanquishing my foes, dowering me generously, and finding a brilliant match for me so that my future is assured.”
“Do you have many foes?”
“I’ve lived an . . . unconventional life since my father’s disappearance.”
“As have I. You may wonder about my accent—I was raised in New York by a man who kidnapped me as a young child. I didn’t know of my noble and British origins until recently.”
“Goodness! It sounds like the plot of a popular novel.” That could be quite a twist to throw into her Clovercote book.
“They do say that sometimes life is stranger than anything you find in fiction.”
“I’m told you have a child?”
“Van. He’s a good boy, a bit wild but that’s to be expected when his life was uprooted and transplanted to a foreign country. I haven’t seen him for twenty minutes—I expect he’s sword fighting with his friend Flor somewhere on the balconies.”
“I’d very much like to meet him. I have little experience with children and I’m writing a younger brother in my novel and finding it difficult to know how a child of nine might express himself.”
“Very exuberantly, if Van is the test case. He’s always chattering on about military campaigns, ancient weaponry, or the latest innovations in faster carriages.
He admires his unofficially adopted uncle Warburton because he’s an expert in every topic that interests Van.
I don’t know where he came by his intense interest in warfare.
I’ve always been peaceable myself, preferring to pursue justice in the courtroom instead of the battlefield. ”
Ana listened raptly, glad of the details for the child she was writing. “Thank you for that detail. I shall be able to write the younger brother character more fully now.”
“Another thing—don’t think it’s only male children who are interested in such bloody topics. His friend Flor is similarly obsessed, if not more so.”
“Is she?” While Ana enjoyed writing the character of Adora, Lady Claridge’s outline described her as mostly passive, a young lady who swooned at the slightest provocation and giggled frequently.
Perhaps she should make her more like Amsonia, the heroine of The Dragon and the Blue Star.
She tried to imagine Adora wielding a sword, or perhaps a small, ladylike dagger?
“What are you thinking about so seriously, Miss Crewe?” Mr. Fellowes asked.
“I was wondering if I should alter the character of my heroine to make her less timid and demure.”
“If you want your art to imitate life, I’d say that I haven’t known you for more than a few minutes, Miss Crewe, but it strikes me that you are the opposite of timid, and as for demure, I’ve always found that to be an overrated virtue.
” He turned the full force of a dazzlingly white smile upon her and she blinked rapidly.
My, he was handsome. Lord Fortescue made flesh.
“If my son and his friend don’t emerge this evening, perhaps I may call upon you at some future date?” he asked. “So that you may speak with Van in person. For your novel research, of course.”
“I should enjoy that. Thank you.”
“Your guardian is fast friends with my elder brother.” Mr. Fellowes nodded at the two tall, muscular men standing near the refreshments table.
“What do you think they’re speaking of with such intense expressions?”
“Horseracing. Bareknuckle boxing. Building faster carriages. Retribution on their enemies. Much the same as Van and Flor, actually.”
Ana laughed. She liked Patrick immensely. “Your conversation is so . . . conversational. You express yourself so easily.”
“Is that an accomplishment?”
“It is if you’ve been spending too much time with the Duke of Warburton.”
“I’m a lawyer. I make my living by my conversation. I’m not a member of the gentleman’s club that Warburton and my brother frequent. Far too much danger and excitement for my rather staid tastes.”
“Do they have an actual club?” One of the chapters in Lady Claridge’s outline was set in an exclusive London gentleman’s club of which Fortescue and Falconer were members.
“The Thunderbolt Club.”
“A gentleman’s club?”
“If you can call them gentlemen. Although they do occasionally host a charitable event whose proceeds go to helping destitute young women, or other such worthy causes.”
“I’m writing about just such a club in my book. Of course I’ve never had any practical experience, I can only imagine what goes on behind those exclusive walls.”
“Perhaps Warburton will give you a tour of his club.”
“Unlikely. He wants as little to do with me as possible.” He’d reluctantly agreed to accompany her this evening only because he’d given Lady Glynis the evening off.
Lulu joined them. “Are you having a good time?”
“Your paintings are extraordinary,” Ana replied.
“You haven’t seen the final room yet. Come along!”
Patrick made a bow to Ana and Lulu. “I must search for my errant son.”
The final room was small and lit by flickering torches set in silver filagree sconces. The paintings were different, more vibrant colors, indigo blues and vermilions that shimmered and pulsed against the walls.
Ana stood still in the center of the room, turning slowly, taking it all in. “I can’t believe it.”
“What?” asked Lulu.
“It’s as though you reached inside my mind.”
“You feel a kinship with my fantastical beasts, hobgoblins, and faeries?”
“You don’t understand. I wrote a book about such creatures. This one.” She pointed to a painting of a huge black-winged dragon in flight. “This looks exactly like the Dread Dragon Qavox.”
“I love that name,” Lulu cried. “I want to read your book. Has it been published?”
“I’m afraid not. In fact, a preeminent publisher informed me that no one would want to read it.”
“He was wrong,” a gruff, deep voice proclaimed.
Ana whirled around to find Warburton had entered the room while she’d been lost in Lulu’s paintings.
“You only read the first few chapters,” Ana replied.
“I should like to read the book in its entirety.”
“The only copy is with Norwood & Pennington, stuck in the purgatory of their submissions pile.”
“Then you must retrieve it,” said Lulu. “You have an eager readership awaiting. Perhaps you might find another publisher. And I shall illustrate it for you!”