Chapter Twenty
Lucian hadn’t anticipated enjoying the visit to Madame Tussauds quite as much as he did—though, he knew the reason had nothing to do with the waxworks, stunning though they were, and everything to do with her.
He was almost of a mind to find Mr. Bishop tolerable, in fact. The two of them made their way home, Lucian leading the way up to the front door, when it swung open, the blazing light making Lucian blink.
There, standing in the doorway as though he too was a waxwork, was the duke.
“You’ve returned,”
Lucian said.
“Indeed.”
The duke stepped to the side, gesturing for the two of them to come in. “And it seems not a moment too soon.”
Lucian had no idea what that referenced, but he imagined it had to have something to do with his father’s continual disappointment in him. Good to know nothing had changed since the man had gone to Scotland.
“Good evening, your grace.”
Mr. Bishop’s tone was more unctuous than usual, if such a thing was possible.
“Evening, my dear fellow.”
And the duke’s tone was as warm as though he was speaking to Lucian’s older brother or one of his favorite hunting dogs.
He’d never used that tone with Lucian.
“Come to my study.”
The duke didn’t wait for them to respond, he just turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, Lucian and Mr. Bishop following like they were his dogs also.
Lucian did not like the feeling. He wanted to turn around and let his father and Mr. Bishop sit together in mutual smugness, but that would only be a brief respite. Too soon, the duke would deliver on his threats, Lucian had no doubt, and he would be brought to heel, exactly like one of the duke’s dogs.
Why was it so difficult for him to accede to his father’s wishes?
Because there was more than one way to live one’s life.
Because a petty tyrant’s demands were always . . . petty.
Because he was learning on his own, because of his circumstances, to be a good person. He didn’t need an external force imposing what being a good person meant. He never needed that, even though he’d thought he did.
“Sit down,”
the duke said, going to take his own seat behind his desk.
Lucian only entered this room to receive a dressing-down from his father, so he recognized why just being inside it made him feel like he wanted to jump out of his skin.
He took a breath, then sat on one of the two chairs facing the desk. Mr. Bishop took the other seat.
“We had no idea you were arriving, your grace.”
Mr. Bishop spoke as though he was another one of the duke’s sons. As though he and Lucian were equal in the duke’s eyes.
Which might be true, if the duke hadn’t made it clear how much he despised his younger son.
Perhaps Lucian should just cede the field to Bishop.
But that would be the coward’s way. He would have to figure out a solution to the bind he found himself in: needing to remain true to himself while also pleasing his father.
A man who had never been pleased by any of Lucian’s actions in the twenty-eight years his son had been on earth.
Well, it would be a challenge, that was for certain.
“What is on your mind, Father?”
he asked, speaking firmly. Both the duke and Mr. Bishop looked at him in surprise.
Yes. He’d had enough of it. Of all of it.
It didn’t mean he would accept whatever his father decreed.
It meant he would fight.
“Well, with John being so much improved, I felt it was high time I returned home.”
He nodded at Mr. Bishop. “I have been eager to speak more with you about your business venture, for example.”
Then he turned his attention to Lucian, his tone hardening. “And I want to see what you’ve been up to as well.” The duke’s gaze narrowed. “You should be well on your way to solving my problem.”
Lucian offered a tight smile but didn’t say anything in response. He didn’t want to share too much of what he and Lady Diantha had been doing. His father would only find a way to squelch any potential plans before they’d even had a chance to be made. Much like Mr. Bishop would, in fact.
“Your grace, if I may,”
Mr. Bishop began, “I have made several acquaintances since my arrival, and most of them are desirous of investing.”
He glanced over at Lucian. “And of course I am involved in the resolution of the factory issue.”
Lucian nearly spoke then, but realized the short-term effect of correcting Mr. Bishop by saying he’d done nothing so far would have long-term consequences; if his father believed his cousin was overseeing things, he would be more likely to approve of whatever the final result was.
“In fact,”
Bishop continued, “I spoke with the Earl of Courtenay today, and he was quite enthused about the investment opportunity.”
The duke’s expression grew cagey. “He was, was he? Well, just make certain I own more shares than he does.”
Oh good. Now there would be some sort of aristocratic battle of who could be the biggest investor, with the only winner being Mr. Bishop and his schemes.
Lady Diantha would be able to see through the charlatan, but would her parents listen to her even if she warned them?
Likely not.
Lucian shrugged. If his father lost a lot of money, he would still have a substantial amount, what with being a duke with all the land and power the position represented. If the Courtenays lost money—well, they would have eel days, though from what Diantha had said, their fortunes often changed due to the family’s mercurial interests.
But it wouldn’t be right not to try to give them a warning regardless.
“And you, Lucian?”
The duke’s tone was sharp. “You are remarkably closemouthed.”
Because I have nothing to say to you, Lucian thought.
“I’ve been vetting possible solutions to your factory problem, your grace.”
His father’s eyes narrowed at Lucian using the honorific. “And introducing Mr. Bishop here to all of his future investors.”
He kept his tone deceptively mild. “As you can tell, I’ve been quite busy.”
“Too busy for your usual nonsense, I suppose.”
“Precisely,”
Lucian replied in a manner to make it sound as though he was taking his father’s comment at face value, not as the derogatory comment it was meant to be. “I have also been visiting the British Museum of late. I plan to go there tomorrow, in fact.”
