Wilde in Love

  Alaric was accustomed to evaluating new situations and extricating himself without undue haste if danger presented itself. There were occasions—the Empress Catherine’s invitation came readily to mind—when prudence had forced him to refuse what might have proved a memorable experience.

  In another example, no matter what Wilde in Love depicted, while traveling in Africa he had deliberately avoided incursions into cannibal territory; they didn’t sound like fellows who would welcome him in their village.

  He had, however, made the acquaintance of friendly chaps whose heads barely came to his waist. In the last half decade, he’d seen an enormous white whale, the Great Wall of China, and the aurora borealis.

  And now he’d seen Miss Willa Ffynche.

  She had a tip-tilted nose, absurdly big eyes, and mounds of hair. Tonight she wasn’t wearing a wig, but he still wasn’t certain of its natural color, because it was concealed under a blanket of snowy-white powder.

  Her eyebrows provided a clue. Presumably dark hair would swirl around her shoulders when she was unclothed.

  He even liked her dress, although it was green. He’d never liked green, but on her … he liked green.

  Right now, she was taking apart Roberts in the sweetest, most reasonable voice in the world. A sympathetic voice. Asking him whether there was any chance that the hieroglyph of a duck might stand for a D sound.

  Roberts began babbling about the Arabic, Coptic, and Greek alphabets while Willa kept those unnerving eyes fixed on his face as if she had forgotten that Alaric was sitting opposite her.

  Alaric did not consider himself vain, but he was well aware that if he wanted to, he could bed any number of women at this house party, married and unmarried.

  Willa Ffynche wasn’t one of them, since she was obviously a proper young lady. A virgin.

  The word lit a slow burn in his groin. She was a virgin, untouched by another man. Unkissed, most likely. She had that look.

  Naturally, he wouldn’t sleep with her, because he wasn’t interested in marriage, and she had marriage written all over her.

  But he saw no reason why he shouldn’t be the first to kiss her.

  Just now she was leaning toward the Oxford man as they discussed whether hieroglyphs might actually be magic spells or attempts at magic spells. Willa did not believe in magic, which didn’t surprise Alaric at all.

  If she was trying to spark his jealousy, she was succeeding. Even more so, because she was still pretending to forget he was there, though he was staring at her with all the boldness of a beggar—

  No, not a beggar. He was no beggar, and never would be.

  Surely Roberts’s lecture had gone on long enough.

  Abruptly, footmen swirled around them like water around a rock, whisking away everything from their table, including the plate adorned with a lopsided Egyptian duck.

  Willa, Lavinia, and Roberts didn’t stop talking for a moment. The two ladies weren’t bluestockings, per se. They showed no burning desire to learn Greek or deliver a lecture on the Stoic philosophers.

  To Alaric’s mind, they were more appealing. They were people who went through life driven by curiosity and intelligence. The realization made him feel as if he were walking close to quicksand, so he remained silent, broodingly watching the conversation.

  Any man would concur that Willa Ffynche was exquisite, from her slender eyebrows to the curve of her cheek. But it was the self-contained part of her nature that made him feel like a schoolboy.

  It made him want to poke her, tug her braid, offer her an apple. A wash of disgust broke over him, and he wrenched his eyes away—and met those of Helena Biddle.

  She must have come into the room at his heels, because she’d positioned herself at the very next table. Her smile had nothing contained about it at all. Across the table from her, another woman offered a glowing smile.

  Perhaps he should just sleep with Helena. Hell, it was better than being ignored by a young lady with a sardonic smile.

  He stood and broke into the conversation. “Miss Ffynche, Miss Gray, Mr. Roberts, I must ask you to excuse me. I have no stomach for sweets tonight.”

  Willa looked up, confused. Then she gave him a charming smile, inclined her head in a nod, and turned directly back to Roberts.

  She really had forgotten his presence altogether.

  In fact, she didn’t give a damn whether he stayed at the table or not. Considering the speed with which she returned to the skirmish with Roberts, she would have shown considerably more dismay if the scholar had tried to escape the conversation.

