Page 44 of My Dark Duke

“Can we refrain from referring to the female sex in terms of livestock,” Sebastian answered, annoyed to hear Mary referenced in such a manner.

Barty’s mouth formed an “o” of surprise, though he soon recovered - very little could render Barty speechless for long, unfortunately.

“You’ve fallen hard and hit your head,” Barty commented, with evident satisfaction. “You’ll have to furnish me with the details, cousin. I should like to know all there is to know about the woman who finally stole your heart.”

“I have none to steal,” Sebastian replied glibly, though, inwardly, he began to wonder.

A woman had never consumed him, in the way that Mary had. His every moment when he was not with her, was spent thinking of her. When he was in her company, he spent every second worshiping her body and savouring her company.

She was gentle, good humoured, yet sharp and quick witted. She was also free with her affection; warm hugs, soft caresses, tender kisses. She enveloped him like a strong embrace, a feeling which Sebastian did not feel at all worthy of.

All in all, if Sebastian had not known any better, even he might think he was falling in love with Miss Mary Smith.

Though how could one love a woman whose name was still a mystery?

“In the matter of your missing heart, I think you doth protest too much,” Barty noted, with a wicked smile, before swiftly changing the subject. “There’s one person who is most agitated to meet with you. He hounds me daily, asking where you are.”

“And who is that?” Sebastian queried, genuinely curious.

“Lord Bailey,” he answered, with a shrug. “Though he won’t say what he wishes to discuss with you, just that he’s an ardent admirer.”

Sebsatian recalled the small, weedy Lord Bailey. He had met him once, on The Lover’s Walk in Vauxhall. Perhaps Lord Bailey’s persistence in meeting him was because Sebastian had given him the cut. Being thought of poorly by a duke would plague some men, especially those seeking to climb the social ladder.

“You may tell him our paths will cross when fate divines it,” Sebastian shrugged, “I am not about to arrange a meeting with the chap.”

“Nor am I, for I am not your social secretary,” Barty reminded him, with a pointed sniff.

Sebastian grinned; there were few people who would pull him up, when he was acting high on the instep, but Barty was one of them.

“Forgive me,” he apologised. “I did not mean to insinuate you were. Pray tell, how can I make amends?”

“Rumour has it, there’s a bottle of Royal Accord in the cellars,” Barty swiftly answered. “My wound might heal quicker, if we add it to your bill.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, but duly summoned the footman. He returned with a bottle of the Rémy Martin and two fresh, crystal tumblers.

He had not intended to stay much longer, but he could not resist sampling such a fine Armagnac.

As the two men set to work on the bottle of brandy, Barty shared the latest gossip. Falconbridge’s engagement to Lord Mosley’s daughter was not going to plan, for she was not at all taken with the idea of having her hand won at a card table. Lord Lewisham, or Graystone as he was now titled, had returned, but no one had seen much of him.

“Young Lewisham is putting it about that Graystone’s nerves are shot after all the combat he faced,” Barty said, with great delicacy. “Which of course has led to rumours that he’s fit for Bedlam.”

Sebastian frowned; young Lord Lewisham was Graystone’s half-brother, born from their father’s second marriage. After Graystone, Lord Lewisham was next to inherit the title.

“Do you think it's a ruse?” Sebastian wondered aloud, “Is Lewisham after the title himself?”

Barty shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His good nature meant he did not relish being the bearer of bad news.

“By all accounts,” he replied, running an awkward hand through his blond locks. “There are some returned soldiers who are suffering from a malady, which causes twitching of the body and confusion of the mind.”

Sebastian’s stomach lurched; he could not bear to picture the Lewisham he had known for years suffering from such an affliction.

“They’re calling it wind contusions,” Barty finished, with distaste for soldiers accused of cowardice were often called “windy”.

“I shall call on him,” Sebastian decided. “See what assistance I might offer. There must be a physician in London, who has experience in dealing with such matters.”

The bottle of brandy did not seem so appealing now, and Sebastian decided it was time to make his excuses.

“I’m certain you’ll find another willing to help you polish it off,” he chortled, as Barty protested.

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