jaw hardened as he ran his thumb along his scar. "More than that, Jeremy. Up until a couple of months ago I thought I'd managed to circumvent the Dowager Duchess's ploys, but as usual she refuses to concede defeat and continues to dictate and meddle in my affairs. This time she has outmaneuvered me and I must swallow my pride and give in gracefully. I have no other choice if I wish to own my ancestral home, and I have vowed that no one but I shall inherit it. So, I find myself in the position of being engaged to the Lady Blanche Delande, the Dowager Duchess's choice as a perfect wife for me, despite my feelings to the contrary. However," he shrugged in resignation, "there is little I can do to remedy the situation except marry the chit—as ordered—for I'll be damned if I'll let my cousin Percy inherit."
Sir Jeremy felt a twinge of unease as he stared at his friend's haughty profile, the sherry-colored eyes narrowed reflectively and the finely chiseled lips curved in an unpleasant smile. In an untrimmed cream silk, full-skirted coat with matching waistcoat and breeches, the Duke was an elegant foil to the brightly dressed dancers in their gaudy pinks and puces, oranges and reds, lavishly embroidered and trimmed in gold and silver.
"Well, shall we see how the play is going in the Gold Salon?" Sir Jeremy broke into the Duke's thoughtful silence.
They drifted from the room to the Gold Salon, where tables had been set up for games of chance, and stood watching the engrossed card players. As they continued to stand there another man moved closer and stood nearby, his face flushed with drink as he glared at the Duke's arrogant profile.
Lucien turned his gaze slightly and glanced dispassionately at the man staring so rudely at him until the man shifted uneasily and turned his eyes elsewhere.
"Who is the malcontent who's trying to put me to the blush?" Lucien inquired casually.
Sir Jeremy glanced around the room in surprise as he looked over his guests, who were busily absorbed with their cards, until his eyes alighted on a stocky gentleman in salmon colored velvet, his brow thunderous as he stared at Lucien in a definitely threatening manner.
"What the devil?" Sir Jeremy demanded, looking at Lucien questioningly.
The Duke returned his look steadily. "I've not the slightest notion why this fellow should bear me malice. I haven't even had the pleasure of making his acquaintance."
"He's Sir Frederick Jensen. A real hothead, always in a sulk about some imagined slight."
"Really," the Duke drawled in boredom. "How tiresome."
"A real hot-air merchant. His mouth has gotten him into countless duels," Sir Jeremy confided distastefully.
"Then how is it he's a guest of yours, Jeremy?"
"Someone else's guest, not mine. There's always some parasite worming his way in. But short of throwing the braggart out, what can I do but cold-shoulder him?"
"Well, you shall have to do better than that because the fellow is coming this way," Lucien stated dryly, "and unless I'm mistaken, with the express purpose of engaging us in conversation."
Sir Frederick Jensen swaggered up to the Duke of Camareigh, ignoring Sir Jeremy, and cast a baleful eye at Lucien's amused expression.
"Laughing in your sleeve at me, are you, Your Grace?" he sneered loudly, causing the nearby card players to glance up in interest.
"Hardly that, since I know nothing about you to laugh at," Lucien replied indifferently.
Sir Frederick's mouth curled into a sneer as he leaned forward, and jabbing a finger on the Duke's wide chest said, "No, you do yours behind a fellow's back. Maligning my character, holding me up to ridicule."
"It would be a waste of my time since you seem to be doing that yourself," Lucien replied coldly.
"Why, you! I'll—" Sir Frederick began heatedly, his face a dull red.
"Now, now," Sir Jeremy interrupted, a placating note in his voice. "Don't get in a stew, Jensen. You've had a few too many. You're fuddled, man."
"Fuddled! Me? I can drink any
Sir Jeremy felt a twinge of unease as he stared at his friend's haughty profile, the sherry-colored eyes narrowed reflectively and the finely chiseled lips curved in an unpleasant smile. In an untrimmed cream silk, full-skirted coat with matching waistcoat and breeches, the Duke was an elegant foil to the brightly dressed dancers in their gaudy pinks and puces, oranges and reds, lavishly embroidered and trimmed in gold and silver.
"Well, shall we see how the play is going in the Gold Salon?" Sir Jeremy broke into the Duke's thoughtful silence.
They drifted from the room to the Gold Salon, where tables had been set up for games of chance, and stood watching the engrossed card players. As they continued to stand there another man moved closer and stood nearby, his face flushed with drink as he glared at the Duke's arrogant profile.
Lucien turned his gaze slightly and glanced dispassionately at the man staring so rudely at him until the man shifted uneasily and turned his eyes elsewhere.
"Who is the malcontent who's trying to put me to the blush?" Lucien inquired casually.
Sir Jeremy glanced around the room in surprise as he looked over his guests, who were busily absorbed with their cards, until his eyes alighted on a stocky gentleman in salmon colored velvet, his brow thunderous as he stared at Lucien in a definitely threatening manner.
"What the devil?" Sir Jeremy demanded, looking at Lucien questioningly.
The Duke returned his look steadily. "I've not the slightest notion why this fellow should bear me malice. I haven't even had the pleasure of making his acquaintance."
"He's Sir Frederick Jensen. A real hothead, always in a sulk about some imagined slight."
"Really," the Duke drawled in boredom. "How tiresome."
"A real hot-air merchant. His mouth has gotten him into countless duels," Sir Jeremy confided distastefully.
"Then how is it he's a guest of yours, Jeremy?"
"Someone else's guest, not mine. There's always some parasite worming his way in. But short of throwing the braggart out, what can I do but cold-shoulder him?"
"Well, you shall have to do better than that because the fellow is coming this way," Lucien stated dryly, "and unless I'm mistaken, with the express purpose of engaging us in conversation."
Sir Frederick Jensen swaggered up to the Duke of Camareigh, ignoring Sir Jeremy, and cast a baleful eye at Lucien's amused expression.
"Laughing in your sleeve at me, are you, Your Grace?" he sneered loudly, causing the nearby card players to glance up in interest.
"Hardly that, since I know nothing about you to laugh at," Lucien replied indifferently.
Sir Frederick's mouth curled into a sneer as he leaned forward, and jabbing a finger on the Duke's wide chest said, "No, you do yours behind a fellow's back. Maligning my character, holding me up to ridicule."
"It would be a waste of my time since you seem to be doing that yourself," Lucien replied coldly.
"Why, you! I'll—" Sir Frederick began heatedly, his face a dull red.
"Now, now," Sir Jeremy interrupted, a placating note in his voice. "Don't get in a stew, Jensen. You've had a few too many. You're fuddled, man."
"Fuddled! Me? I can drink any
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