Page 45 of Private Arrangements
“A cognac would do very well.”
Her lips thinned, but she apparently couldn't quite summon up the wherewithal to deny a duke a simple request of beverage. “Certainly. Hollis,” she said to her butler, “bring a bottle of Rémy Martin for His Grace.”
The servant bowed and left.
Langford smiled in satisfaction. There, that was better. Lemonade indeed. “I trust your trip to London was rewarding?”
She laughed, a sound both startled and inauthentic. “Yes, I suppose it was.”
She touched the cameo brooch she wore at her throat. He could not help staring at the contrast of her white fingers against the stark, light-devouring crepe. The skin on her hand, though delicate, lacked the succulence and translucency of first youth. He was reminded that she was, indeed, several years older than him, a woman approaching fifty. Granny Snow White.
But damned if she wasn't more beautiful than a bevy of nubile girls, more beautiful even than herself at age nineteen. As a rule, gorgeous women aged worse than plain ones—they had the greater fall. She, however, had acquired, somewhere along the way, a self-worth that had little to do with her beauty yet adorned her better than pearls and diamonds—an underpinning of substance beneath her still-lovely skin.
“I had the unexpected pleasure of meeting your cousins at the theater,” she said. “Lady Avery and Lady Somersby were kind enough to invite me to sit in their box.”
The significance of her statement did not immediately register. So she ran into Caro and Grace—a lot of people did, to their delight or chagrin, depending on whether they received juicy gossip or were probed three fingers deep for it. Then it dawned on him. Mrs. Rowland here hadn't had any idea at all of the person he had been before his present incarnation as the reclusive, practically asexual scholar.
And what would they have told her? Probably the bitch fight, the fire, and the time he hired all of Madame Mignonne's girls. They were far from the worst sins he had ever committed, but they ranked high in notoriety. And the virtuous—though opportunistic—Mrs. Rowland was shocked and dismayed enough to temporarily shelve her idol-worshipping mien and her breathless voice.
Truly, as if he could be deterred from more nefarious intentions by a few open windows and fifteen yards of reproachful black crepe, he who had successfully lifted a number of mourning skirts in his day, and sometimes before open windows too.
Not that he entertained any such designs concerning Mrs. Rowland. Had they met twenty years previously, well, it would have been quite another story. But he had changed. He was now aged and tame.
On most days.
“I trust they regaled you with stories of my youthful indiscretions,” he said. “I'm afraid I haven't led the most exemplary life.”
Obviously she hadn't expected him to confront the issue head-on. She attempted a nonchalant wave of her hand. “Well, what gentleman is without a few peccadilloes to his name?”
“Just so.” He nodded with grand approval at her sudden insight. “The intemperance of summer leads to the ripe maturity of autumn. Thus it has always been, thus it always will be.”
He almost laughed at the confusion his philosophizing caused in her. But her manservant came to the rescue with the delivery of the cognac, an excellent blend composed of fine eau-de-vie that had been aged fifty years in old Limousin oak barrels.
They moved to the card table she had set up and she tentatively inquired if they could, at this early stage, play for something other than one-thousand-pound-a-hand stakes. “My daughter and I played for sweets, butterscotch, toffee, licorice . . . you see what I mean, Your Grace.”
“Certainly,” he said magnanimously, especially given that he had played thousand-quid hands no more than three times in his life, after which even his vice-laden heart could no longer tolerate the awfulness of losing a year's income in a single night.
She rose and retrieved a large golden embossed box. “My daughter sent me these Swiss chocolates Easter last. She knows I'm very fond of them.”
The chocolates were packed in several trays, with most of those on the top tier already eaten. She discarded the top tray, then set one full tray before herself and one before him.
“What games did you play with your daughter?” he said, shuffling the decks of cards on the table.
“The usual games for two—bezique, casino, écarté. She is an excellent card player.”
“I look forward to a few games with her when she arrives,” he said.
Mrs. Rowland did not answer immediately. “I'm sure she would be delighted.”
It would appear that while Mrs. Rowland could best a Drury Lane professional when it came to premeditated fabrications, she wasn't as smooth when a spontaneous instance of barefaced lying was required. Managing a husband and a fiancé at the same time was no mean task. He could see very well why Lady Tremaine refused to participate in her mother's harebrained schemes to add a third man to the already combustible mix. A few beats of silence passed as he dealt the cards faceup.
“Perhaps you'd rather play a few hands with her husband,” said Mrs. Rowland. “She is not yet sure of her itinerary, so he might come in her stead.”
“She is married?” He feigned great surprise.
“Yes, she is. She has been married to the Duke of Fairford's heir for ten years.” Pride still informed her answer. Pride and a trace of despair.
The first ace landed in his lap. He shook his head slightly as he collected the cards, shuffled them, and held the deck out for her to cut. “I confess myself baffled, Mrs. Rowland. When you recommended your daughter to me, I had assumed her unattached and your gentle interest in my person intended to bring about a friendship between your daughter and myself.”