  His brother came up behind him just as Alaric took a step away from the table, toward Helena Biddle. He needed …

  He needed to exorcise this aggravating sense that he should pick up Willa Ffynche, walk out of the room, and give her that first kiss.

  Sleeping with Helena would force the irritating virgin out of his head before he made a fool of himself by … by courting her or some such nonsense.

  North slung an arm around his shoulder. “Come along with me.”

  Helena saw that he’d been intercepted, launched herself out of her chair, and anchored herself to Alaric’s arm. “I am longing for some fresh air,” she said, in the husky, practiced tones of a woman confident of her ability to satisfy any man.

  But North shook his head. “You must forgive me, Lady Biddle. Our younger brother Leonidas has just arrived and will want to see Alaric directly.”

  She seemed mollified by this intimate murmur. “I look forward to tomorrow,” she said to Alaric, her eyes fairly eating him up. “I’ll be staying in the castle for over a month; I do hope you are not fleeing to foreign parts immediately?”

  Once they’d left the hall, Alaric said to North, “Where is Leonidas?”

  “Billiards room,” his brother said. “I imagine that’s why he was sent down from Oxford again. Last year it was for winning twenty-five pounds off some young fool.”

  “Billiards? We played billiards all afternoon! Aren’t you tired of them yet?”

  “I never tire of billiards,” North said. “Besides, you fool, I saved you before you did something you’d regret later.”

  “I rarely indulge in regrets,” Alaric said.

  North laughed. “I’ve been watching you from the long table. You would have regretted a tryst with Helena Biddle, probably for the rest of your life.”

  Chapter Nine

  Late the following afternoon

  Damn it, I apologize.” Alaric put down his glass of brandy and followed his brother to the door. “Don’t be an ass, North!”

  “It runs in the family,” his brother retorted. But he stopped before walking out of the billiards room, his back rigid.

  “I’m the ass. I’m sure Miss Belgrave is deliriously in love with you. Whispering to her friends about your eyebrows at this moment. Likely she was just uncomfortable in my presence.”

  “What makes you think that?” his brother asked dryly, turning around. “Because the notorious Lord Wilde intimidates ladies? Did she look intimidated at luncheon?”

  No, she hadn’t.

  In fact, Diana Belgrave appeared as unimpressed by him as Willa Ffynche had when she told her friends that she had no interest in him.

  “I am happy to say that your fiancée seems not to be an admirer,” Alaric said, grimacing. “That would have been awkward.”

  His brother snorted. “Do you realize that if the king and queen knew that Lord Wilde was attending this house party, they might well have joined us? Wilde in Love played at the castle in the last Christmas season.”

  “I can’t stand people fawning on me,” Alaric said tightly. “Royal or no.”

  North smiled. “Diana won’t fawn on you, any more than she fawned on me, though I’m heir to a dukedom.”

  Alaric already knew that. Whenever he spoke to his future sister-in-law, she looked vaguely as if someone had put an insect in her tea. She had dropped his hand after the slightest touch.

  More problematically, sh
e seemed to do the same for North.

  “She is skeptical of your claims about Africa,” his brother said now.

  “She’s not the first to think I’m a habitual liar,” Alaric said. “Englishmen prefer to believe that everyone longs to walk around in a wig, even given much evidence to the contrary.”

  North grinned at him. “She once asked me if your next book would describe people carrying their heads in their arms. Or riding giant dragonflies. In short, she’s not a true believer.”

  Sadly, that was the best thing that Alaric had heard about Diana Belgrave to this date. “How did you meet her?”

  “I saw her in a ballroom, sitting at the side of the room.”

  That made sense. Miss Belgrave had the air of a wallflower, for all she was so fashionable.

  “How did she respond when you were introduced?” he asked.

  North turned his head, and their eyes met. “I’m heir to a duke,” he said flatly. “Her grandfather was a mayor of London. Did she have a choice other than to be overjoyed?” He picked up the cue he had discarded and slammed the red ball into a pocket without appearing to position the shot.

