Chapter 17

L atimer seethed.

It’d been three damned hours, and Latimer hadn’t managed to snare a single, solitary, bloody moment alone with Livian.

The same, however, could not be said for Livian and that arse, Forfar.

If the bloody bastard accidentally brushed his fingers over the lady’s forearm one more time, he was going to have to fly over and separate the shite-sack’s limbs from his lanky body.

The viscount leered long and hard at the delicate crevice between Livian’s breasts.

Latimer growled.

It’s official. I’m going to fucking kill him, here and now.

“The gall of that one!” the Duchess of Argyll raged with the measured, polite restraint only an English lady could manage. “Can you believe the audacity, Mr. Latimer?”

Aye, seated next to the duchess, Latimer not only decided on the bastard’s fate, Latimer also contemplated all the ways in which to end the doltish, brash, lean-to-the-point-of-gaunt, Earl of Forfar.

“I cannot,” he gritted out between powerfully clenched teeth.

Surely Forfar wasn’t Livian Lovelace’s future husband?

He flexed his jaw.

That would certainly account for the blighter’s familiar touch and errant caress.

In a flash, Latimer recalled all the ways he himself had run his own hands over Livian’s slim, graceful, naked body and her low, soft siren’s moans as he entered her deep and rocked himself inside her until she’d come.

It’d been one hell when the man who’d one day have the exclusive luxury of possessing Livian’s body was an unknown face, it was an unremitting, deeper, blacker, fresh hell knowing just what man would receive that gift—a gift only Latimer had known once, but that Livian’s husband would know forever.

The duchess leaned toward the young gentleman at her other side and tapped his knee. “What say you, Dynevor?” she inveigled.

“About what?”

Bloody hell. With the slight shift forward, the duchess effectively cut off Latimer’s previously unrestricted view of the scene at the other end of the sunny, plushly ornate drawing room.

“About what ?” the duchess rebuked. “I asked if you’ve seen anything more reprehensible.”

By the lady’s breathless state, she sounded titillated at just the prospect.

The earl chuckled, a laugh rough and coarse like he’d taken in too many cheroots in his short life. “You know I have, Yer Grace.”

Argyll’s mother-in-law giggled. “Yes, I do.” She gave the boy a playful swat. “I meant, amidst Polite Society.”

As one, the pair followed to where Latimer’s gaze already currently rested.

Livian sat on a white-upholstered satin sofa beside the hearth. The seat next to her, along with the single matching armchairs, was occupied by cockswains hanging about Livian.

Latimer narrowed his eyes.

Then, there was The Earl of Wakefield, one of Forbidden Pleasures’ greatest clients. Obscenely rich and not ruled by vice, Wakefield, had proven to be so skilled and generous with the women he took to his bed, the Cyprians at Forbidden Pleasures vied for the handsome earl’s attentions.

Now, that grave gentleman stood like a possessive protector at Livian’s shoulder, glowering at the other lords.

He stilled and an equally contemptible possibility slithered forward about the handsome fellow’s relationship with Livian.

Livian and Wakefield—future husband and wife.

Now, that match made far more sense. Wakefield, handsome, intelligent, loyal brother and son; he could hold his liquor, and won too much at the gaming table.

Seething, he added Wakefield’s name to the growing list of noblemen he intended to end before this godforsaken house party reached its conclusion.

As if he’d sensed the threat, the earl looked about the room. His gaze alighted on Latimer.

He’d hand it to the earl, Wakefield didn’t so much as bat a lash at the lethal glare Latimer had fixed on him.

“You have been rather quiet on the whole matter, Mr. Latimer,” the duchess murmured.

Silently cursing, Latimer forced to end the stare-down, looked away first.

“I’m not one who partakes in gossip, Duchess.”

The woman to whom his marriage would secure Latimer’s next, great legacy regarded him curiously. “I hardly believe it constitutes as gossip, given you were, in fact, the one publicly shamed.”