He glanced from one man to the other. “Perhaps one of you would like to accompany me?”
It was completely audacious for him to ask; if either of them said yes, he would not be able to meet Lady Diantha. But it felt as though he was being himself, taking a risk where he believed he knew the outcome.
Rather like meeting her in the first place.
Only, the outcome of that would be far less pleasant than being proven right at this moment.
“No, thank you,”
the duke said with a shudder. “I do not have time to go to view items made by people from long ago who didn’t even wear proper clothing.”
Because that was how respectability was measured—in whether or not someone had the correct number of buttons on his shirt.
Lucian wished he could go back in time and somehow stop that comet from appearing in the sky, because its presence in his father’s life so many years ago had caused the duke to become the unpleasant, judgmental pedant he was now.
That is, perhaps he still would have been an unpleasant, judgmental pedant regardless of comet interference, but at least he wouldn’t be so confident he was right. The comet had engendered a change in him, made him believe in his viewpoint as fervently as any zealot.
And believe, just as fervently, that his son was a wastrel.
Diantha skipped down the stairs of their town house, tilting her face to the sun. It was uncharacteristically bright today, and she felt that uncharacteristic brightness mirrored in her soul. Things were proceeding along quite well, and perhaps soon she would be free of wayward parents and social responsibility.
And then she would be alone.
Which made it feel as though a cloud had just settled directly over her.
“Never mind about that now,”
she muttered to herself, feeling annoyed that her reasoned analysis was now puncturing her good mood. “You’re going to get to see him, to get to feel that delicious feeling when—”
and then she stopped, glancing around in guilty embarrassment.
Thankfully nobody was within hearing range of her, so she was safe to continue.
“When he kisses me, exploring my mouth with his tongue. It sounds so odd and feels so pleasurable.”
Not to mention it stirred up feelings throughout her entire body. In the dark of night, when she was safely tucked in bed, she’d had thoughts. Wicked, sensual thoughts about him undressing her. Touching her everywhere, places she didn’t even know the names for. Especially the places she didn’t know the names for.
Gazing at her with that hungry, rapt stare he’d had the first time they’d kissed.
“Stop it, Diantha,”
she chided herself. Her skin was beginning to heat, and she imagined anyone walking by her would know precisely what she was thinking about.
Even though she didn’t. Know precisely, that was. She knew the rudiments of it, but she wasn’t certain how it all worked.
She very much wished to find out.
Which made it even more imperative she get to the British Museum as soon as possible.
She arrived just before noon, trotting up the steps with a nearly palpable feeling of anticipation. She’d enjoyed the visit to Madame Tussauds as much for the conversation with him as for the waxworks. Or more, perhaps. Learning more about him, getting to hear some of his concerns and opinions, felt as intimate as whatever they did behind random curtained areas.
Feeling as though they were comfortable together.
At those moments, she could almost see him as a potential life partner. But then she would remember his reputation, and how she’d met him, and how charming and gregarious and wayward he was, and immediately regret feeling that way at all. Yes, they had many things in common and both seemed to enjoy the things they didn’t have in common, but he was still him, and she was still her.
Besides, she wasn’t planning on tying herself down to anyone. There was no guarantee that a person wouldn’t have some sort of epiphany—inspired by a comet, for example, or some other external event that would cause a change in point of view.
So even if she met and married the most stable gentleman of her acquaintance, who could say said gentleman would always be stable? And if they were married, he would have total control over her—her body, her money, her children. Everything. It terrified her to have to trust that someone other than herself would have her best interests at heart.
“Good morn—good afternoon,”
he said as she stepped into the main area of the museum. Like before, there were only a few people and families milling around, nobody paying particular attention to them, thank goodness.
“Good afternoon,”
she replied, offering him a warm smile.
His eyes widened, as though he was surprised, and then he returned the smile, taking her hand in his and folding their arms together. “Judging by your expression, you have been anticipating this meeting nearly as much as I,”
he said, beginning to walk purposefully down the hallway leading to the manuscript room they’d been in earlier.
She immediately felt abashed but then realized what he’d said—nearly as much as I. So he too was thinking about what they had done together and what they would be doing together.
“I am,”
she said in a confident tone. He turned his head to meet her gaze, then gave her a smile that could only be called wicked. One that acknowledged their previous cleansing engagements as well as promised much more, and much better, to come.
Goodness!
They reached the room, and he turned the doorknob, flinging the door open to reveal . . . a group of men seated around the table, apparently having an Older Scholarly Gentlemen with Gray Beards meeting.
“Ah, pardon. I thought this was the Rare Pottery room,”
he said smoothly, pulling the door shut.
The two of them looked at one another in the hallway, and she chuckled.
“One would imagine,”
she said, “that it would not be that difficult to locate a secluded spot in the British Museum, but it seems we did not take into account that scholars need to cleanse themselves as well. With knowledge, however, not that other thing,”
she added hastily.
He laughed, taking her arm in his again. “I am certain we can find somewhere in this vastness for privacy.”
She hoped so. Otherwise she would spend the rest of her day in aching want, and she did not wish that.
Never mind she was already anticipating spending the rest of her life in aching want.