Heartless Page 2

  Lucas Kendrick, Duke of Harndon, was neither drinking nor sitting. He stood elegantly propped against the marble mantel. He raised the fan to which his uncle had just referred, a small ivory and gold affair, and opened it to waft it languidly in front of his face. “It serves to cool one’s brow in a warm room,” he said. “It has a purely practical function, my dear.”

  His uncle was in a mood to be amused. He laughed afresh. “Pox on it, Luke,” he said, “’tis pure affectation as are the powder and rouge and patches.”

  His nephew raised his eyebrows. “You would have me appear in society half naked, Theo?” he asked.

  “Not me, lad,” Lord Quinn said. He took a sizable mouthful from his glass, savored it for a few moments on his tongue and then swallowed. “I have spent time in Paris and know how men dress and behave there. Though even there, as I remember, you have a reputation for leading fashion rather than following it. ’Tis perhaps a good thing that you also have a reputation as a deadly shot and swordsman, or it might almost be thought . . .”

  “Yes?” The clear gray eyes of his nephew narrowed slightly and the fan stilled in his hands. “What might almost be thought?”

  But his uncle merely laughed and looked him over from head to toe with leisurely appreciation. His amused eyes took in the powdered hair neatly set into two rolls on either side of the head, the long hair caught behind into a black silk bag and tied in a large bow at the nape of his neck—it was his own hair, not a wig—the austerely handsome face with its dusting of powder and blush of rouge and one black patch; the dark blue silk coat with its full skirts and silver lining and lavish silver embroidery and facings; the silver waistcoat with blue embroidery; the tight gray knee breeches and white silk stockings; the silver-buckled shoes with their high red heels. The Duke of Harndon was the very epitome of Parisian splendor. And then, of course, there was the dress sword at his side with its sapphire-jeweled hilt, a weapon with which his grace was said to be more than ordinarily adept.

  “I refuse to answer, lad,” Lord Quinn said at last, “on the grounds that I do not fancy having the tip of that sword poking out from my backbone. But it was kind of you to leave White’s Club early tonight. You will be the topic of conversation there for the rest of the night, I warrant you.” He chuckled once more. “The fan, Luke. Zounds, but I swear Jessop very near swallowed his port, glass and all, when you first drew it out and opened it.”

  “If you will remember, Theo,” Luke said, fanning himself again, not participating in the laughter, “I left Paris with the greatest reluctance. You talked me into it. But I’ll be damned before you also talk me into becoming the typical English gentleman, stalking about my land with ill-fitting frock coat and staff in hand and hounds at heel and English ale in my stomach and English oaths on my lips. Don’t expect it of me.”

  “Hark ye, Luke,” his uncle said, suddenly serious. “If I had to persuade you to come back home, ’twas only because you would not take the responsibility on your own shoulders and everything is like to go to wrack and ruin at Bowden Abbey in your absence.”

  “Perhaps,” the Duke of Harndon said coldly, “I do not care the snap of two fingers what happens to Bowden Abbey and all who live there, Theo. I have done well enough without them for the past ten years.”

  “Nay, lad,” his uncle said, “I know you better than most. Cold you may appear to be when you are not charming the ladies and coaxing the most lovely of them into your bed, and cold you may have the right to be after the unjust way you were treated. But I know that the Luke of ten years ago is still in large measure the Luke of today. You care, lad. Besides, there is such a thing as responsibility. You are the Duke of Harndon now and have been for two years.”

  “I never looked for such a position,” Luke said, “or expected it, Theo. There was George older than me, and George married ten years ago.” There was something resembling a sneer in his voice for a moment. “One might have expected there to be male issue in the eight years before his death.”

  “Aye,” his uncle said. “But there was only the one son, stillborn, Luke. Like it or not, you are the head of the family, and they need you.”

  “They have a strange way of showing need,” Luke said, fanning himself slowly again. “If ’twere not for you, Theo, I would not even know if any of them lived or all were dead. And if they are in need, they may be sorry if I begin to answer it.”

