Kate Pearce - Simply Wicked

“For what?”

She held his gaze, her blue eyes full of unexpected awkwardness. “For allowing you into my bed when I was expecting my monthly courses.”

Anthony stared at her. What the hell did that mean? He vaguely recollected some feminine conversations between his mother and sisters that always stopped the moment they realized he was in the room. He felt a blush creep up his cheeks.

“Oh, that . . .”

“Yes, that . . .” She grimaced. “Justin felt the same way. He refused to come near me when I bled. I forget that the English can be a little more fastidious about these things than the French.”

Anthony stared at her clenched hands, taking them back into his. “I didn’t realize. I thought I’d hurt you.”

“But you didn’t.”

He leaned in toward her until their foreheads touched. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I thought . . .”

“Ssh.” She pushed a lock of his hair back from his face. “You would never hurt me. You should know by now that women are a lot stronger than they look.”

“I know that,” he whispered. “But, God . . .” He closed his eyes, allowed her sweet scent to surround him, to heal his ragged nerves. After a long moment, he took a deep breath and kissed her nose. “I should go.”

“Yes, you should. My staff will be gossiping about this for days. Let’s just hope my mama-in-law doesn’t get to hear about it.”

He moved off the bed and looked back at her. “Stay well, Marguerite.”

“I will.” She blew him a kiss. “Now go, or you will be late for work.”

Anthony bowed and headed for the door. At her mention of his current employment, the tension returned to his gut. At least he’d settled the most important problem. Now he just had to find the nerve to face Valentin.

Anthony pushed open the front door of the shipping office and shut it quickly behind him to keep out the rising wind. The main office was half empty, but Taggart, the manager, was at his desk. He looked up when Anthony reached him, and took off his spectacles.

“You’re in early this morning, sir.”

Anthony removed his hat and gloves. “Miracles do happen, Mr. Taggart, although in truth, I haven’t actually been to bed yet. Is my brother in?”

Taggart polished his spectacles on his handkerchief and nodded. “Yes, indeed he is, sir. Always an early riser, our Lord Valentin.”

“And let’s not forget all his other Godlike qualities either, shall we?” Anthony muttered as he set off past Taggart to his brother’s office, his heart hammering in his chest, his mouth dry. He knocked on the door, heard Val’s muted voice bidding him enter.

His brother sat at his desk, pen in hand, attention fixed on one of the accounting books. Despite the chill in the oak-paneled room, his black coat hung over the back of his chair. He glanced up, irritation clear on his fine-featured face and in his violet eyes.

“What is it, Taggart? Oh, it’s you Anthony.”

“Good morning, Valentin.”

Anthony ignored his brother’s gesture for him to be seated and instead found a spot to plant his booted feet right in front of Val’s desk. Eventually Val looked up at him again.

“Is something the matter?”

“You could say that. I had the misfortune to be cornered by our father last night.”

“Did you?” Val put down his pen and sat back, his expression guarded. “And what did he have to say for himself?”

Anthony set his jaw. “You should know. You bloody well orchestrated it.”

“What are you implying?”

“You told him I would make the perfect estate manager for you.”

“I told him that you had an excellent head for business and that if he needed any help with the books then he should have no hesitation in coming to you.” Valentin shrugged. “If he took that to mean you should be in charge of running the estates, then surely that is a compliment?”

“You are his heir.”

“And I have my own business to run.” Val held his gaze, all traces of amiability gone from his face.

“So I should take on the job until you feel like dabbling in it yourself?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what.” Anthony glared at his brother. “As usual, you get to do whatever you please, and I have to sacrifice what I want to keep you and Father happy!”

Valentin raised one scathing eyebrow. “You don’t know what you want. All you know is how to destroy yourself. I thought that if you knew Father and I believed you could run the estates, it might give you a purpose, a reason to succeed, a way out of this mess you have created.”

Anthony planted his fists on Val’s desk and leaned forward. “How dare you presume to know what I need or what I want? All you care about is yourself. That’s all you’ve ever cared about.”

“And you haven’t?” Val suddenly stood up and faced Anthony. “You’ve spent the last few years trying to kill yourself. Does that show much care for your family or the people who love you?”

