Chapter 3

Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell!

Thy fools no more I'll tease

This year in peace, ye critics dwell,

Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

—Pope

Sunlight streamed through the long window onto the green baize table where the last card had been played, and the victor was collecting his winnings.

"Well, that lets me out. I'm an out-and-out beggar after that hand," one of the younger gentlemen declared, laughing dejectedly, trying not to show his remorse at having lost more than he could comfortably afford. He straightened the soft velvet of his new coat and wondered how he was going to pay for it. Charles hated to ask his father for another advance on his allowance, and besides, he seriously doubted whether that stern gentleman would agree to yet another demand for funds.

"You've had quite a run of luck tonight, Trevegne, but then you always do," Lord Danvers declared loudly, taking a large swig of brandy and downing it in one gulp. "Heard rumors you played with the Devil and I'm beginning to believe it now," he grumbled while making a mental note of his losses.

He leaned back in the small gilt chair as he surveyed the others, his cravat crumpled and askew, his blue brocade vest unbuttoned to allow his ample stomach room to escape and relax as it overhung the tight waist of his breeches. "How about one more hand?" he inquired eagerly, his fever for play overriding his empty pockets.

"I'm more than willing to allow you to win back your losses, gentlemen," Trevegne replied in a bored voice, straightening the lacy cuffs of his sleeve with an experienced flick of his wrist. He glanced slowly at each player in thoughtful silence, a hint of amusement gleaming in his tawny eyes.

The youngest gentleman nervously looked around the table, shifting slightly in his chair, trying to get up enough courage to admit that he was broke. He finally ended up murmuring softly to no one in particular, "Too tired," and relaxed back in his chair with relief at having made so difficult a decision.

"Are you really, dear Charles? Such a pity," Trevegne said sympathetically, a cynical twist on his sensual lips.

Charles Lackton flushed red to his fiery-colored hair, and turned resentful blue eyes on his lordship's lounging figure, feeling both anger and admiration for the man. He had admired Trevegne for as long as he could remember, the stories of Trevegne's escapades having fired his imagination until Trevegne had become a legend to him.

Charles was startled out of his thoughts by the shuffle of the cards, the gentlemen having decided on one last hand. He watched in fascination as the cards were dealt swiftly and expertly by Trevegne's long narrow fingers, the odd gold ring that he wore on his little finger glowing mystically up into Charles's somewhat bemused periwinkle-blue eyes; eyes as guileless as a child's. He continued to stare at his lordship's unconcerned expression as he played his hand, apparently uncaring whether he lost or won, even though the stakes made Charles draw in his breath, thankful he was not in on the last hand. This whole game was a little rich for his blood. He had gamed for lesser stakes in most of the clubs, and had only received an invitation for private play at Trevegne's because of his friendship with his lordship's younger brother Peter. He had thoroughly enjoyed the evening even though his pockets were empty.

The room was now quiet except for the breathing of the two men sitting comfortably in two leather chairs by the fireplace. The fire was cold, the cards spread in careless abandon upon the table, and empty glasses scattered with ashes and cigar butts throughout the room were the only sign of the night's play.

"You've the luck of the Devil, Alex," the older of the two men stated emphatically, but with good humor. "Sure you haven't made a pact with him? You certainly had Danvers's pockets to let last night, and he's not one to like losing," he chuckled in remembrance of Danvers's red, perspiration-streaked face.

"It just wasn't your evening, George. Next time try to keep that twinkle out of your eye when you think you've got a winning hand," Trevegne laughed as he rose and stretched his long, lean body, running a negligent hand through his raven-black hair.

"I've always thought you were part hawk with those sharp eyes of yours. See a damned sight too much for a mortal man," George complained.

"Don't tell me you've been listening to those stories doing the rounds of St. James's? I had thought better of you, George," he inquired casually, pouring two brandies. He handed Lord Denet one as he resettled himself in the large chair.

"I know you're no Lucifer, or devil incarnate, as some seem fond of calling you, your brother among them, but sometimes your luck is uncanny," replied the older man.

"I may have a lucky star, but I prefer to think it's my skill that enables me to win, not Lady Luck. As with most females, she is fickle and not to be trusted. No thank you. I shall continue to rely on my own devices, rather than to play into the lovely but quicksilver hands of Lady Luck." He took a sip of brandy, and smilingly added, "And as for Peter, he's just a young cub following the pack, like young Lackton. He'll soon find his feet. He's just miffed because I won't advance him his allowance. Spends it before I can even get it out of my pocket." He loosened his cravat and settled deeper into the chair.

"I can see that you're tired, Alex, and hinting that I should take my leave, but I've one other subject to discuss first," said Lord Denet, getting to his feet and planting them firmly, as if in preparation for an attack upon his person .

"I was not hinting that you should take your leave. Why, George, how could I allow you to think me so lax a host as to show my guest the door? Even though it is rather late—or early—whichever you prefer. I was merely attempting to make myself more comfortable." He smiled up at his old friend.

"Well, no offense taken, but I'll say my piece and then leave. I'll say no more upon the matter, this I promise, but—" He hesitated, reluctant now that he had his host's attention.

