Romy sucked in her breath. It wasn’t something she wished to discuss with Tony.
“At the very least, you can pretend to court for a time and then jilt him. I’m sure Foxwood would enjoy that. But in the meantime,yourreputation suffers.”
“It is all idle speculation. It wasn’t as if anyone actually saw us together.” She thought of the day at the stream, when she and Granby had run into Lord and Lady Carstairs. There wasn’t a doubt in Romy’s mind who was feeding the gossip mill.
“That is all it takes sometimes. I admit, Granby would not be my choice for you. I find him humorless with little to recommend him.”
“Cold. The warmth of frost on a pond,” Romy snipped back.
“I thought it a stream. But that was before the ball.” He moved his bishop. “I ran into Carstairs the other day.”
Bollocks.“Did Carstairs tell you whathewas doing? He and Lady Carstairs were fishing. Naked, Tony.” Her eyes widened as she tried to keep from blushing at the memory.
“Sounds delightful. Good for Carstairs. I’m glad to hear he’s other hobbies besides hunting.”
Romy glared at her brother and moved her queen into place. “Checkmate.”
* * *
David stalked backand forth across the fine rug of the Duke of Averell’s drawing room. He’d been cooling his heels for the better part of an hour while he waited for Andromeda to appear. Averell had called on him earlier, making his position clear. If Granby wished to court Andromeda, she must agree. He would not force his sister to accept Granby. No matter what had occurred between them.
“And what of a child?” David had snapped at Averell.
“My position will remain the same,” Andromeda’s brother answered.
David should have guessed. The Barringtons liked producing bastards.
He continued to pace, growing more annoyed by the second. It had been an entire month since he’d seen her. When he’d found out she’d left The Barrow, David’s first thought had been to have his coach readied immediately and go after her, but he was so bloody angry at her for not allowing him to explain. The hot rush of anger, so unlike his usual cool detachment, had unnerved him even further, so he’d decided he’d wait a day or two and allow Andromeda to come to her senses.
Later that evening, after enjoying the quiet of The Barrow now that his guests were gone, he’d gone to his study, taken one look at the painting, and told himself he was a bloody idiot. He would leave for London first thing in the morning and demand Andromeda listen to him.
But the next day, a series of torrential thunderstorms had drenched the countryside for the better part of a week, ruining the roads to London and trapping him at The Barrow. By the time David had finally made it to London, the city was already rife with gossip about the house party. Aunt Pen, who’d traveled back with him, apprised him of the situation after calling on several of her friends.
David kept his temper in check, but just barely. The usual control he was known for deserted him when faced with the prospect of losing Andromeda. Aunt Pen, in a move to block the gossip stirred up by the Foxwoods, slyly admitted to several of her friends that her nephew had indeed found Lady Andromeda fetching. What man would not? But that was a far cry from anything else. Lord Foxwood, she implied, wanted his daughter to be a duchess far more than Beatrice herself wanted it.
Lady Carstairs, however, refused to be silenced. David would need to pay a visit to Lord Carstairs and impress upon him the importance of shutting up his bloody wife.
The click of the door disturbed his thoughts, forcing him to turn.
About time.
The sight of Andromeda standing before him struck David dumb. His gaze ran over every remembered curve of her body, searching for some sign of welcome in the gorgeous blue of her eyes. He was disappointed to find none.
Christ, I’ve missed her so much.
She dropped into an elegant, exaggerated curtsy, her skirts fanning out around her. “Your Grace.”
David moved toward her, inhaling the soft scent of lavender, remembering the way she’d felt in his arms. The sense of completion he’d found only with her. He had sown his share of wild oats. Kept a mistress when he’d felt like it. But bedding a woman had always been no more than the release of physical need. Not so with this one woman whose virtue he’d taken on the floor of his study. Desire for Andromeda rushed through his veins, forcing his heart to thump painfully beneath his ribs.
He reached out to tuck a stray bit of hair behind her ear, a reflex borne of his overwhelming need to touch her.
Andromeda flinched, stepping away from his fingers.
Still angry.
“Why have you come, Your Grace?”
Frustration bloomed inside him. She wascompromisedand could be with child. Everyone was whispering about them, thanks to Foxwood and Lady Carstairs. Her reputation was in danger. And his aunt had drawn his attention to an item in one of the gossip columns implying Andromeda was in trade. As a modiste.
