Vander was silent for a moment. "Do you remember when I told you that I planned to marry for love? One of my more idiotic ideas, I might add." What the hell had he been thinking? It wasn't for men, all this passion.
"I don't consider myself idiotic," Thorn said, holding up the bottle. "You're drinking brandy that was laid down in '78. This calls for a glass." He got up and returned a moment later with a glass cut with the Duke of Pindar's coat of arms.
"Your marriage is not the topic at hand," Vander said, taking a healthy swig of the brandy. "Mine is. You're here in time to congratulate me."
Thorn put down his glass without drinking from it. "What the hell? What's happened?"
"My father was mad," Vander said, observing how the golden liquid made little streams on the side of the glass as he tilted it. "But it turns out he was also treasonous. Not just ordinary treason, either: My father offered-in writing-to kill the king, thereby enabling Bonnie Prince Charlie to sit on the throne."
"What?"
Vander was still following his own train of thought. "He was a lunatic. And a cuckold. But I'll be damned if I let him be blasted as a traitor as well."
"What does that have to do with marriage?" Thorn asked, looking confused.
"The treasonous letter is in the hands of a woman. And she is demanding marriage."
"Bloody hell."
"My thoughts exactly."
"How can they take away your dukedom? You didn't commit treason."
Vander shrugged. "My solicitor is confident that the dukedom would be confiscated. Apparently, dukedoms to hand out to favorites are in short supply, and I've never been a toady to the Crown." He wasn't the type who had bothered to ingratiate himself with George and his court. Or with society in general, for that matter.
Witness the fact that his only friend was a bastard, albeit a duke's bastard.
"Hell," Thorn muttered again. "Who is the woman?"
"You've met her."
"I have? What's her name?"
"The poet."
Thorn frowned. "Poet? I don't remember any . . . not Carrington's daughter!"
"That's the one." Vander poured more brandy into his glass.
"The daughter of your mother's lover is forcing you into marriage?" Thorn sounded genuinely shocked, which was amusing. After growing up on the streets, he was rarely surprised by evidence of criminality.
"That's an accurate title for her," Vander agreed. "You could also call her the Lyricist. Or Imminent Duchess of Pindar. If I wasn't furious, I'd be impressed at her ingenuity. Not to mention tenacity."
"Let me make sure I have it right: you are being blackmailed with the threat of a charge of treason and loss of your dukedom into marrying the daughter of your mother's paramour."
"It sounds like Greek drama when you put it that way."
"The hell with that," Thorn said flatly, his voice ringing with distaste. "She wrote that excruciatingly bad poem about you. Her father was a debauched philanderer. Your marriage will be a subject of gossip for your entire life. It's not worth it. Let the dukedom go."
"I thought about it."
"Well?"
"My father's madness tarnished the name-but it's still my name. One of my ancestors lost his head defending King Charles against the Puritans. Another fought a battle for King Henry II. A castle-my family's castle-stood here three hundred years before this house was built. I would just let them go, the history of my family go, because a woman wants me so badly that she'd resort to blackmail?"
"Let me put it this way: Your mother married a madman, and you're about to marry a madwoman."
Thorn's voice was troubled, and Vander paused for a moment. But he knew madness. He had been around it his entire life. He had only to come within earshot of a person with a touch of mania and his scalp began to prickle.
He didn't feel that from Mia. "She's not mad," he said finally. "I'll be damned if I know how to describe her, but she's not mad. Obsessed, maybe."
"We'll put the best solicitors in the country on the case," Thorn said. "They'll discredit her. Mad or not, we'll have her put in Bedlam. Or-we'll steal the letter! Give me her direction and I'll put a lad on it immediately."
"No need for that," Vander said, smiling faintly. "She gave it to me."
"Burn it," Thorn snapped.
"Can't," Vander said. "Code of a gentleman and all that."
"That's utter rot. In any case, I'm no gentleman. Hand it over."
"No."
"It was a stroke of brilliance to hand you the letter," Thorn acknowledged. "She must have known you'd find yourself constrained by your own standards. I would have had her house tossed or just burned down the whole place and have done with it."
"It's a question of name and lineage," Vander explained. "It's bigger than I am. The whole mess has made me think about what I really want. My mother was desperately in love with Carrington, willing to risk everything to be with him. Even though the man was an empty-headed, light-fingered fool."
"No argument there."
Vander looked over at Thorn, knowing his face was rueful. "I used to talk vaguely about falling in love-because it was an excellent excuse for avoiding society events where I might find a bride. Frankly, I would be horrified if I was trapped by that sort of passion."
"I used to think that as well," Thorn observed.
"What's more, I would loathe it if my name became a byword because my wife took lovers. I might well go mad," Vander said dispassionately.
"Well, there is that. Given the persistence of her adoration, Miss Carrington likely won't ever think of another man."
Vander's smile was probably a bit feral. "There you have it. Perfect marriage for me."
"You'll have to get an heir on her-which means you'll have to bed her. I couldn't perform, not with a woman who was blackmailing me. Unless she only wants your name?"
"Don't you remember that poem? If I'm not mistaken, my title is coming in a distant second to my moonbeam."
Thorn swore again. "That's intolerable."
"Not necessarily. I've often thought it would be hell to have a frigid wife. I seem to have the opposite. But I do mean to set some restrictions in that regard."
"Such as?"
"I'm allotting her four nights."
"Per month or per week?"
"Neither," Vander said, enjoying himself. "Four days per year."
He looked up to find Thorn's face alive with laughter.
"I might give her an extra night now and then," he added. "On her birthday."
Thorn rarely laughed; it just wasn't in his nature. But he guffawed now.
"Four nights should be enough to produce an heir," Vander noted. It wasn't the end of the world to have an adoring wife. Particularly because the terms of their arrangement meant that he need not dance attendance on her.
"India will hate her no matter what." Thorn got up from his chair. "She had plans for you."
"That girl you pushed off on me the last time we went to the theater bleated at me like a goat all night. And her face was beaky."
"Those are cheekbones, you ass."
"I didn't like them." The girl had been all angular bones and hard edges. He preferred . . .
He preferred a woman who fit under his arm like a sheltering bird. Even Thorn's gorgeous wife, India, was too tall for him, if the truth be told.
Thorn stared down at him. "Just tell me this: Does Miss Carrington agree with your limit of four nights?"
"I haven't told her yet, but she will. She's mad with love, if I recall the phrasing correctly from that poem. She'll take any scraps I throw in her direction. I think she repeated her proposal three or four times. To be succinct: she begged me."
"Damn it," his friend said, obviously disgusted. "This marriage is going to give you a wildly inflated idea of your own importance."
Vander grinned at him.
Chapter Five
NOTES ON FLORA & LONDON
~ Mr. Mortimer's solicitor buys her jewelry, coach, servants . . . what else?
~ Modiste ecstatic to provide wardrobe for young lady so exquisite. Slender, coltish legs, doelike eyes (watch for too many animal metaphors)
~ in wks, all London at Flora's feet.
~ Virtuous, farmer impoverished squire, Mr. Wolfington. "My heart is the only gold I offer!"
~ Count Frederic-side of the ballroom-longs for her hand.
~ Frederic and Flora dance once, twice. Ballroom sighs at sight of his celestial beauty, dark locks next to yellow, & etc.