Page 9 of The Duke's Auctioned Virgin
Lord Barton lunged for the chair to Valeria’s right and got there first, or thought he did until Sir Marcus appeared out of nowhere and sat directly on top of him. Lord Barton made a noise that was not quite a word. Sir Marcus did not move. The young Viscount took one look at the scene and retreated to the far end of the table, where the competition was less violent.
Near the middle, two men Edward did not know were having a silent tug-of-war over a chair. Neither of them was willing to let go, and neither was willing to make a scene, so they stood there, each with one hand on the chair’s back, smiling at each other with the desperate courtesy of men who wanted to commit murder but had been raised not to.
A footman stood nearby with a look on his face that said he had not been trained for this.
Mr. Ashworth had somehow gotten wedged between two chairs that were clearly too close together. He was stuck at the hip and trying to free himself without drawing attention, but was failing. The red-haired gentleman beside him was pretending not to notice, which was charitable.
Sir Humphrey Dalton had solved the entire problem by sitting down immediately, pouring himself a very large glass of wine, and watching the proceedings with the expression of a man at the theatre.
Valeria sat at the head of the table. She was watching the riot she had caused and trying not to smile. Her sister was sitting beside her, whispering something behind her hand. Her brother had found a seat nearby and was grinning without bothering to hide it. A footman holding a soup tureen was attempting to skirt around Sir Marcus, who was now standing and straightening his waistcoat with the aggressive dignity of a man who had absolutely not just been sitting on another man’s lap.
Lord Barton had retreated to the far end of the table and was nursing his pride with wine. The red-haired gentleman had freed himself from between the two chairs and was now sitting at an angle, with one leg sticking out, pretending this was intentional. Mr. Ashworth had produced his notebook and was writing furiously. Edward suspected it was another poem. He hoped it was not about him.
Valeria caught him watching from the window. Her eyes met his from across the room. She raised one eyebrow. He did not look away, and neither did she.
The moment lasted exactly two seconds longer than it should have, before she turned back to her sister and said something that made her press both hands to her mouth and shake with silent laughter.
Edward stayed where he was. He was good at waiting. He had spent four days in a cellar in Vienna once, waiting for a man to come home. Stale bread. Water from a cracked jug. Rats in the corner that he named after members of Parliament to keep himself amused. He had not minded.
He could sit still longer than most people could stay awake. It was a talent born of necessity, and it had saved his life more often than his fists, which was saying something because his fists had saved his life quite a lot.
He leaned there and took it all in. Roast lamb. Warm room. Candlelight. He had not sat down to a proper English supper in over a decade. The last one was at Nathaniel’s, Christmas of 1807. He had stood by the door the whole time. Old habits. Nathaniel’s wife asked him twice to sit. He said no. She stopped inviting him.
He knew why he was here. Nathaniel had told him straight to get a wife, or the title would mean nothing.Marry well, and the doors open. Stay alone, and you stay the Hound.For the rest of his life.
That should not have sounded like a prison, but it did.
Valeria glanced at him again casually, as though she were scanning the room. Her brow furrowed. He was not sitting. Not scrambling. Just standing there.
He caught her eye and let the corner of his mouth lift.
She turned away fast. But not fast enough.
The table was settling. Sir Marcus had secured the spot beside her. Lord Barton sat at the far end with his wine. The chair to her right was empty.
Edward watched from where he stood.
A footman offered him wine. He shook his head. He did not drink when he was on duty, and he was always on duty.
The older gentleman at the far end raised his glass in Edward’s direction. Sir Humphrey Dalton. The man had the look of someone who had seen enough of life to stop being afraid of it. Edward liked him on instinct.
Then he watched Valeria. She was talking to Sir Marcus, or rather, Sir Marcus was talking to her. The man was leaning forward, eager, using his hands too much. Valeria was nodding now and then. Her smile was fixed, but her eyes were somewhere else.
Edward recognized that, too. The art of being present without being there. He had perfected it in a dozen courts across Europe.
“You’re staring,” said a voice to his left.
It was John Hughes, Valeria’s brother. Or rather, one of them. He had crossed the room to stand beside Edward, which was either very brave or very stupid.
“Just observing,” Edward countered, not looking at him.
“Is that what they call it these days?”
“In my line of business, aye,” Edward said.
John looked at him. Not afraid, but wary. “She has been through enough. If you are here to cause trouble, I will make your life very difficult.”
“With respect, ye weigh about twelve stone, and I killed a man in Prague with a soup spoon.”