  Alaric shook his head. “No.”

  “She was laughing,” North said.

  To Alaric’s mind, his future sister-in-law had a glower that made it hard to imagine her laughing.

  “I saw her, and I wanted her to be mine,” North stated.

  Alaric opened his mouth and closed it again.

  Damn.

  Love was like an infection, apparently. Disease of the brain.

  “I knew,” North said, sounding like a man in a fever dream. “I knew that I had to have her.”

  If Alaric believed in love spells and the like, he would have thought his brother had been struck by one. Except that would imply Miss Belgrave had administered said charm, which would in turn imply she actually wanted to marry his brother.

  “Have you ever felt that way?” North asked.

  “Absolutely not,” Alaric stated. “I doubt it’s in me.”

  North flipped his cue, the gleaming wood catching the light. “I think it runs in the family. Look at our father.”

  Alaric shrugged. “What about him?” The duke’s third wife, Ophelia, had bright red hair, a pointed chin, and a temper. Alaric liked her. She and their father seemed to have a passionate, if tempestuous, union.

  “Years ago, the duke entered a room and saw our mother lying on a sofa being fanned by three suitors. He says that he knew at that very moment that he would marry her. He got rid of her suitors, tossed the fans, and kissed her.”

  Alaric laughed. A portrait of their mother, the first duchess, hung downstairs; with few memories of his own, he’d formed the opinion that their mother was a beautiful minx who had led their father on a pretty chase.

  “I don’t see the point of emulating Father’s methods of courtship,” he said. “Remember, his second duchess ran off, leaving four of her children behind, never mind the three of us.”

  “After Mother died, Father made the pragmatic decision to provide his three orphaned sons with a mother.” North paused, and then added blandly, “His choice of mother for those orphans was, perhaps, unfortunate.”

  Alaric’s bark of laughter echoed his brother’s. The second duchess hadn’t had a maternal instinct in her body. She had dropped babies in the nursery as if they were abandoned kittens; none of them—including her own children—had further contact with her.

  After her fourth baby arrived, six years into the marriage, she’d run off with a Prussian count, and Parliament passed a Private Act granting their father a divorce without discussion.

  “I realize it casts some doubt on the duke’s judgment,” North said. “But he maintains that he felt the same certainty about Ophelia as he did for our mother, and both his first and third marriages are successful.”

  “God willing, I’ll never be struck by a ‘certainty’ of that nature,” Alaric said. “If this is what love does to a man”—he waved his hand at North’s costume—“I want nothing to do with it. I’m right, aren’t I? She is the reason you turned yourself into a popinjay?”

  For the first time Alaric saw a trace of discomfort on his brother’s face. “Diana is fashionable. She cares for such things.”

  “You put on yellow heels in order to win the lady’s heart.”

  “She had no choice in whom to marry, so I wanted to—to make it a more appealing proposition, that’s all.”

  “Diana Belgrave is a lucky woman,” Alaric said. “Damn lucky.”

  Even if she doesn’t recognize it.

  But he kept that thought to himself.

  “It’s your turn, by the way,” North said, flipping his cue again.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to box a round instead?” Alaric asked. “I went for a ride earlier, but I’d welcome more exercise.”

  “Absolutely not.” North eyed him. “I’m sure you strip to advantage; I suppose you kept yourself fit on board ship by taking on the sailors.”

  “Under all that silk, you’ve still got a muscle or two. Where’s Parth, by the way? Unless he’s changed as much as you have, he was always game for fisticuffs.”

  Parth Sterling, a former ward of the duke, had grown up with them from the age of five. The four of them—Horatius, North, Alaric, and Parth—had racketed about the estate for years, leading a pack of boys whose fathers ranged from the estate blacksmith to the village butcher. Parth was like a brother, an irritable bear of a brother, a Wilde in everything but name.

