“How so?”
Cavanagh turned to face them and signalled to the large crowd gathered around the orchestra. Some couples danced on the outskirts of the throng. Some watched the military band dressed in their blood-red coats embellished with gold brocade. Damian nodded in response. While he preferred being alone with his widow, they would have to mingle if they hoped to observe Joshua Steele.
“Well,” his lady began, “as a man who indulges his desires, who scoffs at restraint, a man with a thorough disregard for the rules, one would think the pleasure gardens were your playground.”
One would think that if licentious behaviour brought him pleasure. But it only quenched his thirst for power. It was better to command and control than be a pawn on the chessboard of life. Who wanted to be the man people cast aside? Who wanted to be weak and dispensable?
“When a man sups ale day and night, it loses its potency and soon tastes bland.”
“Not as bland as eating broth every day for months,” she said, amused. “Nothing could be as uninspiring as that.”
“That depends on how it is served.” Having her feed him the vile concoction, witnessing the care and consideration that went into spooning every last drop into his mouth, had been a moment of pure bliss.
He would have continued the interesting conversation were it not for the numerous heads turning their way. Lord Rathbone whirled around from his group of friends, practically drooled at seeing the woman in the red silk pelisse gliding along the lush green walkway. Joshua Steele met Damian’s gaze before quickly turning away. He pushed through the crowd, eager to hide amid the sea of top hats and pretty bonnets.
Damian noticed the Marquis of Blackbeck holding court near the Turkish Tent. The lord commanded the attention of a small, select group of people. Influential gentlemen listened to his pompous drivel. Elegant ladies hung on every banal word. There wasn’t a woman in the ton who did not aspire to trap the marquis into marriage.
Damian cast the Scarlet Widow a sidelong glance.
Well, perhaps there was one.
“Your father should grace the stage,” his widow said. “He certainly knows how to play to the crowd.”
“Oh, the marquis is rather skilled at twisting a tale.” Bitterness infused Damian’s tone. “He repeats the same lines so many times one wonders why the ladies scramble for his attention.” The lord was in his fiftieth year. Surely he was tired of playing the juvenile.
“It’s not his attention they seek,” the widow replied. “It’s his money and title.”
Damian snorted as he steered her towards the Grove, hoping to avoid another confrontation with his father. “Then theirs is a wasted effort. The man will never marry.” No, the lord enjoyed growing his list of conquests.
The widow clutched Damian’s arm as they navigated the boisterous crowd swaying along to the music. “Word is the marquis will marry the first mistress to fall pregnant with his child.”
The crashing of cymbals made it impossible to hear with any clarity. “I beg your pardon?”
She repeated her comment and added, “The marquis is desperate for a legitimate heir.” She leaned closer, so close the seductive scent of her perfume filled his head. “Some say he has developed a problem in that regard. Hence the reason he refuses to take a wife without having proof of her fertility.”
Damian came to an abrupt halt amid a swarm of eager revellers. He swung the widow around to face him. “How is it I know nothing of this?” A host of emotions fought for prominence: confusion, jealousy, barely contained rage. Had the marquis married Maria Alvarez, he would have his legitimate heir.
She shrugged, opened her mouth to speak just as the musicians banged their drums and blew their blasted horns. Frustrated by the lack of privacy, he grasped her hand and led her through the Grove to the supper boxes in the Handel Piazza.
“How is it I know nothing of my father’s intention?” Damian repeated now they were free from all distractions. How was the widow privy to such intimate details?
“Perhaps because you have spent an inordinate amount of time abroad these last three years. Perhaps because people know you’re a man who despises gossip.”
This wasn’t gossip. Knowing the depth of the marquis’ conceit, Damian suspected this snippet of information bore a remarkable likeness to the truth. And yet that was not the comment he found so damnably intriguing.
“An inordinate amount of time?” he said, drawing her to sit opposite him in a supper box reserved for someone else. He preferred to stare into her eyes when he stripped off her mask. “You should be careful with your phrasing, my lady. A man might think you’ve taken a particular interest in his whereabouts.”
A pink blush stained her cheeks, but she made a quick recovery. “Your vanity leads you to jump to conclusions, sir. I seem to recall Mr Cavanagh mentioning the fact you’ve spent too much time abroad.”
She had been too slow to disguise her initial embarrassment, and so he pressed his point. “You made a specific reference to the last three years. The three years since we parted on a promise.” The need to delve into her mind and discover the truth proved overwhelming. All anger at his father dissipated in light of learning this beauty’s secrets. “My vanity leads me to conclude that you made it your business to keep abreast of my private affairs.”
Noting a flash of panic in her eyes, he reached into his coat pocket, withdrew his flask, pulled out the stopper and offered her a nip of brandy. “It’s not rack punch but should suffice.”
As she reached out to take the flask, he brushed his fingers against hers—a ploy to unsettle her composure. The mere touch sent a hot bolt of recognition to his chest.
Roles reversed.
He was the one who struggled to hide his sudden intake of breath. It was his stomach performing a range of death-defying flips.