Page 2 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“I do not claim that Heatherbroke acted well. He would not say any differently. I know he deeply regrets his actions with Annabelle.”
“Do not say her name,” Woolwich said. His command came out as more of a snarl, and he watched as Verne raised a surprised eyebrow at how vicious Woolwich sounded. In annoyance, Woolwich shook his shoulder to dislodge Verne’s grip.
Annabelle had been his glittering bride, a willowy, beautiful blonde who had captured his heart almost as soon as he saw her. He had been convinced that her sophistication would be lent to him. He could have her, adore her enough that any of her scruples would be overcome by his own overwhelming affection. As fickle a boy as he had been and so eager for a love match, he had not bothered to see that whilst he might have been desperately keen for Annabelle, she was less attached to him. It was a bitter blow to love, and he had found that he was never able to trust again. She had cuckolded him with Heatherbroke, and the affair led to the birth of the marquess’s bastard daughter. Jasper had forgiven Annabelle, but he knew he never could do the same with the marquess.
“Jasper.” Verne’s voice pulled him back to White’s, away from the memory of Annabelle’s sparkling eyes, her easy smile, and finally, her stinging betrayal.
For a moment, Woolwich thought Verne had jogged him for being embarrassing, but it had more to do with the numerous young gentlemen who had just bundled themselves into the room. They were busy slapping each other’s backs, clearly remarkably pleased with themselves. The two older gentlemen, who Woolwich had been ignoring earlier, departed. In the new cohort, Woolwich counted four young bucks, although when one of these companions saw Trawler, Verne, and Woolwich, he slipped away between the opulent curtains and disappeared.
Before Woolwich could query this strange action too much, one of the young handsomely dressed men, laughing and guffawing, held up high the infamous White’s Betting Book, pulling everyone’s focus.
The leatherbound book had been scribbled in and was kept with the sort of sombre pomp that Woolwich had never understood. The Betting Book, with the spindly handwriting across its pages, listed things from the absurd to the funny, and finally the truly terribly cruel—the kind of news that would break a person amongst good society. To Woolwich’s mind, it was little better than a nasty, schoolboy game of scribbling away theton’s dirtiest thoughts. But it was famous for the scandals it could cause, and a nervous jolt of anticipation went up his back when he saw how delighted the young bucks were.
This sentiment was not shared by the gentleman who carried it aloft and laid it down carefully, as if the book were a religious item, and then with a flick of his wrist, he opened it.
All of them huddled around. On closer inspection, they looked as if they might be just out of university. They hooted at the names they saw, their fingers trailing through the inscriptions. Jockeying each other as they spotted or worked out the names of people they knew.
“Gor—I never knew that about Lady Norton.”
“Everyone knows about her and—”
“What about Duchess H?”
“Heseltine.” This was said in a whisper as one of the men leant close to supply the name of a wealthy widow with a poor reputation.
A sneer formed on Woolwich’s face as he considered the dissolute society. With a decisive move, he strode away from Verne and the window and across to the Betting Book. Woolwich laid his large hand onto the page, blocking the gentlemen’s view. “I would suggest, sirs, that this is returned to its proper location. I am sure your fathers would not approve of you...”
One of the braver boys edged closer to Woolwich, a challenge flashing across his round, pale face. “Since we are members of White’s, we can place a bet. If we choose to.” With a sniff, he gathered strength from the silence that greeted him. “It’s why we came here today.”
“A bet, you Piggott? Thinking of organising another race with a hog again?” Trawler had walked across to the table, an amused expression on his face as he looked at the boys.
“That was my cousin,” the braver boy said, backing off.
Turning the Betting Book to look down at the pages, Woolwich’s eyes flicked through the listings of people he knew either from sight, reputation, or from his work in the House of Lords. The foolish, the asinine, and the mildly amusing littered the pages. When he flicked his eyes back up to view the younger men before him, he could not imagine what would spur them to enter their musings down onto the page. Had he ever been so young, so foolish as to wish to voice his innermost thoughts to the jackals of theton?
“What were you going to enter?” Woolwich asked more out of politeness, although the keener observer would notice he did not pass the book back to the boys.
“Just a rumour,” Piggott said.
“That is all the book is made up of,” Verne said. “Who will marry who, and little more than that.”
“Oh, it is a great deal more than that,” said one of the snickering boys. Woolwich knew him the least, the buck’s innuendo blatant and vulgar.
“Hardly an honourable move. Come here to scurry and speculate about which lady you might bed,” Woolwich said. He might avoid the female sex, but he saw no reason why they should be gossiped about. His avoidance was built less on chivalry and more out of annoyance and a lack of trust, but he still maintained an idea that a woman deserved respect, of which these three seemed incapable. With a curt move, Woolwich dropped the book back on the table and gave each boy a cursory dismissive stare as if to say,do you not wonder what I might tell your fathers about you? “Unless one of you is eager for the parson’s mousetrap?”
That was enough for them to scurry off, abandoning their prize and leaving the room. Woolwich’s fingers stilled on the last page because a name had caught his eye.
“What is the matter?” Trawler asked, drawing closer, trying to read whatever had distressed his friend.
“Three hundred pounds to the men who can unearth the truth behind the split in the Oxford Set. Why do Marquess of H and Duke of W loathe each other? The betting says there will be another fifty pounds if it has something to do with a lady.” Unbidden, Woolwich’s tongue darted out to wet his dry lips, and he forced himself to breathe deeply as a way of calming down. This was his greatest fear. There was no reason to suppose the better suspected the late Lady Woolwich. “Do you recognise the man who placed the bet?” He passed the betting book to Verne, who as a spy should know every name in society.
“Covington. He is a nobody, probably just voicing some rumours he has overheard. The more you are seen to care, the more speculation you will feed.”
“I will not see it directed my way,” Woolwich burst out. The fury stinging within his chest, he grabbed the nearest wooden chair, flinging it into the corner of the room. Anger was colouring his vision, but beneath the red mist was the fear of how this might affect his young son. He had to protect the boy at any cost.
There was an unmistakable shuffling noise behind the curtain as Woolwich tried to calculate his next move. Someone was hiding there and might have overheard everything. It was then he remembered the buck who had hidden behind, and in haste for fear that someone might piece together his terrors, Woolwich said with true vehemence, “I suppose I should add a bet myself. I will be seducing Heatherbroke’s wife this Season. That will more than answer Covington’s bet.” His eyes flashed around at Verne, who shook his head in exasperation, and then to Trawler, who snatched up the betting book.
Marching to the door, Trawler simply swore as he left the library, refusing to add Woolwich’s new bet to the book.
