But Lady Hermione, bless her overbearing soul, did not notice. Instead, she launched into a lengthy discussion of embroidery as the ices arrived. Her mother, the Countess of Beaufort, smiled benignly throughout, seemingly unaware of her daughter’s repellent nature. Poor Miss Bright continued to be flummoxed. Lady Ariadne continued to be silent.
By the time the ladies took their leave, Tom was all but crawling out of his skin with eagerness to flee his grandmother’s dreadful dinner party. If she had been attempting to convince him he needed to settle upon a bride with this dubious cropping of candidates—as he suspected she had—she had erred. He was more grateful than ever he had taken a lover.
Having Hyacinth all to himself for a fortnight was one of the best ideas he had ever undertaken. Two weeks. No emotions. Only passion. Then, an easy parting of ways. No broken noses. No drowning himself in whisky. No scandal.
No Hyacinth either, whispered a taunting voice within.
A voice he quashed. He could find another lady to hold his interest. Even if the very notion made bile rise in his throat just now.
After the ladies had gone, his grandfather spoke as the customary port and cigars were had amongst the remaining gentlemen—Tom, the duke, a few of the fathers of the ladies in attendance.
“A toast to Lord Sidmouth this evening, gentlemen,” His Grace suggested, his voice strong, his gaze lively and bright as he lifted his goblet high. “I could not be more pleased that he is in search of a wife.”
All eyes were upon him. He could not help but to notice the cunning assessment in more than one of the gentlemen’s gazes. This evening, and indeed, the duke and duchess traveling to London together, Grandmère’s surprise visit to him, her insistence Arrington was ailing, the two of them hosting a formal engagement, made perfect sense. They had decided he must be brought to heel, restored to the familial flock now that his unacceptable betrothal was broken.
Curse it.
He would not be their marionette. Tom forced his lips to form a smile and lifted his own glass in a mock salute. “I have always been pleased to do my duty, Your Grace.”
Duty was all his grandfather had ever given a damn about. Not his wife, not his son, not his grandson. All he cared about was his legacy, the title, the lands. His son had disappointed him, and Tom had as well with his intention to marry a divorced woman. But now, the sainted Duke of Arrington was ready to welcome Tom back into his circle. As long as he married a lady of his choosing and provided the heir and the spare.
Well, his grandparents could bloody well go stuff themselves for all Tom was concerned. He drained his port, excused himself as if he needed to seek the water closet, and sent for his carriage.
There was only one person he wanted to spend the rest of this evening with, and she was likely already awaiting him in St. John’s Wood. To the devil with his grandmother and grandfather and their scheming. He wanted nothing to do with marriage.
“Your favorite form of poem?” Hyacinth asked Tom as they sat in the bath together.
They had already made love once, and now she was seated in his lap, the hot water lapping deliciously at her skin. Even more delicious? Tom’s hard chest burning into her back, his head tucked alongside hers so that his lips grazed her ear with each word he spoke. He had made her forget the tumult of his grandmother’s visit with such ease. Her delight at seeing him had been quickly eclipsed by her desire, and then, all else had fallen away.
“The sestina,” Tom told her, his voice low and intimate. “Yours?”
They were indulging in a game they had begun playing over the course of their clandestine meetings. It involved the idle spouting of their favorites. Sometimes, they shared them. Other times, their opinions differed.
Hyacinth pondered his question for a moment before deciding. “I do believe a sonnet.”
“Hmm. Sonnets possess undeniable merit,” he allowed. “Your favorite color?”
“The green of the spring grass when it is vibrant and new,” she said easily, biting her lip to suppress a delighted moan when he circled her nipple beneath the water. “What is your favorite color?”
He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, plucking and sending liquid heat shooting directly to the apex of her thighs. “I am torn between pink and blue.”