"Do continue, George, this is beginning to interest me. I gather that you've some advice to impart to me?" Trevegne asked helpfully in a quiet voice.

Lord Denet had known Alexander Trevegne since he had been in short pants, and knew that the quiet, languid voice was deceiving to those who were not aware that it masked a will of iron and a fierce temper. Trevegne's quiet tones were soft and ominous, and more deadly than a man who raged like a bull. When angered, he struck quickly and quietly. He had seen Alex cut a man to pieces with his sharp sarcastic tongue, reducing him to a quivering animal ready to turn tail and run. Few men cared—or dared—to cross words or weapons with Alexander Trevegne, Marquis of St. Fleur; although he was Trevegne to friend and foe alike. He was a deadly shot with pistols, and even deadlier at reducing some annoying acquaintance into looking the fool with his notorious setdowns and snubs.

George mentally gathered up his courage and plunged straight on. "I think you ought to consider marrying, Alex. I only say this because I feel that I owe it to your dead parents, who, as you know, were close friends of mine."

Trevegne gave a harsh laugh. "You're a fine one to be lecturing me, George. You happen to be a bachelor still, or are you planning on joining your friends in wedded bliss?"

"That's not the point, and anyway, I have four brothers who are quite capable of keeping the nurseries full, and I'm too old now to set up housekeeping with one woman." He frowned as if the thought were too painful to contemplate. "But I have acted responsibly and discreetly with my liaisons, which I might add, you have not. In fact, I believe you purposely enjoy causing gossip. You aren't satisfied with one ladybird. No, you have to have half a dozen fighting for your favors; flaunting your presents in every gaming hall from London to Paris. But even that doesn't satisfy you, for then you entertain certain Ladies of Quality whom you treat as casually as your other paramours. There are rumors, after this last affair of yours with Lady Mariana, of kicking you out of Almack's. Now you can't allow that!" George expostulated heatedly.

"I don't give a damn about those clucking hens at Almack's," Trevegne spoke in disgust.

"And how about Peter? What kind of an example are you setting for him?"

"You know, George, if you weren't such an old friend I'd call you out for the liberties you have taken this morn. No one has ever dared to speak to me thusly." His voice had hardened with his meaning, the golden eyes darkened.

"I'm only doing what I consider to be my duty," George said a trifle too heartily, then cast a look of speculation on the marquis as he added, "And maybe it is about time that someone began to talk back to you. Do you a bit of good to be given a dressing down."

The marquis laughed in genuine amusement. "You think so, George? I've yet to meet the man."

"Maybe it won't be a man…" George hinted obliquely. "Maybe you'll meet your match in a feminine devil in skirts, who'll humble you with a look from provocative eyes that only have disdain in them for you. And if you aren't careful you'll lose her—the only time in your life when you'll desire something that you won't be able to buy or win," George concluded, turning red as he gave Trevegne an embarrassed look, surprised by his own vehemence.

"Well, well, I had no idea that you had turned into a crystal-gazer, George. So, you believe I shall meet a paragon—no," Trevegne paused, "a she-devil if she's to be my mate—who will give me a royal setdown." He laughed again, his black head thrown back. "I hope I've not long to wait for this confrontation. If what you predict is true, then I shall look forward to it with anticipation. It promises to be a fiery affair—be sure to keep a safe distance, George, or the sparks that fly will no doubt set you alight."

George guffawed loudly, unable to repress the smile that hovered upon his lips as he threw up his hands in defeat. "You're a devil, Alex. You mock everything—nothing is sacred to you. But listen, if you were married and settled down, then people would be appeased. A wife will add respectability to even the most roguish of blackguards."

"If I ever get married, it certainly won't be to satisfy a bunch of snoopy busybodies, sticking their pointed noses into others' affairs," Trevegne answered, a twisted smile on his lips as he continued in mock offense, "and to think you hold me in such low esteem—a roguish blackguard, indeed. Would you have me do penance in sackcloth and ashes, prostrating myself on a marriage bed in atonement for my plunge into dissipation?"

"Certainly not," George disclaimed, shaken. "I certainly do not hold you in low esteem, Alex. Why, you're a gentleman of the highest order. Your name is not to be held in derision by anyone—in fact I have never heard a slur cast upon the name of Trevegne. There is no one more honorable than you, Alex, but—well, you have a damnable reputation for being a libertine; for seeking your amusements to the exclusion of all else. Not that there is anything wrong in that—but must you always succeed? It's the envy and jealousy of other, less fortunate roués who have been grumbling about your extraordinary successes that have set Almack's to talking."

"I cannot control what others will say, nor can I let gossip rule my life. My God, I'd have to sit home with a prayer book if I did."

