Page 19 of A Virgin for the Rakish Marquess

Solomon’s eyes widened.

“That,” James said, his voice a barely controlled growl, “is hardly your concern.”

Something in his tone made his father hesitate.

The Duke opened his mouth to say something, but he was met with the ice in James’s eyes. He stepped back and walked away.

When his father left, James cursed under his breath and then climbed up the stairs, every muscle still tight with restrained fury. He hoped his grandmother didn’t hear their exchange. It would wreck her to see them like this. She was always pushing them to reconcile in that firm, sweet way of hers, the same way she had always been as his guardian.

He tore at his cravat, shrugged off his waistcoat, and yanked his shirt over his head as if shedding his skin could rid him of the anger burning beneath it. He needed to sleep. Hehadto sleep and forget all of this and the way he allowed his father to get to him again.

He had to sleep. He had to make good on his promise to Richard lest he wanted to find that precious billiard stick inserted into his cavities. He had to call on Diana.

At that thought, an image of her flashed through his mind. Not the sharp-tongued wallflower that challenged him. Another her. Flushed cheeks, heavy-lidded eyes, mouth slightly parted and swollen from something far more indulgent than biting retorts. He smelled her bergamot scent and heard that little gasp she let out.

Tomorrow, little wallflower.

That was his last thought before he drifted off to sleep.

When the curtains were pulled back the next morning, he felt better than ever. Perhaps there was some merit to all that talk about getting a good night’s sleep. He was almost whistling as he went down for breakfast the way he did since he was three-and-ten. In his grandmother’s drawing room, the sunniest room in the estate.

He hesitated like he did every day. Because this wasn’t just his grandmother’s haven. It was his mother’s favorite room too. It had the perfect light for her watercolors. Sometimes, she would secretly paint him, despite Society dictating that women only draw tame little flowers.

His hand trembled before he steadied it, and then he turned the knob.

“Good morning, Grandmother!”

The old lady dropped the cat on her lap and opened her arms to him. James smiled—reallysmiled.

“My boy,” Euphemia Bolton greeted as he leaned down to warp his arms around her.

He placed a kiss on her cheek and took his spot on the sofa, grabbing the morning paper. The butler came in with his usual breakfast—sweets and coffee.

“Argh!” Euphemia wrinkled her nose at the smell of coffee. “How can you stand that?”

James poured the black liquid into the china cup he had brought from Italy. That was where he got addicted to coffee, after all.

“If we did this in the dining room, you would have put more space between you andthat,” James said as he raised his cup to her.

“Well, I must have you know that I happen to like this distance. I am not going to drink my perfectly blended tea too far from my only grandchild.”

James looked up from the newspaper. Euphemia Bolton was old, but she was not senile. He knew that the mention of the famed ‘only grandchild’ was a prelude to something less pleasant.

“I heard that there was an interesting auction at the Seymour estate a few days ago.”

There it is.

James knew that secluded as she may be in her old age, his grandmother was still the greatest gossip he knew. Little if nothing escaped her.

“It was interesting, indeed. There was a tea set I tried to get for you, but it was snatched by Lady Fairton.”

“I am sure it was. Though, you didn’t leave the auction empty-handed.”

James folded the newspaper he wasn’t reading and smiled at his grandmother. “But I did leave Richard’s house empty-handed.”

“Do not test me, boy! You know what I speak of. Lady Diana.”

The mention ofhername somehow turned his smile into something else. Not frozen, but not that perfectly rehearsed mysterious smirk either.

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