“Shamed?” What the hell was she talking about?

“By Miss Lovelace,” she said, exasperatedly.

Latimer tensed and suddenly wished he’d paid closer attention.

Bloody hell. The last thing he’d ever do was center the powerful duchess’ wrath on Livian.

In a bid to diffuse the duchess’ ire, Latimer displayed a casual, half-grin.

“One would have to care about society’s opinion to be shamed, Duchess,” he drawled. “You should know by now, I, like Dynevor here, don’t give two shites.” He made no attempt to blunt his speech.

“Demned right.” The young earl, sporting a drink despite the hour and respectability of the affair, lifted his glass of brandy.

The duchess ignored the younger man. “ You may not care, Mr. Latimer—”

Correction, “I do not care, Duchess.”

“I, on the other hand, will not have anyone look down upon me or suffer unwanted attention,” she said stiffly. “And certainly not by a young woman reliant upon my generosity.”

Livian reliant upon the Duchess of Argyll’s generosity? A muscle rippled along Latimer’s jawline. His clever, gorgeous, queen would never find herself at anyone’s mercy and certainly not Argyll’s capricious mother-in-law.

“Generosity?” What of Livian’s family?

“I have affixed a dowry to the lady.”

A dowry.

He reeled. What the hell…?

“Furthermore, I am the one responsible for the pairing between Miss Lovelace and her future husband.”

Struggling to digest that revelation. “But her brother-in-law…” The nobleman…

“What of him?” the duchess asked.

“Nothing. I…” Can’t make sense out of anything.

The duchess gave Latimer a censorious look. “As I was saying ,” she continued. “Given our mutual goals and aspirations,” their betrothal and marriage, “Your reputation and how others treat you, and how they look upon you, very much affects me , Mr. Latimer.”

Possessed of the requisite curls and flaxen curls, the Duchess of Argyll had the look of an angel. But the glint in her eyes revealed a darker, more sinister lining underneath. As such, he carefully considered his response, knowing what he said would directly impact Livian’s relationship with the duchess.

“I wouldn’t say the lady shamed me, Duchess,” he said, shrugging. “I’d say Miss Lovelace appeared more shocked than anything at my presence here, which is the obvious reaction any one of your fine guests would have met me with if they were capable of an honest reaction.”

“Me thinks you defend her far more than she deserves.”

“I don’t know the lady,” Latimer said. He lifted his shoulders. “You, on the other hand, invited her and claim you’ve shown her generosity. As such, it would strike me, given your benevolence, there had to be something by which the lady recommended herself to you before now.”

“She is not a lady,” Dynevor muttered.

Latimer whipped a furious gaze in the forgotten-until-now earl’s direction. To hell with The Devil’s Den and any partnership, he’d kill the little bastard here and now.

“ And , Dynevor?” the duchess asked in whiny tones better suited to a cantankerous child.

“Like myself, or Latimer here,” the earl gestured his snifter in Latimer’s overall direction, “ain’t no gentleman.”

That was, with the exception of the title the little brat had been born with. To keep their future business plans intact, Latimer shut his mouth tight to keep from pointing out that not-so-insignificant detail the future marquess all-too-often forgot.

Lord Dynevor tossed back a swallow. “We’ve got an affinity for the ones like us,” he explained to his captive audience of the duchess. “Not the way you did Steele.”

“Steele?” Latimer asked, all too happy to steer the conversation anywhere that was away from himself.

“The duchess’ sweetheart,” Dynevor explained. “Before he went and married my sis—”

The duchess sluiced a murderous look on the young man. “Your point?”

“You had feelings for a man outside your station, but men like me and Latimer here? We don’t suffer the headache of caring about anyone in any way .” Dynevor looked to Latimer to back him up. “Isn’t that right, Latimer?”

“There’s some truth there,” he murmured. There should be more.

After the only men he’d let close and called friends betrayed him, Latimer had been damned certain he’d never again worry about anyone but himself.

