Page 21 of Dukes for Dessert

“You are very welcome, Niece.”

Sophie sipped her tea and said nothing more. As her uncle’s assistant, she could leave off finery and begin to wear dowdy frocks, becoming a dried-up woman with no interest in gentlemen without delay. Playing the organ in the church loft where no one could see her would only hurry the process along.

This would be her life, then. Safely hidden from the world, buried in excavations and typing up Uncle’s notes into something coherent, perhaps earning a footnote in his monographs thanking her for her help. She no longer had to worry about what life would bring. It would be mapped out for her, unchanging.

Sophie imagined what David would say to her thoughts, pictured his wry look, heard his cynical laughter. She clutched her teacup and barely stopped her tears.

The Earl of Devonport occupied a tall house in Portman Square, very Georgian, with columns, a fan-lighted door, and a lofty entrance hall. The earl received callers in a study on the first floor, at the top of a flight of stairs designed to inspire awe.

The house had escaped the ruthless modernization of David’s generation, retaining its early nineteenth-century faux Greco-Roman simplicity. The cool white walls, busts of great men of history, and elegant furniture came as a relief from the noisy, crammed, choking city outside.

The decor was likely the result of Laurie’s father’s tastes. Lackwit Laurie Whitfield would hardly have the understanding, let alone the interest, to maintain such understated luxury. That is, unless Laurie had drastically changed.

No, no, David assured himself. He decidedly had not. Any man who would throw away Sophie Tierney on a whim had proved he was a complete dolt.

The Earl of Devonport rose from behind a desk when the majordomo ushered David into the study, the timing calculated to imply that David had interrupted perusal of very important letters.

“Fleming.” Laurie dropped the papers and came around the desk as the majordomo withdrew. “Such a surprise. Or shall I call you Devilish David? A long time since our silly days at Harrow, what?”

David clasped Laurie’s extended hand, noting the grip was firm. So was Laurie. He’d changed from pudgy boy in short pants to muscular man in a trim black suit, though he’d never have height or be rid of his bulbous nose—but he was striking. Lackwit had learned how to make an impression.

“Fleming is fine,” David said when their hands parted. “Or D.D., if you prefer. I could call you L. L.”

Lackwit Laurie burst into laughter, a deep, mature sound. “Ah, yes, the puerile nicknames we gave each other in school. Boys can be so cruel. You don’t have sons yourself, do you?”

David shook his head. “Lifelong bachelor, me.”

“Too bad, old man. Domestic bliss has its place.”

He waved David to a chair. David took it, letting his gaze go to the bookshelves around him, which were filled with erudite tomes. “Domestic bliss, eh? Aren’t you charging through courts to obtain a divorce?”

Laurie waved that away and resumed his seat behind the desk. “Only because the woman I chose decided to hurt me in the most scurrilous way. Fortunately, I have met another lady who will make me very happy.”

“How lucky for you.” David’s gaze rested on a book on the nearest shelf. “Erasmus Darwin. Interesting. His translation of Linnaeus changed botany as we know it, do you not think? And he was far ahead of his time in his opinions on the education of women.”

Laurie’s brow furrowed. “Never knew he was interested in women. Can’t agree with him that men are descended from monkeys. He simply met too many monkeys when he traveled around the world, I wager. Loneliness and wishful thinking, more like.” He snorted a laugh.

“Mmm.” David forbore to explain that, while related, Erasmus Darwin and Charles Darwin were two different people, the younger born several years after the elder, his grandfather, had died. “As interested as I am in natural history, my visit is of a different nature.”

“Yes, indeed. Why have you come? Does the Duke of Kilmorgan want my backing on one of his daft bills? He’ll never win us over, no matter how many Highland dances he performs. Tell him to go back to Scottish-land and eat haggis.” Another snort, Laurie fond of his own wit.

David again decided to keep silent, this time on the fact that he too was Scots and preferred beefsteak and vegetable soufflé to sheep’s innards.

“My request is of a more personal nature,” David said, draping his arm comfortably over the back of the Louis XV chair. “I have a favor to ask, man to man, one Harrow boy to another.”

“I remember you and Hart being great bullies at Harrow,” Laurie said. “To me, I mean. Well, to most not fortunate enough to be in your circle.”

“As you say, boys can be cruel.” David spread one hand. “Males are thoughtless at that age, without the learning, experience, and gentler sentiments we acquire once we become men. I can only apologize.”

Laurie gave him a nod, a smug one. He’d obviously thought David had come to grovel, to beg the condescension of a lofty earl.

The thought of this man touching Sophie made David’s blood boil, but he held himself in check. He could only accomplish what he needed by remaining cool-headed.

“What is this favor?” Laurie asked the question with the air of a man who could make one’s dreams come true or shatter them in a blow.

“Miss Tierney. Your wife.”

Laurie frowned. “You mean Lady Devonport.”

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