"Well if you won't consider marriage, then at least try to be less conspicuous about flaunting your mistresses, especially when they're Quality. Everyone knew about Lady Mariana, even when you threw her over. I must say, I did rather think she might manage to become your marchioness. Had me worried, that. Never been one of my favorites, the Lady Mariana. Granted she's a beauty, but too damned uppity for my likes. Hear she's after higher stakes, now. The Duke of Linville. Won't be getting much in His Grace, I can tell you. Laughing Lin ain't got much to recommend him except his title and well-lined pockets. Never did meet a more obnoxious character; even if he is a duke. Knew him as a boy, disliked him then, dislike him now. Got the damndest laugh I ever heard," Lord Denet said disgustedly. "You were too young of course, but—"

"Enough reminiscences, George, please," Trevegne pleaded, holding up his hands placatingly. "I think I have made my position on marriage quite clear, and to set your overactive imagination at rest, I will tell you that I never entertained the thought of marrying Lady Mariana, beautiful as she is, but then she didn't expect marriage either. I've never dallied with young innocents who would misunderstand my intentions—or lack of them—nor do I deceive any woman into thinking that I have intended more than just a casual liaison." Trevegne's voice hardened as he continued coldly, "And only occasionally will some lady try to extend what had been an enjoyable affair into something more permanent. But it's never worked." The marquis took a swallow of brandy, and glancing at the silent George added with cynical amusement, "I hope that allays any doubts you have harbored concerning my welfare, and by the way, I shall be leaving London shortly." He covered a yawn with his hand gracefully.

"Leaving London!" George exclaimed as if leaving London was something unheard of. "But, I don't understand? Leaving London?"

"Yes, leaving London. Please, George, you have us sounding like parrots," the marquis laughed as George repeated his words once again. "I've business to attend to, and I'm anxious for a bit of hunting. Now satisfied? Let us drop the subject, because I've become exceedingly bored by it all. All these questions and answers—I shall have to take counsel under this catechism," Alex feigned another yawn, looking up at George, an innocent expression on his handsome face.

"By God, I do believe I'm boring you to sleep. You are a demon, Alex. Nothing seems to affect you except to bore you. If you are so bored, then why are you leaving town? There's plenty to do here to keep you busy. Your estate agent can handle all your business affairs, so surely there's no need to go gallivanting across the countryside, is there? Cursed uncomfortable if you ask me."

"You've answered that one yourself, George."

"Eh, what?" George bent a confused look upon the relaxed marquis.

"Boredom, George." Alex returned his look with jaded golden eyes. "As plain and simple as that. I would rather be down by the sea, in the fresh air, doing some hunting, than closed up in balls and assemblies. It will serve as a trip with twofold purpose—relaxation and business, to be carried out at my leisure. And I can promise you that I've no seventh mistress tucked away on my estate, nor do I have designs on my estate manager's wife. However…" he added devilishly, "I might have a bride safely secured, eagerly awaiting my pleasure, in the master bedroom."

The marquis laughed, and rising as if in preparation to retire, successfully ended the conversation. "Listen, George, come down to Westerly when you tire of London. You're welcome any time."

"Well, thank you, Alex. Glad to know you don't hold what I've said against me, even if I do wish you had a bride hidden away somewhere," he answered gruffly, feeling genuine affection for the marquis, who he looked upon almost as a son. "I'll be off then, and see you soon, I suspect. Dashed dull around here without your devilish tongue, Alex."

Lord Denet left the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairs until Trevegne finally heard voices and the slamming of a door. He poured himself another brandy and stared morosely at the floral pattern on the Aubusson carpet beneath his feet. His mouth was set in a grim line, his body as tense as a tightly coiled spring. He would leave the following morning for the coast, and travel at his leisure. He was in no hurry—except maybe to leave London.

He had told George most of the truth. He was bored with London and the endless rounds of clubs and parties and balls, the same silly chatter and expressionless faces night after night. He felt the need to clear his mind of the fogginess caused by late nights of heavy drinking and gambling, to set himself free from the clinging, destructive tentacles of London society. He felt restless, as if something was missing from his life. He felt as if he were searching for something; but he wasn't quite sure what it was. Hell, all he really needed was to sort out his mind—he was just drunk on life here. What he needed was fresh and clean spring water to wash away the excesses.

He could achieve this out in the country where the unexpected could happen, challenging him to his fullest capabilities. He needed something to whet his appetite from the monotonous routine of town life.

Alex could feel his blood begin to surge as he thought of open country, the moors and jagged coastline of Cornwall, and Sheik, his big black Arabian stallion beneath him as they raced like the wind across the countryside.

"You're up shockingly early, old boy," a voice drawled from the doorway.

"I could say the same of you, Peter," Trevegne answered, casting a disapproving look over his young brother, who had quietly entered the room. "Where the blazes have you come from this early in the morning, looking like Hell itself?" Alex demanded as he watched his brother pour out a large brandy from his quickly depleting decanter.

Peter settled himself casually in an armchair, trying to appear calm, but failing to conceal his excitement from those golden eyes across the room.

"You might as well tell me, Peter, for I shall probably hear about it soon enough," he sighed in resignation.

"You'll never guess, Alex, but I beat Teddie's time by three minutes!" he exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement.

"Really," Alex drawled, "pray tell me at what? I'm no gypsy fortune teller,"

"His time from Vauxhall Gardens to Regent's Park—and during the crush, too. His blacks were no match for my bays. All he saw was my dust the whole distance. Never saw a madder look on a fellow's face. Of course he lost a bundle, I can tell you," he stated smugly, smiling to himself as he took a large swig of his brandy, choking as it went down the wrong way, tears streaming from his eyes as he coughed.

