Page 23 of Dukes for Dessert

“Yes, indeed,” David said, and pronounced the word with satisfaction. “Impotence.”

“On her part, yes,” Laurie snapped. “But still, it is—”

“No, no, old chap. You mistake me,” David interrupted in a hard voice. He smiled into Laurie’s face, a cold, angry smile. “Of course I mean the impotent one is you.”

7

Lackwit Laurie stared in such bafflement that David couldn’t hold in his laughter. The man’s resemblance to a stuffed fish at the moment was hilarious.

Laurie coughed. “But I am not …” He held his fist to his mouth and wheezed. “You know.”

“Flaccid as a deflated balloon?” David suggested. “Limp as a drowned worm? Are you certain?” He made a show of glancing about the room. “I see no sons or daughters crawling around your house. No by-blows from your mistresses. I’ve investigated this point. Are you certain you are up to scratch, old son?”

“Of course I’m not impotent!” Laurie’s voice rang out. “What the devil are you playing at?”

“You could pretend to be. To obtain the annulment.”

Laurie was up from his desk, advancing on David. David made a show of taking his time to rise to meet him.

“You two-faced blackguard!” Laurie snarled. “You’re her lover, aren’t you? You want me to back off so you can have her. Well, I refuse.” He stepped to David, putting himself nearly nose to nose with him—not difficult as Laurie’s stuck out so far. “There will be no annulment. I will divorce her and cover her with so much muck, even you will be disgraced if you take her. You’ve tipped your hand, my friend.”

David’s gaze was steady. “You always were a bit slow, weren’t you, Devonport? An annulment will save you reams of cash. Why do you care what your wife gets up to after that? You will have no blemish on your character and can marry whom you choose.”

“What the devil are you talking about? I can’t make a case for impotence.” Laurie flinched at the word. “Such a thing must be proved, and it never will be. Please, do your worst. Send a lovely courtesan or even a homely midwife to come to me and touch my prick. It will bounce forth in all its glory and your impotent theory will be dust.”

“An excellent idea.” David pretended to brighten. “I will make a bargain with you. If a lady can get you stiff—and she agrees to bear witness to a judge that you’re flowing like a virile man—I will withdraw the idea. But, if she proves we should change your name to Limp-Prick Laurie, you will have your marriage annulled, announce to the world that Miss Tierney was falsely accused, and go your merry way. Your wealthy widow might think twice about marrying a man who can’t please her in the bedchamber, but that is the risk you’ll have to take.”

Laurie stepped back, his smile huge and disquieting. “You have made a bad choice, Fleming. I will accept the bargain and enjoy squashing you. I’ll have Devilish David in court as one copulating happily with my wife, and be damned to you—and to her.”

David raised his brows. “Devilish David doesn’t have the sting of Lackwit Laurie, does it? Or Limp-Prick Laurie as I will call you from now on.” David stuck out his hand. “I believe we have an agreement. I will send my solicitor to draw it up formally if you like. Then you will … er, you know … be put to the test.”

“I look forward to it,” Laurie said in hearty tones.

“I dare say.”

David and Laurie shook on it, Laurie trying not to hide a wince as David strengthened his grip. David turned away, taking up the walking stick he’d leaned on the chair and making for the door.

“You’re a bloody fool.” Laurie always did have to put in the last word. “And I shall prove it.”

David continued into the hall. “There is a reason we call you Lackwit, you ass,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

David turned back, raising his voice. “I said, I wish you good day, old sass.”

Laurie nodded stiffly. “And you.”

David grinned as he went down the stairs, his steps light. He took his hat and greatcoat from the footman, slinging them on as he ducked out into the pounding rain, whistling a merry tune.

Sophie decided that kneeling in the mud, hacking at a mound of dirt, was no bad thing. In the last few days, she and Uncle had turned up a few more loose tiles, one black, one the brilliant red of heart’s blood. A floor lay somewhere under here, Uncle Lucas vowed.

As impatient as he was, Uncle would not simply plow down until he found it. Modern archaeology was not a treasure hunt, he declared, but a search for knowledge of the past. Even so, Sophie knew Uncle longed to find his villa before he grew too elderly to enjoy it.

She sat back on her heels, glad of the tarp that shielded her from the worst of the muck, and wiped her brow. More to do before teatime.

A movement across the field caught her eye, and Sophie froze, a clod of earth dropping from the trowel to her skirt.

He’d said he wasn’t coming back. Had shouted it. Sophie climbed stiffly to her feet, heart pounding as the unmistakable form of David Fleming tramped toward her. Dismaying how quickly she’d learned his walk and way of moving.

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