Page 27 of The Duke of Desire
Chapter Six
West walked into his chamber with a grin, shocked yet pleased with the afternoon’s sudden, exciting turn of events. He’d never imagined Miss Breckenridge would change her mind. But he was exceedingly glad she had.
Whenever he accepted a new liaison, he began assessing the situation, how he would approach things with his new, temporary lover. But this was different. He wasn’t even entirely certain they would engage in anything physical. She’d mentioned simply talking. That was perhaps all she wanted.
His smile faded.
“Your Grace, is there a problem?” Seaver met him just inside the door.
West met his valet’s gaze. “What’s that?”
“You looked quite pleased when you entered and then you didn’t. Is something amiss?”
West moved farther into the room and shrugged out of his coat. “Ah, not amiss, no.” He’d find out what she wanted soon enough, and he’d meant what he’d said—whatever she’d allow. He only wanted to see her smile. Hear her laugh.
And perhaps moan. Was that so terrible?
“I may require your help with a new liaison.” Or not. He needed to tread carefully.
Seaver took the garment from him and folded it over his arm. “Whatever I can do.” He’d been a loyal, trustworthy, and discreet valet for fourteen years. West had promoted him from the position of footman at Stour’s Edge following West’s father’s death. West had selected the liveliest of the retainers, who happened to be near to him in age, and the one the maids swooned over. He and Seaver were kindred spirits in that respect. They loved and enjoyed women—their conversation, their softness, their sexuality.
West loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Discretion will be of the utmost importance. More than usual.”
Seaver inclined his head. “I see. Do you have a specific task you’d like me to undertake?”
West tugged off his cravat and handed it to Seaver. “Not yet. I’m trying to come up with a location for us to meet later this evening.” So they could…talk?
“Shouldn’t be too difficult at a house party.”
“No, but this is a special situation.” West gave him a pointed look. “The lady is not married.”
Seaver’s ginger brows spiked up in surprise. “Thatisspecial. I understand why discretion is so critical. Forgive my impertinence, but why would you seek to ruin a young lady?”
West heard the shock, and perhaps a splash of judgment, in Seaver’s tone. How he hated that word—ruin. He’d never done that, and he wasn’t about to start now. He frowned, wondering if he was taking advantage. “She’s a companion. And I’m not entirely certain our liaison will be of the physical variety.”
“Miss Breckenridge?” Seaver knew who she was since he’d arranged to deliver the notes and the book West had sent. “Since she is closer to my class than yours, might I point out that it wouldn’t take a physical liaison to ruin her if you were discovered. If you’re seen alone together in suspicious circumstances—as in, you didn’t happen to encounter each other in, say, the library—it would likely get her fired, and she’d have difficulty finding a new position.”
West nearly smiled at Seaver’s supposition, since chance meetings in the library were the basis of their relationship. “You’re saying I should leave her alone.” He’d tried. Truly. But then she’daskedhim to change her life. She wasn’t a green girl.
He’d also played the role of seducer.
Damn it to hell.
He had to let her steer the ship. But he could at least organize a “chance” meeting. “Is there somewhere other than the library where I might happen to run into Miss Breckenridge?”
Seaver thought for a moment. “What about the conservatory? It seems a reasonable place to encounter other partygoers.”
“That would work well. You’ll need to get another note to her chamber.” West knew this wouldn’t be a problem since Seaver had handled the previous items West had sent. Seaver had befriended one of the maids, and she was quite disposed to helping him—discreetly, of course.
West went to the desk, and his gaze fell on a glass of the whiskey Wendover had given him positioned next to an unopened letter. “Bloody hell.”
Seaver came up beside him. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s that time again.”
West’s birthday was in a few days, and it was one of two times each year he could expect a missive, the other being Yuletide. Though he could set a clock to their arrival, he never failed to forget this impending irritation. But then why would one choose to dwell upon something distasteful?
“Thank you for the whiskey,” West said. Seaver had started that tradition with the second letter West had received—more than a dozen years ago now. After seeing how upset it had made him, Seaver had simply given him the next one with a glass of whiskey. It had made the reading easier.
“You could throw it in the fire,” Seaver suggested, as he always did.