Trevegne slapped his brother hard on the back and smothered a grin as Peter straightened, wiping furtively at his eyes.

"There is no record to beat in finishing that brandy, my lad. And, it happens to be one of my finest, so do go easy on it, if not for your own sake, then for my injured senses as a gentleman, who deplores seeing his fine brandy tossed off like a tankard of ale."

"Your pardon, Alex, but I had a damnable thirst to quench and wasn't quite thinking," Peter said contritely, taking a small sip from the snifter as he tried to regain his composure. He stood up and walked over to the window and stared out at the park across the street. The sunlight filtering in played on his black hair, bringing out red highlights among the raven strands. He turned back and grinned mischievously before saying casually, "I'd like to borrow your team of blacks. Nothing can beat them." His blue eyes twinkled irrepressibly as he watched the frown settle on his brother's face, then the golden eyes caught the imp of mischief in the blue eyes.

Alex's lips parted in an answering smile. "If I had thought you were serious I would have guessed that you'd driven your team while standing on your head. But I'm glad that you've decided to pay me a visit. I had imagined myself having to cross the Channel in search of you on one of your crazy antics. But seeing how Napoleon wishes to win this war, he would waste little time in dispatching you speedily back to England."

"Oh, come now, Alex, I'm not as bad as that. Just having a little fun," he complained happily.

"Well, just don't get yourself thrown out of Almack's," Alex warned, forgetting that he himself was in danger of that very happening, and of his own scoffing attitude.

"You've come pretty close yourself, and if rumor has it, then—"

"—then you will be careful and remember that I've warned you," Alex interrupted his brother's rebuttal .

"Well, what did you want to see me about? Not about that, I'll wager," Peter replied, a trifle put out.

"I'm leaving for Westerly tomorrow," Alex answered succinctly.

"Leaving London? You can't possibly be serious, Alex. Why, whatever will you do down there?" Peter demanded incredulously.

"This is beginning to sound like a Shakespearean comedy. Does no one leave London these days?" he sighed, then turning a hard golden-eyed stare at Peter, said, "I might add that I'll be seeing to the estate that keeps your pockets well-lined."

Peter had the grace to look slightly ashamed at that remark, but puzzlement still showed in his eyes as Alex continued.

"London is full of mincing fops, unlicked cubs, and needle-witted mamas shoving their daughters into the highest bidder's bed and I'm sick of the lot of them," he declared with contempt in his voice.

"Sure it's not Mariana that's made you turn tail?"

"I don't believe I heard you correctly, Peter. Would you care to repeat that remark?" Trevegne asked in a tone so quiet and menacing it made Peter's blood run cold. He feared he had pushed his brother's temper too far this time, and felt sick as he thought of the other men who had also learned too late of Trevegne's deadly temper and were now laid to rest in the bowels of the earth.

"I'm sorry, Alex. Please forget I ever said that. I know you'd never run from anything. I'm just a beef-head sometimes, but it's just that I know how much you loved her, and she did last longer than anyone else. I never did understand why you dropped her. She's a real beauty, and now they say she's got old Linville almost at the altar, so I thought maybe you minded even though you've said you were through with her," he stammered.

Trevegne gave a sigh of exasperation, his patience beginning to become frayed about the edges by this well-intentioned, yet aggravating interest in his welfare.

"You play with fire, Peter. I know you well enough not to take half of what you say seriously, knowing how impetuous you are, but others do not realize that you often say things you find yourself regretting later. So take care, Peter, or you shall find yourself in very deep waters," Alex reprimanded him. "But to answer your question, I was never in love with Mariana, nor have I ever been in love with any woman. At least not enough to ask her to marry me. I should be bored with her before the honeymoon was over. I'm tired of having them fall at my feet, or more aptly, into my bed, either because they think they're in love with me, or because of my title and estates—which I believe they love even more," he said cynically. "Mariana and I enjoyed a brief affaire de coeur , and now it's over—maybe a little sooner than it would have been, but that was merely precipitated by a disagreement which could not be eradicated. So we had a parting of the ways, and whoever she becomes entangled with next is of no interest to me," he said with a strange smile lurking in his eyes. "I'm only discussing this with you to end, once and for all, this speculation, which, it would seem the whole of London is concerned with. I do not make it a practice of mine to discuss my personal affairs with anyone—even you. But it would seem that most of my private life is common knowledge, and of exaggerated interest in every drawing-room and tavern. I would at least like to have the story straight in your mind before you inadvertently add to the gossip out of your own imagination—or while you're in your cups."

"I say, Alex, I'm no long-tongued chatterer telling tales about my own brother," Peter said in a grievous tone, adding indignantly, "And I can hold my liquor as well as any man. Trevegne blood's thicker than wine anyway."

"I beg your pardon." Alex bowed slightly. "I know that you would not say anything injurious to me on purpose—but you might be goaded to in anger."

Peter finished off his brandy with a careless flourish of his hand, draining it to the last drop, then laughed suddenly. "Damned if I'll get in a duel over somebody else's ladybird. She may be a beauty, but I've always thought her a bit above herself. Won't even give me the time of day and hasn't got a sense of humor, either. Nor will I challenge every man in the street over some tittle-tattle at a tea-party. Should be over something more important than a windbag, eh?"