  “’Tis time for old wounds to be healed,” his uncle said, “and the awkwardness of a long and mutual silence to be overcome. Ashley and Doris were too young to be held responsible for anything that happened, and your mother, my sister—well, your mother is as proud as you, lad. And Henrietta . . .” He shrugged expressively, unable to complete the sentence.

  “And Henrietta is George’s widow,” Luke said quietly, his fan still.

  “Aye.” Lord Quinn sighed. “You have begun badly, lad, leasing this house instead of taking up residence at Harndon House. ’Twill be thought strange that you live here while your mother, brother and sister are there.”

  “You forget, my dear,” Luke said, looking keenly at his uncle from beneath half-lowered eyelids, “that I care not one fig for what people think.”

  “Aye, ’tis so.” Lord Quinn drained his glass. “But you have not even called on them.”

  Luke sat down at last, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. He set down his fan and withdrew an enameled, jeweled snuffbox from a pocket. He set a pinch of snuff on the back of one hand and proceeded unhurriedly to sniff it up each nostril before replying.

  “No,” he said, “I have not waited upon them yet, my dear. Perhaps I will do so tomorrow or the next day. Perhaps not.”

  “And yet you came home,” his uncle reminded him.

  “I came to England,” the duke said. “To London. Perhaps I came out of curiosity, Theo, to find how it has changed in ten years. Perhaps I grew restless and bored in Paris. Perhaps I have grown tired of Angélique. Though she has followed me here. Did you know?”

  “The Marquise d’Étienne?” Lord Quinn asked. “Sometimes known as the most beautiful woman in France?”

  “None other,” Luke said. “And I would have to agree with public opinion. But she has been my mistress for almost six months. I usually make three the upper limit. Mistresses are not easy to shed after three months. They become possessive.”

  Lord Quinn chuckled.

  “Of course,” his nephew said, “everyone knows that you have kept the same mistress for ten years or more, Theo.”

  “Fifteen,” his uncle said. “And she is not possessive, Luke. She still refuses to marry me whenever conscience prompts me to broach the subject of matrimony.”

  “A paragon,” Luke said.

  “You will return to Bowden?” his uncle asked casually.

  “You would make a masterful conspirator, my dear,” his nephew said. “First one small step and then another until your victim has finally done all you set out to persuade him to do. No, not Bowden. I have no wish to return there. I have no love for the place.”

  “And yet,” his uncle reminded him, “’tis yours, Luke. Many people there depend upon you, and word has it that ’tis not being run as well as it might. Rents are high and wages are low and cottages are falling into disrepair.”

  The Duke of Harndon fanned his face again and looked at Lord Quinn with keen eyes. “I was called a murderer ten years ago,” he said. “By my own family, Theo. I was twenty years old and as naive as—well, complete the simile for yourself. What is as incredibly naive as I was at the age of twenty? I was forced to flee and all my abject, pleading letters were returned to me. I was cut off without a penny. I made my own way in life without help from any of my family, except you. Am I now to go back to make everything right for them?”

  His uncle smiled, but it was a gentle smile, without any of the humor he had shown earlier. “In a word, yes, my lad,” he said. “And
you know it too. You are here, are you not?”

  The duke inclined his head to acknowledge the hit but made no reply.

  “What you really ought to do,” Lord Quinn said, “is take a wife, Luke. ’Twould be easier for you to return, perhaps, if you were married, and ’tis time you set about producing heirs.”

  His nephew’s stare had become icy and haughty. “I have an heir,” he said. “Ashley may succeed me when I die as I succeeded George.”

  “There is frequently dissension between brothers when the one is the other’s heir,” Lord Quinn said.

  “As there was between George and me?” Luke fanned his face slowly. “But it was not because I was his heir, Theo. And until he was four-and-twenty and I twenty, we were the best of friends. I never remember coveting the title despite what must have been said afterward. There was one specific cause of our quarrel. I very near killed him, did I not? One inch lower, the physician said. One inch. I was a poor shot in those days.” There was coldness, almost bitterness in his voice.

