Page 13 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
“Are you robbing the poor and giving to the rich?”
Angel spluttered into his glass. “Hardly. I am the poor!”
“Are you blackmailing the Duke of Ashington? Are you tupping the Duke of Norfolk’s wife? Are you the cause of the Duke of Denbigh’s perennial ill humour?”
“No! I do not move in ducal circles, far less the circles of their wives.”
“Are you a murdering fiend with an insatiable blood lust? Do you seize the necks of your innocent victims as they sleep in their warm beds and sink your fangs into their softly yielding flesh as they beg you for mercy? Which you then cruelly deny?”
It was possible during his prolonged period of mourning that Lando had read far too many penny dreadfuls. And already imbibed a few cups more claret than he was accustomed.
Greatly amused, Angel threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, alas, my sins have been found out. I have jars steeped in royal blood closeted about my person. Indeed”—holding aloft his glass, he dropped his voice to a stage whisper—“I have cunningly swapped out your claret.”
“So, which is it?” Lando cried, now thoroughly enjoying himself. He motioned to the first footman to replenish his wine. “Is your petty thieving nothing but cover for a murderer, a blackmailer, or a rake?”
The dashing dimpled smile reappeared, fuelling a fullness in Lando’s drawers that two spoonsful of soup and half a bread roll could not account for.
“Alas, nothing as remotely sinister, I’m afraid.” Angel’s eyes lit up as a further footman piled his plate high with venison. “Your omniscience has uncovered all my secrets.”
“Yes.” Lando stared at Angel, prying him open with his eyes. The young man’s cheeks coloured an attractive dark hue. “Added to our encounter at the stables, I do believe it has.”
Too late, Lando realised that three full glasses of rich claret on top of two thimbles of sherry made his head spin. The last time he suffered from overindulgence, Pritchard wisely observed that if he ate more, it would dilute the effect of the wine. But sometimes, ignoring sound advice was fun. And, God knew, fun had been sorely missing from Lando’s life for far too long.
“Come closer, my dear Angel. We have things to discuss.”
With a wave of his hand, a footman scuttled over, and a second later, it was done. Angel’s seat was now at kitty-corner to his own, albeit two settings away for the sake of decorum.
“Much better,” he remarked approvingly. “Now I don’t have to strain my voice.”And can inspect you more closely.
Angel’s own mellifluous voice and latent, leonine poise wereeven finer at close quarters. His hazel eyes, gold-flecked this close, sparkled with the vigour of youth. Lando found himself quite unable to tear his own away.
Though he would have enjoyed flirting with Mr Angel throughout dinner and beyond, at least as far as the library and perhaps even up the sweeping staircase and into his bedchamber, the tiny morsels of rich venison Lando permitted to pass his lips performed their duty of soaking up some of the wine. Thus, his sharp mind took over the reins, and conversation ambled between further complimenting the cook and denouncing the fresher weather.
“Whilst unhappily assisting me into thisdivinewaistcoat”—Angel’s amused eyes flicked down to the mud-coloured garment, seemingly comprised of horsehair, then up to meet Lando’s—“your charming footman, Jasper, mentioned your sons, my lord. I was…surprised.”
“Naturally, I have sired sons,” answered Lando with a degree of hauteur. That he had begat children, given his natural leanings, was amongst his proudest achievements. Not his happiest, mind; the effort had been humiliating and draining. Even now, he winced at the memory, very much an unsuitable topic for the dining table. “Surely you are not questioning my commitment to my obligations or my…my virility, Mr Angel?”
His virility wasn’t a suitable topic for the dining table either, he concluded, a little too late.
“Goodness, no,” replied his guest in his pleasant, light tenor. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord. Merely, I hadn’t been aware you were married.”
“I’m not.” Lando pushed his plate away, deciding three mouthfuls of venison were ample. He reached again for the wine. “I was once; I married at twenty-one—a union arranged and agreed upon by our fathers. My poor dear wife, Lady Rossingley, died during childbirth. Our twin boys survived.”
For a moment, sorrow washed over Lando. Any young woman’s death was tragic, and Elizabeth had been a kind and understanding wife. Given that her own passions had also lain elsewhere, she’d tolerated Lando’s needs, or distinct lack of them, without fuss and paid for doing her duty with her life. Elizabeth would have made an excellent, devoted mother. For all of that, she held a very special place in his heart.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” said the other. “Forgive me for bringing it up.”
“It was a long time ago now.” Tossing his head back, Lando emptied his wine glass and permitted himself a watery smile. “My sons are schooled at Eton and just turned thirteen. Rascals, the pair of them. It isn’t the done thing to brag of one’s assets, nor to admit to caring deeply for one’s offspring, but I…I miss them terribly.”
He pressed his lips shut after that admission and would have liked to have done the same with his eyes as sudden hot tears welled behind them. It was a funny old thing, loneliness. Caught one unawares when one was least expecting it.
With a degree of sensitivity Lando was unused to since the death of his beloved Charles, Angel reached for the decanter, leaned across him, half out of his seat, and refilled Lando’s glass. His mother would have been aghast at the lapse in decorum, but strangely enough, Lando wasn’t at all. As Mr Angel’s loose and, frankly, hideous velvet sleeve brushed against his own, Lando experienced a strange urge to turn into the man, to rest his head against his solid chest, allow the other to wrap his arms around Lando’s shoulders, and let him take the weight of everything.
He did no such thing, of course. Instead, uncharacteristically flustered, Lando expressed his desire for the venison to be whisked away and replaced by the pudding course. Pudding being his entire raison d’être for owning a dining room.
Despite a preference for savouring his desserts in silence, Lando’s manners were sufficient that he continued to engage his guest in conversation while simultaneously devouring an enormous helping of cook’s incomparable lemon syllabub. Having only touched briefly upon Mr Angel’s vengeful desires, now seemed a suitable window of opportunity in which to raise the subject properly. From prior experience, Lando knew that his mind didn’t always function at its keenest after syllabub. Already, he concentrated quite hard on stringing coherent sentences together. Syllabub, an excess of claret, and a handsome man were as much excitement as he’d faced in years.
“You mentioned revenge,” he prompted in between spoonsful. “A noble sentiment, in my humble opinion, although don’t tell the vicar I said so.”
