Devil's Desire (6 page)

"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. "Ill 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 Lord 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 the gay life here. What he needed was fresh, and clean spring water to wash away the bitterness.

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,” Lord 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.

Lord 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?" Lord 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 Lord 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.

Lord Trevegne gave a sigh of exasperation, 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 coldly. "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 exclaimed 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 II 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' 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 and gay, 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.