Chapter 6 Derek
Derek
The next night.
Derek took another sip of his red wine and grinned as Dorothea, the Dowager Duchess of Ironcrest and his best mate’s beloved grandmother, put up with her grandson’s ribald jokes over dinner at Ironcrest House.
She was a thin, petite woman, with glistening silver hair always perfectly styled, her person always perfectly attired.
She was every inch the duchess she had been bred to be, from her polished exterior to her core of inner strength.
With a bit of a sardonic, dark twist. Which made her that much more loveable.
He loosely cradled his wineglass, waiting for Rafe to crack his grandmother’s composure.
What would the attempt be tonight? Raphael Sinclair, the Duke of Ironcrest, and Derek’s best mate since they’d first met at Harrow, sat across from him.
Dark hair cropped close to his head, with his severe brow and white-puckered scar interrupting his otherwise smooth, pale skin, Rafe painted a slightly terrifying picture.
Especially with his nearly permanent scowl in place.
Rafe and he were one in the same. They both understood there was little to appreciate in this world.
Both knew that the world fed on hate, on destruction, thrived on it.
It was why Rafe almost never smiled. It was why every one of Derek’s smiles was mocking.
He’d learned from a young age how to say fuck you with a grin.
“Did you know, Grandmama, that Derek had to climb out Lady Seville’s bedroom window last night? Lord Seville was beating down the door.” Rafe turned his flat grey gaze on Derek, the faintest of sparks glinting there. As much amusement as that gaze ever held. Always only for Derek or Dorothea.
Derek’s lips twitched. Way to throw a man under a coach and four. “Arsehole”, he mouthed. That spark glowed brighter.
Dorothea slowly turned her head in Derek’s direction from where she sat at the head of the table, her assessing brown gaze locking on his. She arched a perfectly manicured silver brow.
Derek lifted a shoulder. “The woman clearly didn’t know how to have an affair. For her sake, I hope I was able to impart some wisdom for her next attempt.”
Dorothea looked down at her plate and meticulously cut a piece of her lambchop. “I do hope you used adequate protection, Derek.”
He abruptly broke out coughing, red droplets of wine spraying across the ivory linen tablecloth.
He glanced wide-eyed at Rafe, pounding his chest and desperately trying to draw in air.
Rafe’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter, even with the frown still in place.
Derek glared at his friend. You will pay for that.
But beneath the ire was only fondness, warmth stirring in his chest at the rare laughter.
“Lord Seville is known to frequent some very…low-end academies. Who knows what diseases he has picked up from those hedge whores. You really should be more discerning in your choice of bedpartners.”
Rafe’s jaw dropped open, a choked sound coming from him. “Dear Lord, Grandmama,” he wheezed. “How in bloody hell do you know about academies? And the ones Seville frequents, for that matter?”
Dorothea shot an amused glance between the two men.
Derek met Rafe’s identical slack-jawed expression and then looked back at the dainty slip of a woman.
This was the woman the entire ton revered as the embodiment of a perfect duchess.
A paragon. And here she was…speaking of prostitutes and syphilis.
Dorothea’s smile faded, and her gaze lifted heavenward.
“Do you forget who I was married to? Who I birthed? You think a whorehouse is scandalous?” She leaned forward, her brown eyes turning hard.
“I know things that would make you boys blush. And your stomachs turn.” Her gaze slid to Rafe's.
“I don't think I need to remind you what your father partook in.” Rafe's jaw snapped shut, his gaze shuttering.
“Do not flatter yourself, thinking you’ve invented caterwauling and debauchery.” She popped the lamb in her mouth, chewing delicately.
“I wonder…” Derek murmured, glancing between Rafe and Dorothea, “If there is anything we could do that would shock you, Dorothea.”
Without glancing up from her plate, she murmured, “I daresay you could not.” She froze, her fork halfway to her mouth, her gaze shifting between him and Rafe. “Save for the event either of you marry, I suppose.”
Derek drained his wine and signaled for a refill, a happy buzz settling over him. “Not any time soon, Dorothea.”
She hummed, and unease skittered down Derek’s neck. When Dorothea started thinking—plotting—it was best to run far, far away. Because Dorothea always got her way. Well, at least ever since she and Rafe had fled Ironcrest to live at Derek’s country seat in Northamptonshire.
Derek didn’t know what she’d endured at Ironcrest, but he knew whatever it was, it was no better than what one would experience in a penitentiary. She deserved to finally get whatever she wanted. With the exception of marrying him and Rafe off. Obviously.
“I have yet to find anyone I deem suitable for either of you.” She took a ladylike sip of her wine, her gaze still locked on him—calculating. “Yet.”
He plastered a grin on his face and toasted his friend with his freshly refilled wineglass. “And good thing. Rafe and I do not dare disappoint the ladies of London.”
“Speaking of,” Rafe began, “I believe we have a few ladies of London who are anxiously awaiting us. We should be going.”
Derek and Rafe pushed back in their chairs. Rafe stood. Derek’s arse lifted off his chair—
“Sit!” Dorothea’s voice sliced through the dining room.
Derek snapped straight in his chair, and Rafe was back in his chair before the word stopped ringing through the chamber.
“Goodness, is it not trying enough that I have to endure your inebriated state and sexual recounting throughout our meal? And now you propose to cut the meal short? I think not. You will depart when I say you are free to do so.” Dorothea casually popped another bite of lamb into her mouth.
Derek discreetly glanced at a slumped-shouldered Rafe, his friend’s gaze downcast. Dorothea had a knack for making them feel like adolescent boys.
Which he supposed was apt, since she’d acted as a maternal figure for them both—Rafe from the day he was born and Derek once she and Rafe had arrived at Dunmore Court when Derek had been seventeen.
She was the only maternal figure Derek had ever had.
The only one who’d wanted to take on that role.
Rafe glanced up and caught Derek’s gaze.
His lips pulled back in a grimace. A memory flickered through Derek’s mind—a younger, gangly version of Rafe, wearing that same expression while sitting at the Dunmore dining table after they’d swapped out the tureen of soup with one filled with frogs.
Though Rafe’s hair had been longer back then, riotous tight black curls. His best mate had always hated them.
The corners of Rafe’s lips tilted up almost indiscernibly, and he mouthed “frogs.”
Derek rolled in his lips to hide his answering smile. He and Rafe always seemed to know what the other was thinking. That came with being best mates. And sharing like demons.
“In addition…” Dorothea paused to dab her lips.
Derek tensed, glancing quickly at Rafe, whose alarmed expression mirrored his own.
“You both will be escorting me to the Chesterfield Ball this evening.”
She placed a neatly speared bite of asparagus in her mouth, her lips curling into a smirk as she chewed.
His and Rafe’s groans echoed through the dining room—followed by Dorothea’s soft laughter. He needed another drink if he was going to endure that.