Duke Of Darkness. Anabelle BryantЧитать онлайн книгу.
to address at Kenley Manor. My solicitor will be left waiting.” He wouldn’t share more.
As the last in the Wharncliffe line, he did what he wanted as desire struck, with no one to call him to task or question his assorted interests, no matter how indulgent. While some would mourn the sole responsibility of propagating an heir, he harboured no pressure to fulfil his obligation. He would write the final chapter of Wharncliffe history. A measure of defiance ignited his temper. Who would venture to marry the Mad Duke of Kenley Manor anyway? It was easier to avoid the undertaking.
Still, there was no way to evade the task at hand. A fast break would be virtually painless. Amanda’s emotions were of no consequence.
“Did you notice the new silk wall coverings, Darling?” She indicated the room with a swift wave of her hand.
She had no idea what was about to happen. Pity that.
“I was just between your thighs. Let’s hope I wasn’t contemplating the wall coverings.” He stifled a chuckle because he had noticed. He was unsure exactly when the observation arose, but it occurred during the sex act and that one unimportant fact confirmed his decision to end their liaison. Of course, he’d already paid her exorbitant decorating bills. Amanda amassed them in the same manner females collected hair ribbons, but that remained a small price in the larger scale of things. He could never spend his wealth in this lifetime or another after. What mattered a few hundred pounds on wall coverings?
“But I want you to stay.”
She inflected her voice in a show of desire, a calculated seductive purr, and Devlin released an impatient exhale. He finished tying his cravat and reached below the bed’s counterpane to retrieve his boots. Having the matched pair in front of him, he wasted no time in pulling them on then completed his dress with a superfine black waistcoat. He picked a minuscule speck of lint from his left coat sleeve and steeled his patience in preparation for a tantrum.
“Our time is done.” He stared at her with meaningful intent. Clearly she didn’t understand the magnitude of his statement. Or was she taking it well? Might he be so lucky? Doubtful.
“When shall I expect you next, Darling? There is a new show to premiere at the Drury Theatre this Friday. You will take me to see it, won’t you?” She chose a plump fruit from the tray of sweets and strawberries resting on the bed table and held it out to him. A demure smile offered an additional enticement.
“No, I will not.” Bluntness had its purposes and this was one of them. He’d a meeting in forty-five minutes, and while he prided his excellent horsemanship, there was no accounting for the crowded London streets. “We are done. Finished. I won’t be coming back. It’s been delightful, but this is goodbye.” She’d have to be daft not to understand now. He’d never considered her so.
“Darling, why? Did I not please you? Was there something you wanted? Something else I need do?”
He clenched his teeth at the rising emotion in her voice and the realization their disentanglement would not proceed as he desired. A more severe tactic was necessary.
“No, you misunderstand. It’s not you. Not in the least. I’m sure you’ve heard the whispers. I’ve a proclivity for solitude.” He hated to molest one of the most common rumours bandied about in reference to his personae, but it offered the wisest choice. Perhaps they would be able to part with civility if she blamed it on his madness and eccentric tendencies. The oddity of his nature. He would admit to any of the ton’s beliefs to be out of the townhouse and back on his horse. “Naturally I will settle an exorbitant sum upon you, as you’ve been most amenable.” The mention of money mollified her temper and her expression changed the slightest degree. He ventured a step towards the door.
“Damn you, I don’t want you to leave.” Her brow furrowed with a mixture of disappointment and indecision, torn between the mysterious dark man in her bedchamber and the promise of a generous settlement.
He schooled a smile. Widow Penslow would choose the money. He doubted his appeal would trump a handsome sum. She was a woman accustomed to getting her own way. Perhaps that evoked the rub. He almost chuckled, until the rustle of sheets evoked a cursory glance towards the bed.
Her eyes glistened with the threat of tears. Bloody hell, he hated tears. What did he have now, thirty minutes to cross London?
“I’m no good for you. Believe me, you’ll feel better when the settlement arrives.” He pulled the door open and swept through, relieved to be gone before the hysterics began.
Yet there was no mistaking the clatter of the fruit tray striking the wall as he left, or the thud of the champagne bottle as it followed. So much for the new wall coverings.
“Your solicitor awaits you in the green parlour, Your Grace.” Reeston, a man of sixty years and impeccable training, had served as butler at Kenley Manor for Devlin’s entire life. Every servant from head cook to scullery maid was of the finest training and the most congenial nature. It made sense to surround oneself with servants who served a dual purpose due to the long stretches of time Devlin remained in house. The servants constituted his community as well as his employed. If the ton got a hold of that tidbit, without a doubt they’d add it to his ever growing list of idiosyncrasies. It was rather unheard of for any master of the house to play chess with his valet or invite his servants to dine; but the people who cared for Kenley Manor and accepted his superfluous existence were vital to his well being. They protected his privacy as if their own.
And well they should. Any one of the older servants could easily expose the horror of Wharncliffe history in intricate detail, and yet he slept with the utmost confidence that no one under his roof would betray him; at least on the rare occasion sleep beckoned and the tremors did not hold him captive.
With a nod in Reeston’s direction, Devlin took the long hall to the green parlour, swept into the room, behind his desk, and eyed the ormolu clock where it sat on the mantel. He’d made it with two minutes to spare.
“Good afternoon, Derwent. Now, what is so important you needed an appointment with urgency?” Impatience got the better of him and he strode to the far window of the parlour and picked up a small crystal paperweight to toss between his palms.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I realize the insistent nature of my note, but it was imperative I see you with haste.”
The tone in his solicitor’s voice, more than the rush of his words, caused Devlin to pin him with a wary stare. “What is it?” A moment of apprehension stretched his patience thinner. He replaced the paperweight and advanced. “Out with it.”
“Yes, of course. It is your aunt. I have bad news, I am afraid.”
The solicitor paused but a moment; long enough to confirm his suspicion.
“She has passed. It was the end of last week. I understand she did not suffer, although she succumbed to a rather severe illness.”
The solicitor’s words rushed past in a blur of colliding memories.
“Her staff acted on her wishes and she has already been placed in the ground. Naturally, the legal proceedings, the will and her estate ...” Derwent’s voice dropped off as if waiting for some signal to continue.
Devlin digested the news with solemn acceptance. Aunt Min was his only blood relative; feisty dear woman and sister of his late mother. While she lived only two days’ travel from London, he hadn’t seen her as often as he’d liked. He should have made more of an effort. Blast, he’d never even known she’d fallen ill, never mind he’d not visited her estate in over three years. A fleeting pain whipped through his chest. She was one of the few people in his life who accepted him for who he was and did not try to make him bend. He would truly miss her.
Unanswered questions tangled with remorse at the unexpected news of her passing. He walked to the sideboard and poured a short drink.
“Brandy, Derwent?” The solicitor would