Chapter Four
Where a rake quiets the skeptics.
Ever woke the next morning with a bruising headache and the distinct impression he had said something to Isabella Anstruther-Colbrook that he ought not to have.
The words madly desire tolled faintly in his mind, a phrase he fervently hoped had been nothing more than a dream.
It was the image of those damned embroidered garters he could not dislodge.
Later that afternoon, not quite steady on his feet but respectable enough to feign it, he paid a call on Weston Whitaker under the pretense of business.
He could not allow Madam Mischief to drift without direction.
Discussion of the future of the steam industry gave way to brandy, then cigars, then billiards.
Ever’s side ached, his head still faintly fogged, but he meant to last long enough to broach a subject he’d avoided his entire life.
Matrimony.
Even spurious, it made his pulse kick hard against his throat.
His fear sharpened because he could imagine it.
Her. His signet ring on her finger, her body stretched across his silken counterpane, those amber eyes glowing with impudence he would put to excellent use in the proper setting.
Her generous curves his—and only his. He liked that she was intelligent.
And courageous. She had handled an unexpected robbery and a subsequent visit to one of London’s underground surgeons with admirable composure.
Brick said he’d never seen a chit less given to tears.
The Duke of Mercer, Weston’s half-brother and another guest that afternoon, tapped him on the elbow with the cue stick. Ever took it and, since both Isabella’s brothers were present, decided this was as good a moment as any to broach the matter of courtship.
To spare his stitched side, Ever didn’t lean into the shot and drove the ball too hard, sending it wide. He shrugged, long accustomed to looking the fool, and passed the cue to Weston.
“I heard you were a beast at this game, Merevale,” the Duke of Mercer murmured from his spot by the sideboard. “An off day, I guess.”
Refusing to rise to the bait, Ever leaned his hip against the scrolled edge of the table.
He was the best player in England when it mattered.
Weston lined up a shot that was never going to work and took it without a second glance.
Young men in love—Weston was twenty-seven at most, and married barely a year—believed everything was possible.
“I have something I’d like to discuss with you aside from business,” he finally said.
The brothers turned in unison, their identical indigo eyes settling on him. Whatever doubt there might have been about their shared blood was erased in that glance.
Ever took his turn without another word, pocketing two balls in quick succession and, perhaps showing off just a little, ending a match he could have finished half an hour earlier.
It required more finesse than he had energy for, but he needed Agent Trentham and that idiot Tipsy in the same room.
He could not stray too far from either role. Not yet.
“It’s about Lady Isabella,” he said, straightening as he set the cue in its rack.
Mercer set the brandy bottle on the sideboard with a dull thump. “What’s she done now?”
Weston dropped his cue on the felt and leaned back against the table. “Here we go again.”
It was hardly the moment for Ever to feel sympathy for this unruly chit.
She’d made trouble for herself on numerous occasions, chaos her family had been forced to smooth over.
It was a deuced hard game, helping young ladies carve out a place in a world that celebrated only those who obeyed the rules.
All the rules. His sister hadn’t possessed half the spark Isabella did, and he’d woken in the middle of the night more than once during Alice’s season, staring into the dark and cataloguing the disasters that might unfold from a careless glance, a lingering dance, a door shut a shade too long.
He gave these men both credit for navigating it as well as they had, though a part of him still bristled at their soft sighs and complaints, as if the danger were theatrical rather than real.
If only they’d seen Isabella the night before—covered in blood, golden eyes alight. The sight had stirred respect, and something far more dangerous in Ever: a slow, simmering heat that lodged low and refused to cool.
But he wasn’t Madam Mischief’s protector. They were. This courtship was temporary, likely a mistake in the long term, yet it was what she wanted. Ever didn’t know when that had begun to matter, but it did.
As the duke and his half-brother settled before the hearth, the armchairs deep enough to engulf them, Ever lingered.
He traced a finger along a mechanical drawing crudely mounted on the wall opposite the billiards table, bewildering equations scrawled in the margins.
He smiled. This steam engine would make him wealthy—wealthy enough to restore every beloved brick in Derbyshire.