Alex threw back his head and laughed, joining Peter in his mirth, both men standing tall and proud, bearing a marked family resemblance to each other in their aristocratic faces and arrogantly tilted square jaws, their hawk-visaged features softened by their laughter. The fifteen years difference in their ages disappeared as they laughed together in boyish abandon.

Alex looked fondly at his brother's slighter figure, feeling the full weight of responsibility for Peter on his shoulders; broad shoulders that were accustomed to bearing responsibility. Watching Peter, he wondered whether he had ever been that young and carefree. Innocent of worries and unaware of how very lonely the world really was? It seemed like an eternity since he had felt the warmth of an unselfish love surrounding him; a love that could warm like a welcoming fire on a cold night, seeming to penetrate to the very depths of one's body. He had enjoyed love these past years, but it was not the same kind of love. It was an unsatisfying love that consumed and devoured, leaving only regrets in its stead. But he had come to expect nothing else. That other type of love was something that no longer existed for him.

Lord of the manor at fifteen, he'd been a very young and inexperienced heir to the enormous estates and holdings of the Trevegnes. Lord Denet had been his guardian, and had become a good friend while helping him bear up under his new and heavy responsibility. With the help of trusted estate agents and lawyers, he had learned to manage Westerly; proving himself a very capable young lord of the manor.

But it was no easy victory, and there were many battles along the way. A young and inexperienced marquis was considered easy game by crooked estate agents who cared for nothing except to fill their own pockets, and by the supposedly close friends of his father who claimed they had been owed a debt by the deceased—nothing written, of course, just sealed with a handshake. And then there was the friendly advice from his father's friends, most of whom had young daughters and impoverished estates, who hinted at a secret agreement of a marriage contract that had been made years previously; the young marquis's assets making him an excellent son-in-law.

But Lord Denet was nobody's fool; and armed with his staff of lawyers he managed to keep the vultures at bay until the new marquis could stand on his own.

So the young marquis had grown up; and hardened into iron along the way. That he never had the opportunity of being carefree, lines of worry etched into his face before he was twenty, did not seem to bother him. He made up for the earlier years of his manhood that he missed by living every moment to the fullest these last years in London and on the Continent.

No one could have guessed how far-reaching the death of his father had been. He was killed in a duel shortly before the birth of his second son—murdered by an adversary who had fired early. Alex remembered his father as a man of action who loved parties, gaming, and even more, the hunt. He thoroughly enjoyed life, but he had little business acumen. He'd let the estate run itself and the holdings go unchecked for years. Westerly, however, had been kept up, partly due to the efforts of his mother, and was still a magnificent manor house.

But his mother had not lived to enjoy it—nor had she lived long enough to see her second son. A birth and a death—nature equalizing itself.

Alex bitterly resented the fact that Peter had never known her. There would never be another woman like her. She was the only woman he had ever trusted. He remembered her bright blue eyes—Peter's eyes—laughing, teasing, letting him pull her golden curls out of place, hugging him tightly when she put him to bed. She had made each day seem a holiday; each night in front of the grand fireplace, a make-believe world of fairies and elves, blood-thirsty pirates and brave knights—filling his world with a love and security lost forever with her death. He had felt cheated by it, but at least he had his memories. Peter had nothing.

Gradually he settled down to his way of life and accepted it. He seldom went to London, and then only on affairs dealing with business and the estate. As he got older, he missed at first the closeness of his friends and the gaiety and pleasures that life in London could give a young man. But as the time passed, he matured faster than his friends, living an easy and frivolous London life. His healthy country life turned him into a virile man, his hands strong, lean, and brown, not the lily-white hands of the town gentleman. Even when he had returned to London after years of exile, he couldn't completely forget his other way of life. His muscles remained firm and rock-hard, and he was capable of great endurance and strength—enjoying boxing and fencing, riding hard, unable to feign fatigue as many of his contemporaries seemed fond of doing after a light canter.

He became a member of the Corinthian set and of the Four-Horse Club, with his unparalleled expertise at the reins. He was invited to many a rout, party, and weekend outing, but his cynical nature only gained in strength as he participated in the social whirl of London life. Over the years, rumors began to surround his handsome and haughty figure. As he withdrew further into himself with his cynicism—presenting an inscrutable mien to the world—the stories grew about him. He was an unknown entity. His wild escapades, some true, some not, began to gain him fame throughout London, and combined with a certain mysterious aura that surrounded him, fired people's imaginations. Nothing is so intriguing as a mystery—a puzzle. And the marquis of St. Fleur presented one. His luck with chance, beating the odds, was uncanny. He never seemed to lose; whether it be at cards, or with the ladies.

When he entered a room, dressed totally in black, as he seemed fond of doing, he could set feminine hearts fluttering from a mere glance of his golden eyes. He was indifferent, arrogant, and at times insultingly rude even to the most beautiful women, but that only added to his devil-may-care figure. And the thought of his estates, money, and the famous Trevegne jewels made him more desirable yet.