  “He was supposed to arrive today. Perhaps tomorrow.” North pocketed a ball. “He’ll spar with you.”

  “Should I expect an egg-shaped wig?” Alaric asked warily.

  North laughed. “He’s too busy building his empire to bother with fashion. Are you still one of his main shareholders?”

  “Certainly. I paid for my estate with returns from my initial investment. What’s his focus at the moment?” Parth had started by trading in China, but he had an eagle eye for anything that would return a huge profit. Letters from his solicitor trailed Alaric around the world, each noting how much money Parth had recently made for him.

  “A power loom. Oh, and he’s talking of starting a bank.”

  “A power loom,” Alaric said, his interest caught. “Have you seen it?”

  North nodded. “He bought an estate west of here, not far from yours, and housed the loom in a barn, along with the men who are working on it. The old manor had burned, so he’s building a house with cast-iron balconies made to his own design.”

  Alaric detected a tinge of envy. “You don’t mind living in the castle, do you?” He glanced around. Even now, at the height of summer, the stone walls were a little damp, and the place smelled like old books and dogs. Like home.

  “No more than anyone does who had planned to build his own house,” North said wryly. As a boy, he had spent hours sketching buildings he planned to construct someday.

  “Being the heir doesn’t mean you can’t design a house. I brought you back a pattern book by a fellow named Palladio.”

  “Andrea Palladio, I assume,” North said. “Thank you. I haven’t time to design a house, though the dairy went over in a storm, and I designed a new one.” The savage undertone to his voice surprised Alaric.

  He stayed silent, watching his brother play billiards as if it were a game of war, on a battlefield with only one army. A man’s dreams can be flattened by responsibilities.

  He himself had spent years exploring the globe.

  Perhaps it was time to come back home.

  To take over responsibilities and allow North to spend the next decade doing as he wished. Perhaps he would build a mansion with ceilings high enough to accommodate his wife’s wigs.

  “I’m back now,” he said, keeping it simple. “I could take over the estates, including working with Father. You can do whatever you like. Though your future wife might have objections if you set out to travel around the world.”

  North’s
eyes met his. “I appreciate your offer, but it’s my responsibility. I’ll be the duke someday. Father can’t do it all, even with three estate managers. These days he is spending more and more time in Parliament. And you love to travel.”

  “Neither of us was born to be duke,” Alaric retorted. “Horatius was. He would have relished it, but I won’t leave you to do it by yourself any longer. We’ll share it. I took the first bout of freedom; you take the second. I’ll travel again later.”

  “No,” his brother said. “I appreciate it, but it’s my lot, and I won’t impose it on anyone else.”

  North turned, slotting his fancy billiard cue into the holder to the side of the door. Alaric watched his broad shoulders, dismay pricking his spine. There was something brittle about his older brother, something near damaged.

  He felt a surge of dislike for his fashionable, sulky future sister-in-law, but he shook it off. Diana Belgrave was likely more a symptom than a cause.

  English gentlemen didn’t hug each other. It wasn’t a rule that had to be voiced, in the nursery or elsewhere. It was intrinsic to the heartbeat of high society, to the stiff upper lip that shaped male relationships.

  But as Alaric had discovered, it was a rule that many parts of the world considered absurd. He strode after his brother and wrapped his arms roughly around him.

  North stood stiffly for a moment, then his arms reluctantly encircled Alaric. “You intend to bring foreign customs home?” he murmured in a wry voice.

  “We would both hug Horatius if we could,” Alaric said.

  The truth of that hummed between them. North’s arms tightened, before they both stepped back.

  Chapter Ten

  The following day

  The Peacock Terrace

  Willa had made up her mind that she would treat Lord Alaric with exactly the same courteous attention she paid all the other men at the party. No more, no less.

  That would be the same attention she paid to men who were entirely ineligible for marriage.

  Like married men. Or toothless ones, if any such had made their intentions clear.

  Lord Alaric was married to his fame and his readers and his explorations. That was a good way to think of him. Off limits.