to the Duke of Blackburn’s estate.
And Cordelia kept giving him knowing looks.
Marry the girl, indeed! Life mates, indeed. He as much believed in soul mates as he did sea monsters.
Though when he looked at Cordelia and the Duke of Hunt. . . It was difficult not to see the hints of some fabled, eternal bond.
Derek snorted.
Nonsense.
The only guarantees in life were the joys one got from new discoveries, wine, women, and song.
Not woman. Women . Variety was essential to life after all. It was essential that he recall that every time Lady Rosamund’s fabulous red locks came to mind, or her snapping eyes, or the way she had spoken her mind so bluntly.
Thank God he was leaving in just a few days.
A smile pulled at his lips. He couldn’t help it. Every year, he spent a week with his son. The young man was no longer a boy, in fact he was essentially a man now, and would be coming home from school.
For years, he’d let the boy travel with him. They’d journeyed the world together. . . But then he’d realized his son was an uncivilized fellow about to scatter a dozen bastards himself around the world, and well, he wanted more for his boy than that. At least, he wanted his son to be able to make choices that he’d never been given.
A renewed smile upon his lips, he swaggered into the local ale house where he knew Angus would be waiting with his customary mug of dark brew.
“You look most pleased,” she said. “It’s glad I am to find you in such fine humor.”
His smile died. His entire body tensed. Not with anger. Not with annoyance. Not with dismay. . . But with absolute anticipation.
Anticipation of joy.
And that was a damned terrifying thing.
Derek was not accustomed to being terrified. It didn’t sit well. He couldn’t breathe.
“Angus,” he said lowly, without actually looking at said infuriating female person. “You know that young lady?”
Angus was fairly near to hiding behind the bar, his cheeks red and his eyes cast down as if attempting to study his own wiry beard.
“Angus,” Derek prompted again, only this time with a bit of a growl to his voice.
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“Then what the blue blazes are you about letting her be here?”
“Let?” piped Lady Rosamund. “Let?”
A quick look about told him that they were almost entirely alone. In fact, all the usual patrons were crammed into a snug, drinking quickly, silently, staring at him and Lady Rosamund who sat demurely at a table by the fire. Each and every one of them was gaping with delight.
“Yes,” Derek drawled. “ Let .”
Angus sidled out of his corner. “She was insistent, Your Grace.”
To his dismay, she was cradling a glass in her hand. A glass. Not a tea cup and he doubted it was lemonade.
“What is she drinking?” Derek demanded.
Then he nearly punched himself. He was not doing this. He wasn’t going to be concerned about her. He wasn’t going to get involved. He was not some old nanny goat determined to keep her on the prim and proper. She could fling herself into the pit of sin if she so desired. . . As long as she didn’t expect him to participate in said flinging.
Holding up a hand, he said, “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Whisky,” she declared raising the glass in a mock salute.
Derek snapped his gaze from Rosamund to Angus and he felt a hint of steam under his collar. “You gave her whisky?” he exclaimed, despite his intentions.
“She’s very persuasive, Your Grace,” Angus whispered.
Derek ground his teeth for a moment before he gritted, “I don’t doubt that. But what the devil is Blackburn going to say when he finds out?”
“Oh, he won’t,” she said with shocking confidence. “Duncan has no idea what I do, in any case. Too buried in his own work, you see.”
Somehow she managed to say this without sounding self-pitying.
But it caused him to see her in a new light.
Lady Rosamund was lonely.
Lonely was dangerous.
Loneliness drove one to strange shores
Learning to Kill: Stories