"You don't mind if I stay in London for awhile, do you?" inquired Peter hopefully.

"No, stay as long as you wish, but do try to act with a little decorum for a change. "

"You needn't worry. I won't do anything that you yourself wouldn't do," Peter promised rashly, a twinkle in his eyes.

"That's precisely what has me worried," replied Trevegne seriously as he walked to the door with his brother, cuffing his ear fondly as he warned, "Be careful, Peter. Remember I won't be here to help you out of a difficult time."

"Don't worry, old boy," Peter grinned, but with serious eyes for once. "I shall be a model of society, and do you proud," he said in farewell, leaping down the stairs two at a time, his promise already forgotten.

Alex stood shaking his head, a frown of worry on his forehead as he turned towards his bedchamber, and the sleep long awaited. He wanted Peter to have what he had missed in his youth, but maybe he was too lenient with him at times. He didn't want Peter to feel deprived of anything. He deserved everything that he could give him—small comfort for never having known either of his parents.

* * *

"Very well, your lordship," Dawson, Trevegne's secretary, answered, clearing the large mahogany desk of the accounts and orders they had just been through for the last hour. "Will there be anything else, m'lord?"

"No, just continue as usual, and no advances to Peter, unless I approve them. And if anything urgent should arise send me a missive immediately," Alex answered, straightening his lacy white cravat before the mirror. "Otherwise, I leave you in charge, Dawson. I've complete confidence in your ability."

"Thank you, your lordship," Dawson answered, flustered by the compliment. "You do me a great honor, and may I wish you a pleasant journey—although it promises rain before evening. It shall be a wet and gloomy morning for your trip tomorrow. Are you sure you wish to ride on ahead of the carriage, your lordship?" he asked worriedly.

Trevegne looked at the small, gray-haired man with his stooped shoulders and squinting eyes. He trusted Dawson implicitly, as he could few other men. Dawson had taken over management of his estates for him many years ago, and Dawson knew as much, if not more, about his financial affairs than he did himself. He told Dawson the truth when he stated he had complete confidence in him.

"No need to worry, Dawson, I shall—" Trevegne began to answer, when there was a knock on the door. It was opened by a footman announcing stiffly:

"Lady Mariana Woodley, your lordship." He stepped aside as Lady Mariana swept regally into the room in a bright-red, velvet walking dress and matching fur-trimmed mantle and bonnet, her hands tucked into a large, dark fur muff; her exotic perfume reaching out to the two men standing in the middle of the room as she moved toward them.

Dawson made his way to the door unnoticed. He never liked Lady Mariana, and personally speaking, was glad that his lordship was finished with her; he only wished that he could send her on her way without so much as a by your leave. In fact, his lordship would have been surprised to learn this was the consensus of most of his household.

"Alex, darling," she murmured softly. "You have been very impolite by not coming to see me since I've returned from the country," she pouted prettily. Trevegne watched through narrowed eyes as she moved towards him, her hands now outstretched gracefully. She was indeed a beautiful woman, her dark-brown hair superbly coiffed to reveal a long, slender neck, beautifully arched like a swan's.

He looked down into her liquid brown eyes and artificially darkened lashes, her lips raised, inviting his kiss, a kiss that he knew could be long and deep; fully reciprocated by her. He did not desire her as he once had, but he could still feel admiration, and something more, as he continued to stare at her. His eyes wandered slowly over her rounded, white breasts, barely concealed by the low-cut red velvet of her dress and his memory filled in the rest of her curvaceous body—the feel of her warm and naked, lying pressed against his own bare flesh.

He turned abruptly away. "What do you want, Mariana?" he asked impatiently as he walked over to his desk, selecting a thin cheroot from a carved wooden box. He lit it, and turning around, exhaled smoke which masked his expression, the aroma of the fine tobacco engulfing her heady perfume. "It's not proper, my dear, for an unescorted lady to call at a gentleman's home during the day."

"And when have either you or I ever done what is considered proper?" she countered.

"I really didn't believe that we had anything further to say to one another. We've both made our decisions, and I intend to keep to mine. From what I've heard, you have been doing the same—unless, of course, they're only rumors," he added tauntingly.

"They are not rumors," Lady Mariana answered angrily, her dark-brown eyes flashing.

"Well then, what have we further to say to one another?" Trevegne replied.

"We've everything to talk about, Alex." She moved closer to stand directly in front of him, her eyes looking beseechingly up into his hard golden ones.

"Can you actually stand here, before me now, and say you do not desire me? That you don't wish we were upstairs—"

"Don't, Mariana," he said harshly, gripping her soft arms with hard, biting fingers. "You're just cheapening yourself by going on this way."

"Cheapening myself!" Mariana cried shrilly. "I'm merely stating the truth—the bare facts. We're in love with one another. At least I admit it."

"No, Mariana. We desired each other, that's all, nothing more. We both knew that it would end someday and you just ended it sooner by your threats. No one threatens me, or tries to blackmail me, my dear." He pushed her away from him in disgust, and looked away from her angry white face and heaving breasts.

"I only threatened to leave you for the duke—unless you married me—to try and force you to admit to yourself that you loved me and wanted to marry me. You can't stand the thought of some other man making love to me, can you?"

