Page 6 of Wickedly Yours
Rowan jumped up the steps of the Duke of Dunbar’s red brick home situated on one of the most prestigious streets in London, stopping to stare, as he often did, at the beauty of his cousin’s residence. The massive structure took up the entire end of the street; wings on either side of the house curled as if open for an embrace. Acres of park land manicured into a twisting riot of gardens fell away to brush, having been allowed to grow wild with all manner of thorny plants and trees. The brush served as a natural deterrent to trespassers as did the high stone wall which surrounded the entire property. The impression was one of magnificence and powerful wealth, with just a thin veneer of danger, as if the rumors of witchcraft and pacts with the Devil and all the other gossip surrounding the Duke of Dunbar were true.
He rapped smartly on the door, hoping his cousin, Jemma and the duke had arrived home safely from their sojourn in Scotland. The couple’s visit to the seat of the Duke of Dunbar was to only have lasted no more than a month, but then they had been there much longer due to concerns over Jemma’s health. Rowan hoped they were at home and only neglected to inform the family in order to rest.
The ball celebrating the marriage of the Earl and Countess of Kilmaire was to take place later that night, given by the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne. Lord and Lady Dunbar, along with Rowan and his family, were all expected to attend. As was most of London. No one dared to disregard an invitation from the Dowager Marchioness, a grand dame of theton.
Rowan would be there, of course, though he wasn’t looking forward to it. Not because of Lord and Lady Kilmaire who were dear friends, but for other reasons. Reluctantly he admitted to himself the slight detour to his cousin’s home was merely an attempt to avoid his mother, Lady Marsh.
As usual, the expectations of Lady Marsh were not in line with those of her only son.
Peabody, the Dunbar butler, opened the door wide. Once he caught sight of Rowan, his mouth turned down in dislike. “Baron Malden.” He addressed Rowan by his courtesy title. “His Grace is not at home.” The elderly servant began to shut the door.
“How odd. I would have expected them a day or so ago. Possibly His Grace will arrive at any moment.” Rowan placed his hand on the heavy oak. “I’ll wait a bit, if you don’t mind.”
Peabody sighed, rather dramatically, telling Rowan hedidindeed mind. The door swung wide. “As you wish, Lord Malden. Your wait may be overlong. His Grace assured us he would arrive today, however—"
“The Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne is hosting a celebratory ball for Lord and Lady Kilmaire this evening and I can’t imagine either my cousin or her husband would miss such an event. I’ll wait in the drawing room and avail myself of my cousin-in-law’s sideboard.”
Peabody was too well trained to say anything more, but his nostrils flared at the idea of Rowan drinking the Duke of Dunbar’s scotch. “As you wish, my lord.”
Snooty old bugger.
As Rowan made his way to the drawing room, he noticed the way the servants were bustling to and fro in anticipation of the duke’s arrival. The entire foyer smelled of beeswax and the floor glistened beneath his feet. The drawing room was a massive, cavernous space with expensive furniture littered about in various groupings. The furniture was all heavy and masculine, dressed in reds and golds. A large stone hearth took up the majority of one wall, the fire inside popping and crackling, giving the room a warm glow.
Rowan made his way to the sideboard and poured himself two fingers of scotch before settling in a chair covered in deep burgundy brocade. He took a sip of the scotch and sighed in pleasure as the liquid slid down his throat.
A young maid slipped in to stoke the fire and add wood. Apparently, Peabody didn’t mean for Rowan to catch a chill. The girl was small and cheerfully round. She bustled about her business shooting Rowan several curious gazes as she did so.
His eyes followed her as she moved, his gaze more on her clothing than the girl herself. He’d lately come into possession of a textile mill. Actually, several textile mills. They were in dire need of updating. The Newsome mills stood on several acres of land facing a river, once the primary mode of distribution for their goods. The river had been dammed making transportation from the mills prohibitively expensive, a problem Rowan was actively attempting to solve. He had plans for the mills, starting with the clothing the girl before him wore. Mentally he calculated the cost of her dress, apron, cap and wool stockings. What about an additional dress? She probably had only one, meant for church or her half-day.
The girl turned and caught him looking at her. Her cheeks reddened but her eyes twinkled in invitation. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No, thank you. That will be all.” He gave her a polite smile.
Ready-made. The fast-growing class of tradesmen, merchants and shopkeepers had a hunger for ready-made clothing. The larger of the Newsome mills could produce such things. He already had in place an agreement to import cotton from America. The ships necessary to carry the cotton to England would be those of the Duke of Dunbar. His Grace was already actively engaged in trade all over the world, though few in thetonwould care to disparage him over such a thing.
His parents, Lord and Lady Marsh, were horrified that their son would dirty his hands in trade. So upsetting was the thought to his parents that Rowan kept his business dealings quiet. He had no wish for them to know or understand his single-minded pursuit of building an empire of his own.
He turned his attention from textiles back to the scotch in his hand. His Grace seemed to have an endless supply of scotch, always of the highest quality. Carriages moved past the windows, the sound of the horse’s hooves unable to penetrate the drawing room. It was peaceful here, much more serene then the scene doubtlessly playing out at the home of Rowan’s parents. Lady Marsh was determined to play matchmaker for both her children, though he was currently bearing the brunt of her attention. Mother peppered Rowan with notes all week, begging him to attend her at his earliest convenience, which he had not done.
Guilt hung in his stomach. He took another sip of the scotch. Avoiding his mother was a rare outwardly show of rebellion, something his conscience usually kept in check. His parents wished him to marry, reminding them that had the fates not been so cruel, their home would already be full of the sound of grandchildren. Lady Marsh had even been so kind as to pick out the perfect future countess. Lady Gwendolyn White.
Lady Gwendolyn was a beautiful, well-mannered feather wit. He’d die of boredom before he could bed her.
One more finger of scotch was in order. He wasn’t just avoiding his mother who had probably already invaded the bachelor apartment he kept. Rowan also had something of great importance to speak to the duke about.
Augustus Corbett.
His Grace was bound to become quite angry as Rowan related the news concerning Corbett. Very few men would be bold enough to remain in England after attempting to kidnap the future Duchess of Dunbar. Of course, Corbett had assistance.
A slow curl, a mixture of anger and desire, spiraled deep inside Rowan at the thought of the duke’s sister, Lady Arabella. If she were standing before him, Rowan was certain he’d strangle her. Or lay her down, lift her skirts and take her savagely, something he fantasized about on a frequent basis. His feelings towards Arabella tended to be rather conflicted and had been for some time. How was it possible to be attracted to such a woman?
Rowan noticed his glass was empty. He stood and poured just a bit more and looked at the clock. Plenty of time before tonight’s event. After settling himself, he thought back to the dinner he’d attended the night before.
Rowan had a varied and diverse circle of acquaintances and gentlemen he called friends. Mr. Gerald Wrigley was one of those acquaintances. A banker of some repute, Mr. Wrigley had been instrumental in assisting Rowan in past endeavors. More importantly, Rowan liked and trusted Wrigley, and his dinner parties were always entertaining. Unmarried as he was, Wrigley’s older, widowed sister often played hostess at his events. Clara Wrigley Howard was utterly charming and made sure the wine and conversation flowed freely.
Also, Rowan was considering the possibility of an affair with Clara.
As he busied himself admiring Clara’s daring neckline over dinner last night, he had listened to the conversation around him, carefully squirreling away bits of information he could use later. The gentlemen on his left was a young barrister named Jennings. Rowan was picking at his lamb when he overheard Jennings mention Bermuda.
