Page 87 of Lord of Temptation
“Your mother disagrees.”
“Wholeheartedly. I understand he’s a bit rough around the edges, but he behaved exemplary at the last ball he attended. I thought perhaps he could even speak of the need to not forget those who fought and returned with challenges.”
“I believe he would be a wonderful addition to what you have planned.”
He smiled. “I quite agree. Now if you could help me convince Mother ...”
“What if I did a bit more than that?”
“What have you in mind?”
“You shouldn’t invite him.”
“But you just said—”
“I’ll invite him. Then your mother can’t be mad with you.”
“No, she’ll be mad with you.”
“But I don’t live with her.”
“But you very well could in the near—” Blushing scarlet, he faced her and took her hands. Her heart was pounding like a regimental drum. “You must know that my interest in you goes beyond poetry and walks in the park.”
Her mouth suddenly dry, she nodded.
“If my interest is not wanted, you have but to say and I shall leave you be.”
So polite, so damned polite. He would never anger her; he would never challenge her; he would quite possibly never fight for her. She wanted more, but even as she thought it, only one man came to mind: Tristan. He brought with him thousands of lonely nights. With Chetwyn, she would have no loneliness. She would quite possibly have no passion, but perhaps she’d had enough to last a lifetime. Her aunt thought love was rare, and Anne had possessed it for a short while. Surely passion such as she’d known was even rarer. But the price to keep it was too high.
“Your attention is welcomed, Chetwyn.”
Smiling, he lifted her gloved hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “You’ve made me very happy, Anne, and I shall do all in my power to see that you are happy as well.”
“But first you must please your mother.”
He chuckled lightly. “Yes, quite. At least until I can move her into the dower house.” He turned and they began walking again. “So about this invitation to Keswick ...”
Living a good bit of his youth on the streets of London, Rafe Easton had developed a keen instinct when it came to judging men. Not all hands offered in assistance were harmless. Not all smiles led to laughter. Not all friendship was true.
So it was—as he stood in the shadows of the balcony of his gaming hell and watched his brother tossing dice—that he knew Tristan was in an unusually foul mood. Oh, he was quick to smile and jest but it was a performance, although Rafe was fairly certain his brother always performed when in London. Only tonight it reflected a harder edge. Tristan wasn’t enjoying the role he’d chosen for himself.
Rafe truly didn’t care if his brother wasn’t happy, but he could see his temper roiling to the forefront, and the last thing with which he wanted to deal was a brawl in his establishment. He’d worked hard to get where he was, made sacrifices, done things he’d have rather not done.
So he’d be damned if he’d allow one of the brothers who’d left him at a workhouse to tarnish what he’d accomplished.
“Mick, tell my brother that I wish to have a word.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man standing behind him said before skittering off to do Rafe’s bidding. Those who worked for him were loyal, but still he didn’t trust them much farther than he could see them. He certainly didn’t banter it about that he was a lord. Shortly after he and his brothers had made their return to Society, a few of his members recognized him, but because he kept to the shadows, many ceased to associate him with Pembrook. In time, for him, it was as though nothing in his life had changed.
He watched as Mick approached Tristan, leaned over, and whispered in his ear. Tristan paused mid-course in a throw and jerked up his gaze toward the balcony. Their eyes met, and Rafe knew that his held a challenge equal to the one that Tristan was sending. Rafe had no doubt that he could hold his own. He’d stopped being the baby brother the moment they’d cruelly abandoned him. He’d certainly never sniveled or wept since that night. No, since then he felt nothing at all.
The same couldn’t be said of Tristan. It seemed he felt a great deal too much.
Tristan sent the dice flying and turned away from the table without waiting to see how they might have landed. Mick stepped in to retrieve the winnings about which Tristan obviously didn’t care.
Rafe headed for his office, regretting that he knew what Tristan needed was a brother to stand beside him, but Rafe had long ago stopped being a brother to anyone.
The nerve of the pup! Summoning Tristan as though he were a mere member of the club to be brought to task because he was playing a bit too hard, drinking a bit too much, and swearing a bit too loudly. Granted, he didn’t pay the yearly fee so he supposed technically he wasn’t a member, but Rafe had never denied him the pleasures of his gaming hell. Tristan flexed his hands, contemplating how nicely his fist would fit into his brother’s face.