"My dear Mariana, I don't give a damn whose bed you warm. What we had is through. You finished it yourself, although I must admit it would have ended shortly as the heat of desire became cold ashes," he said indifferently.

"I don't believe you. You're mad about me. I'm in your blood, just as you're in mine," she spoke passionately. "I could have had Linville over a year ago, but no, I decided to let becoming a duchess take second place to my love for you."

"Ah, yes, the duke. That really has been your supreme goal in life; Mariana, the duchess. Don't blind yourself to your real motive with me, my dear. You may have desired me, but you also desired all that I hold, including the diamonds and emeralds and other fabulous trinkets which will drape the next Marchioness of St. Fleur.

"You knew that I never thought of marriage when our affair began, but you didn't seem to mind. You even told me once you enjoyed your widowhood—free to sample all the delights without having a jealous husband to worry about, I believe you said. Why the sudden change of face, my dear, or was it a charade all along—get me in bed with you, in love with you, then legally tied to you?"

"You beast," Lady Mariana spoke, trying to regain her composure, her nostrils flared, her pupils dilated in anger at his revelation of the truth which she could not deny. She threatened leaving him and promised to marry the duke if he wouldn't marry her. She was so sure of her control over him that she thought he would plead with her to stay and marry him immediately, but instead he told her to do as she wished, he didn't care. She thought his pride was merely injured and that he would soon come after her, but he didn't. He ignored her and even cut her in front of people at Almack's, giving her that contemptuous look that she had seen him give to the hangers-on who tried to flatter him and seek his favors. The whole plan got far out of control and she was desperate to put things back in their proper order once more. "Can't we forget what has happened, Alex? We can go back to the way it was before we had this little quarrel. I'm here now, offering you—"

"No, it's no use, Mariana. Neither of us has changed, and I think I know you well enough now to know that you're unable to alter your ways. Besides, the fire has died; I no longer want you. I didn't want to be so blunt, but these conversations do neither of us any good."

Lady Mariana stood silent; a confused look on her beautiful face. She had always had her way, always received what she wanted. She was the only daughter of elderly parents; spoiled and petted, expecting constant attention and pampering from her admirers. Being raised on a country estate, she grew up craving the excitement and gaiety which she sampled occasionally in London. Praised as a nonpareil in her first season in London, she quickly made an advantageous match with young Lord Woodley in order not to have to return to the country and her elderly parents, who could not face the rigor of hectic London and the constant entertaining. And she was now a member of the peerage, no longer just Miss Mariana Greene; but the Lady Woodley. They enjoyed themselves in her first years in London, living wildly and extravagantly; living for fun rather than for each other and she was not broken-hearted when he died in a drunken stupor beneath the wheels of his overturned curricle, for there was one less person to spend the money now, and she could pursue her own desires first.

She was called The Wild Widow Woodley around London, and she wholeheartedly enjoyed living up to that name. Then, after years of casual, light-hearted affairs she met Trevegne and fell in love for the first time in her life. He had been in London when she first made her debut, and she could remember how his dark, virile looks had excited her, but then he disappeared. He was traveling around the world, she heard. She forgot about him until one evening when they met again, and she knew that she had not forgotten, as the desire flared between them.

From then on, she laid her plans carefully, for this was the man she wanted. Her only regret was that he was only a marquis, and not a duke. But she allowed her ambition to be drowned by the tide of his desire, thinking she would have to settle on becoming a mere marchioness. And at least there were the Trevegne jewels, worth a King's ransom, to salve her disappointment. She knew of his reluctance to become married, the rumors circulating that she wouldn't last a month, but she was so sure of his love and desire for her and of her own powers over men, that it never entered her head that he wouldn't ask her to become his wife. She pretended to be in horror of a second marriage, and as anxious as he to keep her freedom. She did not want to scare him off—after all, she had plenty of time—and she was not about to do something she might regret later.

She knew that he had other mistresses, but they posed no threat to her plans for a more permanent association; but as time went on and he never mentioned marriage, she decided to scare him by threatening to leave him for another. Only he had not reacted as she had anticipated.

It must still be his stubborn pride that was keeping him from coming around to her wishes. She had forgotten how proud he was. She glanced at his handsome face, the firm, sensual lips, and felt panic at the thought of losing him. She just couldn't lose Alex; the only man she had ever fallen in love with. She had had dozens of lovers—just as handsome as Alex—but there was a difference in Alex. Maybe it was his indifference at times, or his arrogance, that never let her forget that he was a man. He never crawled to her, he never let her have the upper hand; yet she thought she had a hold over him. He was an ardent lover, making her senses swim, making her feel like a complete woman. She felt lost while with him, and dead without him. To feel his arms around her slim body now, his lips pressing against hers…

"I am sure you must have some appointment that you are late for, Lady Mariana, so do not let me detain you any longer. It wouldn't do to have your carriage seen outside my door," Trevegne said politely, his voice cold and impersonal as he watched the conflicting emotions chase across her face. "You would not want your reputation tarnished."

Lady Mariana glanced up at him in indecision, chewing nervously on her lower lip, and finally found a solution, a seductive smile curving her lips.

