Page 7 of In Scandal with the Duke
“You wear the expression of a man suffering from my malady, Basil,” Oliver, the Marquess of Ambrose, observed with a smirk as he leaned back in his winged-back chair, his eyes sharp beneath the soft glow of the chandelier.
“I agree,” Thomas, the Earl of Radbourne, drawled, his gaze fixed on James with an amused twinkle. “I have never witnessed such an air of distraction for a man known for his iron will. It is … bemusing.”
James took a healthy swallow of his whisky, the amber liquid a welcome burn down his throat. He flicked a glance at his friends, both of whom were indolently sprawled in their winged-back chairs, the flickering light casting shadows across their faces that danced with devilry.
“Enlighten me about this malady you observe,” he murmured, his voice low and slightly edged.
“Boredom,” Ambrose said, the word hanging in the air like a challenge.
That single word struck James’s heart like a hammer, echoing a soft, accented voice hidden in shadows who’d felt a similar disenchantment with her evening.
Miss Elizabeth Armstrong.
He pushed away the unbidden image of her dark blue eyes, the finest he had ever seen and directed his attention to his friends.
“Hmm, this is the second conversation tonight that has revolved around boredom.”
“Ah, you met a woman,” Radbourne deduced, his green eyes gleaming wickedly. “Did you meet her here? Are we to share?”
James chuckled, shaking his head. “The only young lady I met tonight is from society,” he clarified, his tone laced with irony. “Not a potential lover. I do not even think I like the chit.”
Radbourne choked on his drink, sputtering a laugh. “A society lady?”
“Hmm.”
“We can still share her,” Radbourne drawled provocatively. “Enquiring minds wish to know, Basil, why the hell were you at a ball?”
From his circle of friends, Radbourne was known as much for his enigmatic reclusiveness as he was for his striking appearance and rakish ways. It would be more possible to see a unicorn than his friend at atonevent.
“Never say you are finally thinking about marriage,” Ambrose said, an eyebrow arching in mock horror.
“I merely attended the ball to indulge my mother,” James said, a slight tightness to his words as his mind wandered back to the sharp-tongued American beauty.
“My mother has also been asking me to marry,” Radbourne sighed, his expression clouding slightly. “She conveniently forgets I was once engaged, and the supposed horror of my appearance induced my fiancée to fall out of love with my undeniable wicked charms.”
The neat lines of his friend’s cheekbone and jaw were disrupted by a scar that slashed upward through to his left eyebrow. Radbourne’s finger traced that jagged edge, and a distant look entered his eyes. He took another long sip of his whisky. “It befuddles the mind how much marriage preoccupies the women in our families.”
Ambrose chuckled. “Many say there is nothing greater than the companionship of a good woman. A thought-provoking notion.”
James raised a brow at the throb of hunger in his friend’s tone. “Do you want to marry?”
Oliver grimaced and raked his fingers through his hair. “There is something that I want, but it feels intangible,” he finally admitted, his tone serious. “Marriage, in our circles, often feels more like a strategic alliance than a partnership of affection. And after seeing many such alliances falter, I have long questioned its value. I am also more certain than ever that genteel ladies of thetonare not able to meet our sexual demands. Hell, yesterday, my mistress took my cock down to the back of her throat … and she peered up at me with this look in her eyes … it was sweet yet wild and wanton. I cannot imagine any lady of society pleasuring me in such a manner, so it is best to simply not marry one. Yet I want more than a casual lover.”
James frowned. He had never heard his friend speak in such a manner. Oliver’s voice echoed with hunger, longing naked on his face.
James leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Take your wife and then have a mistress to do the things you cannot do with your marchioness.”
“Never,” Ambrose swiftly said, pushing to his feet and walking over to the fireplace, staring into the flickering flames as if it would provide him with some answer.
James understood his rejection of having a mistress. Many men of their privilege had many lovers, a mistress or two, along with their wives. In his opinion, it was dishonorable to treat a woman so unless she consented to the arrangement. Many of his friends could be wicked in their illicit pursuits, but they had honor and respect for others.
James did not anticipate ever having to worry about such matters. He had always been a man of strong carnal appetites, and while Ambrose often said he could never allow his baser desires to touch a lady of society, James did not have this worry simply because he had no desire to marry. There were no benefits for him, and everything he did in life was performed with a measure of cold, analytical calculation. His lovers were all temporary, providing him with the sexual adventures he craved without any expectations from him.
Ambrose walked over to the mantle and refilled his glass with whisky.
James tipped his head back, staring at the sensually painted ceiling, which depicted a lady supposedly punished by the gods. In the painting, a voluptuous, naked goddess was surrounded by men who seemed to be kissing every inch of her body—one man licked her cunt, the other sucked a nipple, and one kissed along her neck. The lady’s face was a grimace of agonized ecstasy. Trust that there existed priggish fools who thought forcing pleasure on a woman was some sort of punishment.
Like most of his friends, James enjoyed his life in fleeting thrills, at times reveling in gambling, racing his carriage or a horse, and wicked moments with his lovers. London’s social scene was a nuisance, made sharper by his mother’s constant worry that he remained unwed. His attendance at Lady Michael’s ball was to soothe his mother’s discontent simply because he loved her.