“That’s a cheap shot, Val. And let’s be clear on one thing: as far as our father is concerned, I don’t exist. You are his heir; you even have a son to succeed you. I’m just supposed to lie back and do my duty to the family.”

“Devil take it, Anthony, if I could give you the title and all the responsibility that goes with it, I would.”

“Easy to say when it can’t ever happen.”

Val’s eyes flashed. “Now who’s being unfair? I didn’t make up these ridiculous rules about who can inherit what. When I say I’d give it all up for you, I mean it.”

Anthony raised his chin. “Don’t patronize me. I know what you and Father think of me.”

“And what is that?”

“That I’m useless, that I’m a child.”

Val sighed and sat back down. “No, Anthony, that’s what you think about yourself. Don’t try to pretend any differently.”

“I’m twenty-five, Val, I know what I am!”

“Do you really? And what is that?”

“The second son of the second wife of a marquis. A son who should stop complaining and do his duty.”

There was a long silence while Valentin stared at him. “You really have to stop feeling sorry for yourself, Anthony.”

“I do not feel sorry for myself.”

Val shrugged. “Then I suggest you make the best of the situation. Prove to me and our father that you are capable of running the estate. In fact, let me make the decision easier for you. I don’t want to see you back here for a month. That should give you enough time to investigate the Stratham estate books and come to a decision.”

Anthony struggled to contain his temper. “If our positions were reversed, is that what you would do, Val?”

“Of course not, but then I am a fool. I live to antagonize my father. You are not like me.” He held Anthony’s gaze. “I’ve watched too many people I care about try to ruin themselves. I’d rather not have to go through it again.”

“Father thinks I’m jealous of you.”

“Are you?”

“I . . . don’t know.” Anthony let out his breath. “How could I be when you have suffered so badly, and I . . .”

Val leaned back in his chair. “You’re not jealous, but I suspect you are angry with me.”

“Surely they are the same thing?”

“Not at all. You’re angry because I involved you with Aliabad.”

Anthony took a step back. “I’m not going to discuss him with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it happened in the past, and it has no bearing on our present disagreement.”

Val got up slowly, his eyes full of concern, yet Anthony still flinched away from him. “That is the most ridiculous thing you have said so far. What happened with Aliabad changed you.”

“I said I did not want to talk about it.”

“But you should.” Val slammed his hand down onto the desk. “Dammit, Anthony, I know how it feels to be forced . . . to be raped . . .”

Anthony turned toward the door as nausea overwhelmed him. “I refuse to discuss this.” He struggled to open the door and felt it shoved shut as Valentin reached him.

“Listen to me,” Val said urgently. “It was not your fault. What happened to you was my responsibility, and you have a perfect right to be angry with me because of it.”

Anthony closed his eyes, leaning his forehead into the harsh wood of the door. “Let me out, Val.”

His brother didn’t move so Anthony did. He managed to push past Val, open the door and escape into the morning.

An hour later, he found himself staring up at the facades of Angelo’s fencing academy and Jackson’s boxing salon, which were conveniently situated next door to each other on Bond Street. He flexed his fingers inside his gloves. Perhaps this was what he needed, the opportunity to pick a fight, to let the rage churning in his gut find a sanctioned “gentlemanly” outlet.

He relinquished the notion of boxing, having seen enough blood for one day, and entered Angelo’s. A portrait of the great Chevalier de Saint-George hung on the opposite wall and seemed to gaze down with a critical eye on the proceedings in the almost empty room below. Anthony nodded at a couple of acquaintances and caught the fencing master’s eye.

“Have you time to take me on this morning?”

“Always, sir.” Henry Angelo bowed with a flourish. “If you would only practice, you could become a master.”

Anthony barely raised a smile at that piece of outright flummery. He headed past the displays of foils and fencing shoes into the back of the house, where he deposited his coat, waistcoat and boots. It was early enough that the vast majority of his peers were still sleeping off the excesses of the night before. After an hour or two of mindless physical activity, he’d feel in a far better position to think about his next move. He walked back into the main salon and headed to the center of the room.

Angelo bowed low as Anthony stepped forward and the master presented Anthony with his favorite foil.