"As a matter of fact, Linny is waiting for me right now, so I must leave, but can we meet tomorrow if I can find the time? You know how possessive Linny is, so I will have to see if I can manage to spare a few minutes," she said airily, still trying to make him jealous of the duke.

"I'm afraid, Lady Mariana, that I will not be here tomorrow."

"Oh, where will you be?" she asked curiously, pulling on her red kid gloves casually, her mind already devising a way of luring him into her bedchamber.

"I shall be out of London."

"But you mustn't leave London—you can't leave me here," she protested, shock in her eyes. "You're running away," Mariana said dramatically, "but it's all so unnecessary. If only you would forget your stupid pride, and—"

"Lady Woodley, what I do is no longer of any concern to you, and never have I had to explain my actions to anyone—which it seems I have begun to do since deciding to leave London," he said in exasperation.

"I won't let you leave!" Mariana cried, fear in her voice. She knew that if he left she would lose him forever. He would not be jealous of what he could not see or hear about, and he might find someone else while he was gone.

She threw her arms around his neck, pressing her body close to his, and kissed him hungrily, her mouth trying to part his firm lips, receiving no response from him until he wrenched her arms from around his neck and backed away from her hot, clinging body. He wanted to convince her, once and for all, that he felt nothing for her any longer, and said the first thing that came to his mind as a possible deterrent to her hopes.

"I shall probably be a married man by the next time I see you, and I doubt whether my wife would approve of our little liaison," he said, hiding his amusement at the startled look on her pretty face. He felt no pity for a woman who would use her body to blackmail a man. Maybe he would get married after all. It would certainly settle a lot of problems he seemed to be accumulating recently. He thought of the young daughter of Squire Blackmore's, his nearest neighbor at Westerly. He had not seen her in a while, in fact he could not even remember what she looked like, but he thought she would be about the right age, and the squire was always hinting at such an alliance. Yes, some little nonentity, someone who would give him no trouble, and not play on his affections.

"Married? You?" Mariana laughed harshly, thinking it a bluff. "To whom, pray tell? Not to one of those mealy-mouthed chits foisted on you by their frantic mamas. You might try Bradshaw's daughter, let me see"—she paused reflectively—"what is her name? Mary, yes, Mary, I believe, but of course she does look rather horsey. Or there is Caroline something-or-other, who has a stupendous fortune but, poor dear, she squints horribly—however, if you are determined to tie the knot…" She finished in a speculative voice, biting the tip of her slender finger, as if trying to remember other eligible girls for him to choose from, when he startled her.

"I'm afraid you haven't had the pleasure of meeting the future Lady St. Fleur, my dear, she happens to live out of London."

"You can't be serious," she gasped. "You are planning to be married?" She looked at his face, grim and austere, giving nothing away. "What, may I ask, happened to your pledge to remain a bachelor?" she asked acidly. "This seems so sudden after all those years of confirmed bachelorhood, that you will forgive me if I have my doubts." She smiled unpleasantly. "I'll believe that nursery tale when I have the—pleasure—of meeting this paragon who has finally managed to get your ring on her finger and not until then."

Alex walked slowly over to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out several papers and sorting them while Mariana watched him in puzzlement.

"My special license to marry, my dear," he told her, casually looking up into her shocked face. She hurried over to the desk, grabbing the piece of paper out of his hands, glancing at it briefly before throwing it down again, as if it burned her fingers.

Lady Woodley flounced to the door, leaving behind her a trail of heavy clinging perfume. Turning at the door she warned Trevegne as he stood leaning casually against the desk, exhaling the smoke from his cheroot slowly.

"Don't do anything we will both be sorry for later. And I don't take that nonsensical slip of paper seriously; it's not worth a brass farthing," she said confidently before turning a haughty shoulder into his face, her curls bouncing provocatively.

Alex stood staring at the closed door for several minutes after Mariana left, and sighed when he heard her carriage pull away from in front of the house. How he had remembered the marriage license he wasn't sure; but it had suddenly come to him as the inspiration to convince her of his seriousness. That he had taken it away from Peter the day before when he had threatened to run away and marry the actress that he was currently enamored of, unless given an advance on his allowance—Mariana need never know.

Acting impulsively, he called for his valet and made arrangements to leave right away—not waiting until morning as he had previously planned. He had Dawson cancel his engagements for the evening, and quickly changed clothes.

He instructed a flustered valet to meet him at the Wayfarer's Rest sometime on the morrow with his coach, and an hour later he was riding swiftly out of London.

He glanced about him at the fields of the open countryside and at the dark clouds gathering over his head. As he breathed deeply of the cool, pine-scented air, he felt it caress his face while Sheik streaked through the afternoon, sending a cloud of dust flying up behind them from his hooves.

"Slow down, boy," he spoke softly, pulling gently upon the reins, "we don't want to scare the Devil himself."

He laughed aloud, a deep resonant sound, full of mirth and tinged with abandon. He hadn't a care in the world; nothing to stop him. Giving Sheik his head, they sped wildly up the road, racing the wind and clouds, his many-tiered greatcoat billowing out behind him.