Page 47 of A Game with the Rakish Duke
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Catherine had been correct when she had said he was a rake. It had never bothered him much before. He took pleasure where he found it. He appreciated beautiful, sensual women. He had never treated them disrespectfully. He was friends with most of his previous lovers.
But he had never fallen in love with any of them. He often thought that perhaps love was like a disease that he was simply immune to. And it had never bothered him. Love was a disease that he had no desire to catch. What had happened between his parents had cured him of any longing for it.
“No,” he barked, taking another long sip of brandy. “There can be no arrangement like that between us. We have agreed that we will lead separate lives. My desire for her will wane with time. It always does.”
He felt a pang of sorrow as he uttered the words. It was true, he had known great desire for women in his life, but it had rarely lasted long after the lady had capitulated and he had slaked his thirst for her as Kenneth put it. It wouldn’t be any different if he lured Catherine to his bed. It would be over and done within a month, if not less.
“I do not wish to live with the aftermath of it,” he continued, feeling restless. “It would never last, and then I must deal with the consequences.”
“How do you know that your desire for her will wane?” Kenneth looked at him carefully. “I have seen you in a state about manywomen over the years, my friend, but I haveneverseen you as bad as you are now. There might be more to it than you will admit.”
“Poppycock,” Thomas growled, glowering at his friend over his brandy glass. “I cannot afford such sentiment, and you damn well know the reason why, Dunford.”
There was an awkward silence. Thomas drained his glass and then called for another. He had been in a restless state, unable to settle since he had returned to London with his new wife.
You have been in a restless state since you last kissed her, and she pushed you away. Avoiding her is pure torture, but it must be done. You have promised her.
“It will be better once this infernal ball is over and done with,” he continued, sighing irritably. “Grandmother insists on it, so she can parade us in front of the ton, but after it is over, we can go our separate ways. There will be some logistics to work out, of course, but the sooner it happens, the better.”
“I do not know,” Kenneth murmured, looking pensive. “You are in an awfully bad way over the lady…”
“Enough of this,” Thomas growled, glaring at his friend. “Let us change the subject. I did not tell you why I was delayed.” He paused. “I ran into Lady Isabella Lyndon on the street. She and her parents are in London for Grandmother’s ball, even though her father despises the city and they rarely visit. She told me that Grandmother would not take no for an answer.”
Kenneth laughed. “Your grandmother is a force to be reckoned with, Newden,” he stated dryly. “I do believe she could have commanded armies if she had been a man. General Napoleon would have doubtless met his match.”
Thomas laughed, feeling the tension abruptly leave his shoulders. It might have been the brandy or being with his friend. Either way, it felt good to stop thinking about the dilemma of Catherine for once.
Maybe, just once, he wouldn’t think of her at all tonight.
There was a candle shining in the parlor when Thomas finally did arrive home. He would have stayed longer at the club, for there had been an interesting card game in progress, but Kenneth had started yawning, saying he was ready for his bed, and Thomas had been forced to admit he was getting tired as well.
He hesitated as he walked past the parlor on his way towards the staircase. He should just leave well enough alone, but he paused, debating with himself, before turning around and walking back.
He hovered in the doorway. His heart flipped over in his chest as he saw her sitting on the floor by the fireplace, a small oval portrait in her hands which she was gazing at intently.
“What are you doing?” His voice was sharper than he had intended.
She started, before placing the painting on the floor and gazing up at him. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “You are late.”
Thomas walked into the room and sat down on the chair closest to her, crossing his legs. He felt completely sober now—he hadn’t had brandy in a few hours. He had been too focused on the card game.
God, she is beautiful. Why is it always so hard to resist her?
“Yes,” he replied slowly. “I caught up with Dunford at the club.” His eyes drifted to the portrait. “Who are you looking at?”
Catherine sighed heavily, picking up the portrait. “I found it in one of my trunks,” she said, gazing at it. “My maid must have packed it without my realizing.” She shrugged. “It is my parents… when they were first married.”
He leaned closer. “Can I take a look?”
She looked embarrassed, but after hesitating for a moment, she handed him the painting.
A young couple gazed back at him, wearing the fashion of thirty years ago. They were turned towards one another slightly, looking at one another, smiling.
“A handsome couple,” he remarked, handing it back to her. “The artist did a good job.”
Catherine shrugged. “Yes, I suppose they were,” she agreed, smiling slightly. “It is nice to see them in their prime.” She sighed. “I do not remember them like this. They rarely smiled in each other’s company when I knew them.”
Silence fell over them. Thomas shifted in his chair. She looked so wistful this evening which was so unlike her. She was always so feisty and willful, butting heads with him, riling him up with her tongue.
