“I believe so,” he said. “Will you wear a domino as well?”
She nodded.
“What color?”
“That is for you to find out,” she said, laughing. “The first lesson in courting is to be able to identify the woman you wish to woo!”
“But you are wooing me,” he said rather smugly. “I shall just wait until a beautiful woman in a mask approaches me and begins a flirtation.”
“You do that,” Jemma said, laughing.
He eyed her suspiciously, so she gave a little shrug.
“Of course you’ll be able to identify me immediately, Elijah. Who else would try to flirt with you?”
Chapter Nine
The Duke of Villiers, known to himself as Leopold and to everyone else as terrifying, had made up his mind. The one woman he really wanted, Jemma, wasn’t his to win. His old friend Elijah had her, and for all Elijah’s ideas that he might follow his father’s early death, Leopold didn’t think so.
At any rate, some small foolish part of him wanted to be loved by someone who hadn’t loved Elijah better.
After all, the first woman he loved in the world had been a winsome barmaid by the name of Bess. But once Elijah crooked a finger, she traipsed after Beaumont without a backward glance.
’Twas all the fault of Villiers’ face, no doubt. It was a harsh type of face, and not softening with the years. The silver streaks in his hair didn’t help, and neither did his great beak of a nose. In fact, he looked like the damned beast he was, and the hell with that.
He was done with women. He revised that thought. Not done with women until—God forbid—his loins withered. But he was throwing away the idea of a good woman, by which he meant a marriageable woman. Not that Jemma was ever marriageable, given that she was married to Elijah.
So, not marriageable, but otherwise a woman like Jemma. A woman who was worth giving a damn about.
Villiers was very good at dismissing his little black moments. He generally took that sort of emotion and shoved it away with a pungent curse.
His butler, Ashmole, entered the library. He had been in the household for years and grown slope-shouldered and sunken as he grew old. His skin was the color of a wilted celery leaf.
“Would you prefer a pension or a cottage?” Villiers asked, before Ashmole could say anything. He asked him periodically, as a matter of course.
Ashmole gave him the ferocious look of an aging vulture, all bony beak and chin. It struck Villiers that he would probably look the same in his seventies. It was an unpleasant thought.
“Why would I do that?” the butler replied. “Just when you’re having a fit of the vapors and planning to make things interesting around here?”
Villiers eyed him. There was something distinctly disadvantageous about inheriting a butler who had spanked you as a lad, ignoring the fact that you were the future duke and focusing merely on your sins to do with stolen blackberry tarts. The man had never formed a proper sense of awe. “You look like something that fell off a tinker’s cart.”
“You look like a damned parrot,” Ashmole retorted. Then he pulled his shoulders back, which signaled that their charming preliminaries were at an end. “Your Grace’s solicitor, Mr. Templeton, awaits Your Grace’s pleasure.”
“Send him in,” Villiers said. “And for God’s sake, go take a nap. I don’t want to frighten Templeton by the thought you might expire while handing over his cloak.”
Ashmole retired without a word, which meant that he would take a nap, and knew he needed it. Villiers sighed. It was just as well that he hadn’t the faintest inclination to invite anyone to visit his house.
Templeton was a miracle of legal sobriety. His long, jutting chin had surely never lowered to emit laughter. Given his superior attitude, it was hard to imagine him taking a piss. He looked like a mourning bird hatched from a somber black legal tome, and due to be buried in the same.