  “This is spring,” Lord Quinn said. “The time when almost the whole of the fashionable world is in town, Luke. The perfect time for selecting a bride eligible for a duke’s bed.”

  ‘This duke is not in search of a life’s partner,” Luke said. “The very thought is enough to make me shudder.” He shuddered rather theatrically to prove his point.

  “You may wish to consider it, nevertheless, after I have taken my leave,” Lord Quinn said, getting to his feet and stretching. “’Tis time, my lad.”

  “And yet,” Luke said, “you are almost twenty years my senior, Theo, but it has never been time for you? You have retained your bachelorhood into the fifth decade of your life.”

  His uncle chuckled. “I had the misfortune to fall in love with a married lady,” he said. “By the time she was widowed it was too late to get my heirs on her anyway. Or perhaps it was not too late, who knows? No matter. I am a mere baron. And I do not have a passel of unruly relatives breathing down my neck.”

  “And I do?” Luke said, closing his fan and getting to his feet to see his uncle on his way. “They must be taught, Theo, that ’tis not to be tolerated. No one breathes down my neck unless she is specifically invited to do so.”

  His uncle laughed heartily once more. “Take a wife, Luke,” he said. “Egad, ’twill be the answer for you. Take my word on it. And get sons on her as fast as it may be done. I will keep my eyes open and see who is available this year. I will choose you the prettiest, lad, provided she has the rank and breeding to go along with her looks.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” his nephew said languidly, following Lord Quinn into the hall, “but I make it a habit to choose my own bedfellows. And truly, rarely for more than three months at a time.” He grimaced as a footman stepped forward to open the outer door. “Must you ram your hat on your head as if to glue it to your wig? Did you not know that hats are not meant to be worn on the head but to be carried decoratively beneath the arm?”

  His uncle threw back his head and guffawed inelegantly. “Pox on your French ways,” he said. “You are living in an English climate now, my lad, where a hat is not an ornament but a head warmer.”

  “Heaven forbid!” the duke said fervently. He turned back to the library as the door closed behind his uncle.

  A bride. He had never seriously considered taking one even though he was thirty years old and had unexpectedly been elevated to high rank on the death of his brother two years ago, only three years after the death of their father. At least, he had not considered taking a wife since ten years ago. He did not particularly want to think about that.

  Marriage was not for him. Marriage meant commitment. It meant belonging to someone and having someone belong to him. It meant children and the ties they would bring. It meant being bound, body and soul. It meant being vulnerable—again.

  He was not vulnerable now. He had spent ten years—well, nine anyway, if he remembered that for that first year he had whined and pleaded and then staggered into a life of wild, self-pitying debauchery—carefully cultivating an invulnerability. He had amassed a fortune entirely by his own efforts, first by gambling and then by careful investments. He had made himself into the complete Parisian gentleman so that he was not only accepted everywhere but even sought after in the very highest circles. He had learned how to attract the most beautiful and fashionable women and how to make love to them and how to get rid of them when he tired of them. He had acquired expert instruction on the art of swordplay and on the skill of pistol shooting and had made himself deadly with both weapons; he had learned how to be charming in manner but steely of heart. He had learned that love was not to be trusted, even when it was the love of one’s own family—especially then. He had learned neither to expect nor to give love.

  He knew that he had acquired the reputation of being a ruthless and a heartless man. It was a reputation he coveted. It was how he wanted to be seen by the world. It was how he wanted to be.

  And was he now to consider taking a wife? Merely because his uncle thought it a good idea? When had he allowed his uncle to make his decisions for him? Actually, he thought, propping himself against the mantel again and staring absently across the room, if he was to answer that question honestly, he must confess that he had frequently taken his uncle’s advice. At Theo’s suggestion he had gone to France and eventually given up the hope of coming home to resume the life he had known—it seemed rather laughable now that he had been intended for the church and that he had wanted the life of a clergyman for himself. It was at his uncle’s suggestion that he had gone to Paris to make a new life for himself. And it was at Theo’s suggestion that he had come home—well, partly home, anyway. He had come to England, to London. He was not sure he would be able to go all the way home to Bowden Abbey.

