Page 3 of To Pleasure a Prince
“You can’t stop him—or Prinny, for that matter—from approaching her at other affairs.” Marcus stared sullenly into the jeweled depths of his empty glass.
“Oh, yes, I can,” Iversley said. “I won’t let anyone near who might harm her. In the months Louisa has been coming here to prepare for her debut, Katherine and I have grown fond of the girl. We wouldn’t want her caught in Prinny’s machinations.”
“You’re both probably worrying for nothing.” Byrne sipped his wine. “Just because Foxmoor is dancing with her doesn’t mean Prinny put him up to it. She’s a beautiful girl, after all.”
“True. But it makes me damned nervous.” For the first time in years, Marcus wished he could go into society without stirring up nasty comments and drawing hateful looks. He wished he could shave off the beard that hid his ugly scar without fearing it would draw even more vicious rumors. He didn’t care what they thought or said abouthim,but Louisa…
He couldn’t mar her come-out by accompanying her.
Nor could he demand that she remain exiled with him at Castlemaine, much as he wanted to. Louisa deserved better. And the only way she would get it was if he trusted Iversley—and Katherine—to look after her in the next few weeks while she lived in their home, flitting from party to ball to soiree.
Without him.
He stared back through the glass. “I hope you and Katherine know how much I appreciate what you’re doing for her.”
“It’s the least we can do after all you did forus,”Iversley said in a voice deep with emotion.
“It was nothing,” Marcus mumbled, unused to being thanked. Unused to having friends—brothers—who could thank him.
An awkward silence ensued before Iversley cleared his throat. “I’d best return to my guests. Do you two plan to stand out here all night?”
“So Draker can grumble whenever Louisa dances with someone he doesn’t like?” Byrne retorted. “Not on your life. We’re going to the Blue Swan.”
Marcus shot Byrne a dark scowl. “I’m not sitting around your dingy gaming establishment while a lot of sots speculate on my beard and my past and my—”
“Clearly you’ve never been to Byrne’s club if you think it’s dingy,” Iversley remarked. “And I’m sure he has private rooms.”
“Not to mention the best French brandy a smuggler can provide,” Byrne said. “Come on, you big grouse. This bloody ball will go on for hours, and you know you don’t want to lurk about out here cooling your heels until it’s over.”
He hated to admit it, but Byrne was right. “I suppose I could go home.” But he wasn’t in the mood to return to Castlemaine and the emptiness that Louisa would have left in her wake. “Do you indeed have private rooms?”
“Of course.” A devilish smile broke over Byrne’s face. “And if you like, I can have female company fetched for us. I’ll even pay for it myself.”
Marcus was sorely tempted. Although he’d never kept a mistress and he seldom used whores, tonight wasn’t a night for scruples. And Castlemaine might seem less lonely if he returned by light of day.
“Go on, Draker, go with him,” Iversley prodded. “We brothers have to stick together when we can.”
Brothers. The pain in Marcus’s chest eased. “All right, I’ll go.”
“Excellent.” Byrne picked up the bottle of Madeira and refilled Marcus’s glass; then handed the bottle to Iversley and raised his own glass in a toast. “To the Royal Brotherhood of Bastards.”
They echoed the toast, with Iversley swigging straight from the bottle.
Then Marcus lifted his glass again. “And to our royal sire. May he rot in hell.”
Chapter One
Hertfordshire, May 1814
Discourage your charge from gossiping, but be aware of all the lateston-dityourself, so you can separate the sheep from the wolves.
—Miss Cicely Tremaine,The Ideal Chaperone
The carriage crested a hill and Lady Regina Tremaine gasped at her first glimpse of Castlemaine, nestled in one of the Chiltern hills’ verdant valleys. The place lived up to its name gloriously. Despite its lack of a moat, it was the very picture of a Tudor castle with its battlements, parapets, and pointed gothic windows. How odd to find it plunked down here in Hertfordshire among the oxen and the barley, only twenty miles from London. It was like stumbling upon Camelot in the midst of Whitechapel.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” said Cicely Tremaine, her spinster older cousin and chaperone.
“Fascinating.” Though she’d expected something of the sort, after hearing Louisa wax rhapsodic over her home. “If it’s not too gloomy on the inside. You know how dank and dark these old piles can be.”