“Regarding Lady Isabella,” he murmured, crossing to the sideboard to pour a drink he had no intention of finishing. They would be surprised to learn he disliked intoxication; the rake he played did not. “I would like to ask your permission to court her.”
Weston, seated nearest the hearth, turned sharply. “Court Isa?”
Isa. Ever rolled the shortened name, along with a sip of brandy, across his tongue. He could imagine calling her that as he slid inside her, filling his hands and mouth with her. All the while, he’d strip away her inscribed garters with his teeth.
“You know,” the duke began, gesturing with his glass, “about her—”
“Originality.” Ever’s smile was tight. “I’m well aware.”
“I was going to say rebelliousness,” Mercer whispered, making another charitable effort.
“Willful, certainly, but with a kind heart,” Weston added, as though weighing the matter aloud, hoping to temper his brother’s counsel.
“She gives her pin money to a church workhouse fund. Sees that any food left over is sent to the staff for their families. There’s even a stray cat in the mews she’s adopted. ”
A familiar sting of injustice for her pricked at Ever. “You feel compelled to warn me about her character, Mercer, instead of weighing my own? That my age and lack of wealth might give you pause? You know every pound to my name is sunk into the steam enterprise.”
The brothers exchanged a knowing glance, and Ever wondered if he’d pressed Isabella’s case too hard. He didn’t want them to think him besotted—only interested.
Weston nudged his spectacles higher on his nose.
The lenses shimmered in the chandeliers’ glow, obscuring the resolve in his gaze.
“Agreed, your reputation is poor and your finances wanting. This Rake Review business—I was December, if you recall—is an invitation to change one’s conduct.
It did lead to my meeting Penny, however, so oddly, I’m grateful. Welcome to April, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Ever said, the words clipped.
“I hate the rules here, high society watching every step.” Weston gave a quiet huff and dragged a hand through his hair. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for women, when it’s damned hard for men. Outsiders, I mean. Which I suspect Isa feels most days. At least, that’s my take.”
“We can’t change what is, Merevale,” his Grace said, swirling the liquor in his glass.
“Your reformation is anticipated eventually, a wife to see you behave as you ought. Love may enter the bargain, but it is hardly required. With Lady Isabella, however, you assume a far greater risk. She has no interest in the usual trappings.” He sighed, as though the truth wearied him.
“And if this attempt fails, where does that leave her?”
Nonplussed—and wishing a goddamned duke wasn’t determined to unnerve him—Ever took a hard swallow of the brandy, deciding it might steady his nerves, if not his troubles.
“I have a younger sister, Alice, who wed last year. I won’t claim she shares Lady Isabella’s more intractable qualities, although I feel sympathy for any man steering a young woman through the wreckage that is British society.
And between us, and going no further, the Marquess of Ireton is not a gentleman you should be championing another moment, if you are holding out hope for him. ”
Ever shook his head as Weston rocked forward, fury sparking in his eyes. He would not betray her confidence again.
“Finally—” Ever broke off, his gaze tracing a ragged seam in the wallpaper. I want to be a better man. She makes me want to try.
Fool that he was, he could have refused her request, found another way to secure their silence. Yet she remained just beyond his grasp, and he wanted her all the more for it.
His gut told him to do it. Even if she broke his heart.
“It won’t fail, not as you imagine,” Ever said, setting his tumbler on the silver salver on the sideboard.
His wound throbbed in time with his heartbeat; he would need to sit soon or risk disgrace by collapsing at their feet.
“I don’t presume that a closer association will persuade her to marry me.
I’m too old for her, too jaded. But I will protect her as I would Alice.
That I can promise, until we determine if we suit. ”
The Duke of Mercer took a measured sip and hummed. “Attention from a gentleman with a pulse can only sharpen the field. You Rake Review men are quite the fashion; perhaps we may turn that to our advantage. I knew Ireton was a rotten wager. For one, he’s the worst horseman I’ve ever seen.”
Ever frowned, his jaw tightening. Fine—use him to secure someone better.
He could endure it. Hell, it’s what he’d agreed to.
Then Isa strolled into the parlor, and Ever took it all back.