But Anthony wanted a woman who wasn’t appalled by physical pleasure, and sought it eagerly.
Something he suspected was true of Miss Peppiwell. No, something he knew.
He prowled to the breakfast sideboard, heaping kippers, scrambled eggs, and bacon high on his plate. He poured more brandy into his glass.
“So, tell me more of this young lady,” Sebastian invited.
Ah. So, not restraint. Merely delay.
Anthony shrugged, resigned to the interrogation. The duke was singular-minded when he chose to be. “There is really nothing to tell.”
“You are heading to meet our man of affairs to spy on her. Even I realize the madness in the notion. Don’t tell me there’s nothing behind that.”
“Orwell is dangerous,” Anthony murmured. He was sure of it. The tingle in his gut and the prickle in his nape he’d felt at the rage in Orwell’s features still haunted him.
“Why is it our problem?” Sebastian asked.
“Mine, not ours,” Anthony corrected.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sebastian growled, moving to pour tea into two cups. “Anything that affects you this deeply, affects me.”
A laugh rumbled from Anthony as he accepted the teacup Sebastian held out to him, saying nothing when his brother firmly removed his glass of brandy.
“She interests me, that is all.”
“I do not think she merely interests you. You deny you plan to make an offer, yet you are concerned enough to put a man on her. And you wish to explore her.”
Anthony grunted. “Fine. I want her, but it is a bit more than that. And I may be contemplating courting her, but not until I am certain we suit.” There. That was a reasonable excuse.
“So, you are not averse to connubial bliss with her. You are obviously attracted to the girl. Why the sudden caution? Not two weeks ago, you said you wished to—”
The studied, smooth blankness of Anthony’s face froze his brother’s words in midsentence.
Fury surged from Sebastian’s eyes. “Do not tell me you will not marry because of what you found out.”
His brother had always been too perceptive by half.
Anthony gave a stiff, mocking bow. “I am a bastard, Your Grace. My sons will bear that stain.”
“Your sons will bear your name proudly. Everything you have will be theirs, and all my unentailed property will be deeded to them.”
Anthony gulped his tea before answering, treading carefully.
“Thank you,” he said evenly, “but I have enough wealth to last several sons and daughters a lifetime. And I am damn proud to know it was acquired by my own efforts and not…his. But the stigma of my birth that would follow my wife, my heirs, and my daughters is undeniable. How could I ask anyone to willingly endure that? What woman would want a bastard for a husband?”
It was the powerful Duke of Calydon who stared haughtily back at him. “If she loves you, she would bloody well endure, and be damn happy to take you.”
The savage intensity of his brother’s exhortation soothed the tension that had been building in Anthony at the topic. It was good to be so well loved and highly valued by the man he admired most in the world.
“My rank and wealth will enable us to defy society’s precepts, if it ever becomes known,” Sebastian assured.
Anthony wondered if his brother really believed that.
“So, you swear you have not bedded this chit?” Sebastian demanded.
“I have not. Even if I wished to… The lady is an ice maiden.” He exhaled slowly. “Or…she would have you believe she is. But, indeed, I touched fire last night.”
“Ah. Enough fire to have you thinking seriously about her, despite the reservations you now feel.”
“I find myself intrigued by her reticence, and the hidden passion that dwells within her. She hides behind a facade of indifference, but I have glimpsed enough innate sensuality within her to hold me spellbound,” Anthony confessed.
“Might it be because she is American, with a different way of expressing herself? Americans are quite a different breed than the silly chits we’ve both been running from for almost a decade.”
He felt Sebastian’s speculative glance, and met his gaze with cool aplomb, knowing what was coming. “Go ahead and ask.”
His brother merely raised his brows. Anthony wondered if he had been mistaken in thinking Sebastian would have asked him how an innocent chit would handle his so-called depraved desires.
Heat sizzled in Anthony’s veins as he remembered Phillipa’s shivers and moans. He doubted he’d ever had any female respond to him with such abandon. She’d tried to bury it, but he had seen it in her face. Had felt it in the wetness clinging to his fingers from a fleeting caress.
He had lost three mistresses because of his passionate nature between the sheets. Apparently, no honorable female would behave the way he’d wanted them to. Though, they had opened their legs to his needs willingly enough for baubles and a roof over their heads. Despite her vehement protests, even Georgina had always writhed in ecstasy at being tied to the bed and spanked, crying for more even when he indulged in his darker sexual desires.