  Henrietta was at Bowden. His sister-in-law. George’s widow.

  If he had a wife, perhaps he would find it more possible to go home. The thought came unbidden.

  But he did not want a wife. And he did not want to go to Bowden.

  Except that Theo had reminded him of his responsibilities there, of the people who depended on him even apart from the members of his own family. Devil take them all, he thought. What were they to him? They were his father’s people. George’s people.

  And now his own.

  He had never wanted to be the Duke of Harndon. He had never envied George his position as eldest son. He had been quite content to be merely Lord Lucas Kendrick. Perhaps the Reverend Lord Lucas Kendrick. He smiled ruefully, though the expression was perhaps more sneer than smile. Poor naive boy. All eager at the age of twenty to enter the church, to marry, and to live happily ever after.

  Well, he decided, he would force himself to see his mother since she was in town, and Doris and Ashley too. There were apparently problems with his sister and brother, if Theo was to be believed, problems that his mother seemed unable to deal with, problems that he would have to handle. And he would handle them too, by God. But the problems at Bowden would be solved at long distance. He would appoint a new steward, perhaps, and get rid of Colby. Better still, he would summon Colby to London and allow him to speak for himself.

  He would not marry. He would tell Theo so in no uncertain terms the next time he saw him. One had to be very positive with Theo or else one found oneself willy-nilly doing what the man wanted one to do. Theo really had missed his calling in life. He should have been a diplomat.

  Luke had returned to England in order to make an appearance there as duke and in order to wait upon his mother and brother and sister while they were in London. He had come in order to assert his authority where it needed to be asserted—and only where there was need. He had come out of a grudging sense of duty—and, yes, perhaps out of some curiosity. But he did not intend to stay. As soon as he was decently able, he would return to Paris where he belonged, where he was happy—as far as a man without a heart could be happ
y, that was. Actually he did not look for happiness. If one was happy, one could also be unhappy and would be sooner or later. It was altogether more desirable to steer clear of either extreme.

  • • •

  Lady Sterne looked down at herself dispassionately. She was naked to just below the waist, where a sheet covered her. She had, she supposed, reached an age at which she should start covering herself up when there were other eyes in addition to her own to look at her. She was no longer a youthful beauty. But she turned her head on her lover’s arm and noticed the signs of aging in his own sleeping face and torso. It did not matter, she decided. They were long familiar with each other. If she were to see him now for the first time, perhaps—undoubtedly—she would see him as a man of middle age. He would look even older if she saw him—as she was seeing him now—without his wig, with his thinning hair cut very short. But her eyes saw only the man she had known and loved for years.

  He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Old age creeping up or galloping up, Marj,” he said, echoing her thoughts. “Have I slept away our afternoon together?”

  “No, Theo,” she said. “You did not sleep away the first part of it. Ah.” She sighed with contentment and stretched luxuriously, feeling one of his legs firm against her own. “I do believe this gets better with age.”

  He chuckled. “But we used not to sleep at all,” he said. He changed the subject suddenly to resume the topic of conversation that had engrossed them before they made love. “You think the older gel, then? She is not a little too old, Marj?”

  “To bear him a few sons and some daughters too?” she asked scornfully. “Lud, Theo, she is five-and-twenty. Hardly decrepit. And a great beauty. She has a pleasing maturity too. She has suffered, you know.”

  “Maturity,” he said dryly, “is not like to make Harndon foam at the mouth, my love. He might find the other gel more appetizing.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “I do not know his tastes. But Agnes is only eighteen. Pretty enough and good-natured but she would be a mere toy to a man of Harndon’s age and experience. Anna could be a companion to him.”