The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

“Good God,” Marcus said blankly. “Butts?”

“Yes, Butts was my mother’s maiden name. Awful, isn’t it?” Trevor Wyndham stuck out a strong black-gloved hand. “A pleasure to meet you finally, cousin.”

Suddenly, Marcus began to laugh. He threw back his head and laughed louder. His cousin was content to watch him. Finally, Marcus wiped his eyes, then took his cousin’s proffered hand and shook it vigorously. “The image I’ve had of you ever since Mr. Wicks told me about the American Wyndhams—good God. I’ve referred to you as a mincing fop and damned coxcomb, and much worse. Forgive me, cousin. If you like, you can smash me in the stomach. Just not my ribs, they’re still sore from a small contretemps I had in Paris.”

“A contretemps? I would say you’re a dirty fighter, Marcus. Perhaps we can find some ruffians and see which of us is the dirtiest. No, I don’t believe the Duchess would like that. Nor would she like me to strike you. I daresay since you’ve been married such a short while, she still believes you the most handsome, the most noble, the most exquisite of all God’s creatures.”

Marcus grunted, looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Trevor raised a thick black eyebrow.

“I would also say that the Duchess is quite the most beautiful woman I’ve even seen.”

“Have you been to London? To Paris?”

“No, but I am a man and I’m not blind. You don’t think your wife is immensely lovely?”

Marcus grunted again, saying nothing, his anger at her simmering and bubbling like a witch’s caldron just beneath the surface. He’d just met his bloody cousin, who, it turned out was a man and not a fop, but he’d be damned if he would spill his guts to him. How dare he carry on about the Duchess as if she were even remotely available to him?

“Needless to say, my mother was rather perturbed when our Aunt Gweneth informed her upon our arrival that you had married—before the magical date of June sixteenth. She was prostrate with a headache for a good four hours. She quite contemplated the topic until I took over her headache from her.”

“I did not know you were here at Chase until three days ago. The Duchess had left me a message and I followed.”

“The Duchess said you were in Paris, seeing to the restoration of the Bourbon.”

“Yes, consider him restored. As for the rest of it, there will be a congress convened in Vienna this fall. It will probably be as entertaining as the shows at Astley’s Amphitheater.”

His cousin cocked his head.

“Ah, Astley’s is a theater of sorts where you will find men and women doing tricks on horseback, girls going into the audience selling oranges and themselves, men harassing bears to make them dance, that sort of thing. The children love it and the young men go there to ogle the scantily clad females.”

“In Baltimore we have a similar sort of entertainment. It’s called The Fat Man’s Chins.”

Marcus laughed.

“It’s odd,” Trevor said thoughtfully. “You look a lot like me. Except for the eyes.”

“Yes. You’re as dark as a sinister midnight. Our uncle, the former earl, called me the devil’s own son. Does that apply to you as well, cousin?”

“Perhaps. Recently, at least.” Trevor shrugged, then shook his head at him, dismissing unpleasant thoughts, Marcus thought. He continued, “Your lands are impressive. I borrowed Clancy, though I thought your stable lad, Lambkin, would explode with fear believing this nice fellow would dash me beneath his hooves.”

Trevor leaned over to pat Clancy’s chestnut neck. Clancy, the perverted bugger, snorted and nodded his great head.

Marcus wished he could punch the damned horse in his nose. He said, eyeing the stallion with disfavor, “He isn’t known for his sweet temperament. Let him near a mare and he turns into Attila the Hun ready for an orgy. However, you seem to have him well in hand.”

“I have a way with horses, actually I have a way with most animals. A gift, I suppose. Sometimes an embarrassment, particularly when a lady’s little lapdog bites her mistress to free herself and comes leaping up on my leg, barking her head off. Incidentally, Lambkin seems to worship your every footstep.”

“Lamb’s a good lad and excellent with the horses. My uncle didn’t like him. Why, I don’t know.”

“Probably because he’s lame,” Trevor said. “I’ve seen it before.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe you’re right.”

“My brother, James, has my mother’s fair coloring and very green eyes. My father’s eyes were a much darker blue, like the Duchess’s. Ah, forgive me. It makes sense since the earl was her father.”

“Yes,” Marcus said curtly. “You appear to know most of the machinations that have landed upon my head.”

“Yes. My mother is excellent at badgering people into telling her everything she wants to know. Your Mr. Wicks was no exception. He scarce presented her a challenge. She told me this morning that after everyone had gone to bed, she went to his bedchamber last n

ight, and he was so flustered, he spilled every scape of information he had. Don’t worry yourself, cousin—”