He shook his head in bemusement. Perhaps it was time he found a way to suppress his urgings. If his mistresses had been unable to accommodate his needs, he doubted a respectable wife would be willing to indulge them.
And yet, he thought Phillipa’s sensuality would be able to match him, if anyone could. And he suspected she would be more than willing to try.
But his bastardy was another matter. Any wife of his would have to contend with the likelihood of that public humiliation.
He walked over to the windows, giving his back to Sebastian, each thinking, no doubt, of their different demons.
Anthony despised the sword edge he was balanced on. He kept waiting for the knowledge of his parentage to roar through Society. Sebastian believed they had the social standing to withstand the repercussions. Hell, he believed they could crush it with sheer wealth and power alone. Anthony did not necessarily doubt that. His brother could be a ruthless man, formidable when crossed.
What affected Anthony most, and would savage Constance, was that the man they called father could be capable of such hatred and ugliness against them.
Anthony clenched his fists. The coward had held onto the secret, using death as a way to avoid the fallout, knowing exposing it would exact the cruelest revenge upon his wife, because of how much she loved her children. Now the evil wretch was safely in his grave—a place that Anthony dearly wished he could rip him from, so he could beat the hell out of him and send him back to it himself.
Chapter Seven
Anthony rode Thor through the crisp morning air, inhaling the fresh air into his lungs. He urged the horse faster, its muscles bunched and its gait lengthened as it thundered along the Serpentine path of Hyde Park. After his dawn meeting with Sebastian’s man of affairs in one of the seedier parts of London, he welcomed the clean orderliness of the park.
The meeting had gone remarkably well. It ended with both of them clear on the nature of the tail he wanted on Miss Peppiwell, as well as to the duration. He needed to satisfy his suspicions, and would only remove the guard when the lady revealed the nature of Orwell’s obsession.
The park stood nearly empty, with only a few riders braving the early morning cold. Anthony drew on Thor’s reins as a flash of copper gold caught his attention. A horse cantered slowly across his path, its rider clothed in vibrant blue. Not many young ladies would be out of their beds this early. Pleasure suffused him at this chance encounter with the irresistible Miss Peppiwell.
He had barely slept after Sebastian departed for Sherring Cross. Anthony’s restless hunger for her had kept him awake long into the nights. After drafting his missive to Lady Jocelyn and handing it to his butler to deliver, he’d wasted no time traveling back to London.
The sight of Phillipa made his decision to chase off his restlessness and lack of sleep with a hard ride worthwhile.
&nb
sp; He had been toying with the idea of calling on her, but could not make up his mind without a fuller understanding of his gnawing need, and more important, where he wanted to take it.
Hidden by the branches of an oak tree, he watched her as she cantered closer. The reins dangled loosely in her hand as she sat astride the chestnut with the innate poise of an experienced rider. She rode slowly toward him, a rare smile teasing her lips.
For a moment he imagined the smile was for him. It held something mysterious, a smile that invited a man to sink into shared delights. His fanciful notions were dashed the moment she spotted him. Her smile erased in a blink, replaced by wariness. He chuckled as he recognized the exact moment she decided to canter right past him as if he were unseen. Without giving her the opportunity, he urged his horse forward, blocking her path.
She stared at him, the memory of their last encounter swirling in her leery gaze.
She wore a deep blue jacket with a matching split skirt that allowed her to ride astride. Scandalous! Her high-collared blouse was of the finest silk and the purest white. A jaunty hat perched rakishly atop her glorious red curls. Her riding habit molded her curves and accentuated the supple way she sat her mount. A vivid image of her seated on top of him, riding him with that same slow, sensual grace strangled his breath and shafted heat through his cock.
“It is not every day one sees a young lady in Hyde Park riding astride,” he observed drily. “I must say, Miss Peppiwell, you shock me.” Clearly, he wasn’t.
He was pleased by her tentative smile. It still held mistrust, but at least it was a smile and not a scowl. He wondered if she saw the covert glances and disapproval in the matronly frowns thrown her way. No shade of reticence or embarrassment came from her at their studied disapproval. He admired her for it. He shifted in his seat.
“In Boston, I had the most agreeable gelding. Our home sat on over five hundred acres and when I rode him I felt so free,” she ventured.