“See,” Dynevor said to the duchess. “People like me and Latimer, we don’t like anyone.”

“Why, thank you, Dynevor,” the duchess said dryly. “I’m endeared.”

If I’m no different than Dynevor or Argyll, what accounted for this bloody infernal obsessive worrying about Livian?

“Bah,” the earl scoffed. “You don’t like anyone, either, Duchess. That’s why you, me, and Latimer get on so well.”

The duchess appeared somewhat mollified by that.

“What Latimer and I do have is a kindred connection to people who know something about having lived on the streets or had a hungry belly and no fancy connections to keep us safe.”

In Dynevor’s reasoning, the earl, just like that demonstrated not only what set him apart from other gentlemen, but a maturity and understanding of the world that could only be taught by the London streets.

“Ah,” the duchess sat back. “You are saying Mr. Latimer holds a soft spot for Miss Lovelace because she is a common person?”

Latimer’s gaze drifted back to Livian, who’d said something that had the men around her in stitches.

The lady was about as common as Queen Cleopatra of years past.

“Latimer has as much of a soft spot as me, Duchess.” With that, the younger man again lifted his glass Latimer’s way. “I believe the respectable company you keep, Your Grace, refer to Latimer’s benevolence as ‘pity’.”

Latimer curled his fingers into the rolled arm of the chair.

As if he could ever pity a woman of Livian’s strength, convictions, and goodness.

“ Ahhh .” The duchess inclined her head in clear understanding. “I should then extend the same grace to Miss Lovelace?” The day’s setting sun glinted off the haughty woman’s diamond-studded tiara. “That is, even more than I already have, throwing this affair in her honor.”

Lachlan frowned. In Livian’s honor?

What the hell?

“I’m definitely not saying that.” Dynevor snorted. “For that matter, I could care less how you treat some mousy chit marrying outside her reach. Do what you want with that one.”

A dark curtain of rage fanned Latimer’s vision.

To keep from ripping the bloody sard’s throat out, Latimer concentrated on breathing.

A bored-looking Dynevor, having said his piece, went back to sipping his spirits.

Wanting to end the miserable blighter’s life here and now hardly portended the start of a long, healthy partnership.

A delicate palm came to rest upon Latimer’s knee. The duchess gave him a light squeeze.

He stiffened.

“And what of you, Mr. Latimer?” she purred, inching her deft fingers higher and higher up his thigh.

“What about me?” He remained singularly unmoved by her embarrassingly public display. If anything, her possessive show bored him.

“Should I show Miss Lovelace grace on your account?”

Latimer tensed. The duchess was giving him some manner of test, of which his answer would determine whether Livian found herself the recipient of the duchess’ ire.

“Oh, my account?” he said carefully.

She dug her long, manicured nails sharp into his leg.

He winced.

He’d angered her. With his disinterest or evasiveness?

“What I’m saying, Mr. Latimer is, given our arrangement—”

Their arrangement… This marked the first time business affairs had left him ill.

“I too, should show greater benevolence for people like you.”

People like me.

He hid a wry grin.

“You don’t need to look to me for answers, Duchess. With the contributions you’ve made to various charities throughout London, and your willingness to welcome people like me into your orbit, you epitomize grace.”

As intended, Latimer’s words had the desired effect. Cheered out of her earlier ill humor, the duchess preened under his praise.

Latimer didn’t let up.

“You certainly don’t need answers from two cynical bastards like Dynevor and myself on how to treat anyone, especially not an innocent, unworldly woman like Miss Lovelace.”

That description of Livian seemed to further mollify the jaded widow.

And yet, as the duchess resumed conversing with Dynevor, Latimer allowed himself to look freely upon the charismatic young lady across the room and the earnest gentlemen vying to speak with her.

He hooded his lashes.

What the jaded Duchess of Argyll didn’t—and couldn’t—realize, Livian’s innocence was the drug that drove Latimer mad.