Page 15 of Desperately Seeking Seduction

Finally, the butler appeared, ordering servants to dispense drinks to each of them. Stratford quickly signaled the man to come closer. “Seymour, I’m feeling a little empty still. Be a sport and have some of tonight’s beef sent up to my chambers directly, along with some bread and cheese, too.”

“I could bring it to you in the dining room, my lord, if you prefer” he offered.

“No, to my chambers will be better,” he insisted. Winston could not possibly come down to eat in the dining room. It would not be proper and would cause him more problems in the servants’ hall.

The butler left, and Crawford cast him a troubled look. “What is it with you tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re as nervous as a cat. You keep looking over your shoulder as if you want to be elsewhere. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a woman waiting in your bed.”

Stratford did glance over his shoulder one more time as Melody Sweet slipped from the room.

There was no woman waiting for him, but he was itching to rush upstairs and work on changing Winston’s mind about posing. However, he could not tell Crawford about his inspired idea to have his valet stand in for a woman—while wearing a gown. No one could ever know about that arrangement. “Can you blame me for feeling some nervousness to have all the family gathered under the same roof? Every stare feels like a knife in my back.”

“That’s just a touch dramatic, even for you,” Crawford murmured. “Feel free to sit wherever you might feel more protected. There’s a spot over there near George, with a good command of the room.”

“The most dangerous place in the room is anywhere near a cousin,” Stratford complained. “I thought you were my friend.”

“Cousin, too,” Crawford corrected.

He laughed softly. “I have a painting in the works upstairs that I can go back to if you’re going to be that way.”

“Ah, another painting has your attention. That explains everything then. You know, I remember the moment you became obsessed with your art. That time, you might recall, it was over that boy you met one summer. You said you wanted to paint him before you forgot the expression on his face, and nothing could stop you painting. Not even the need for sleep.”

“I tried.” Stratford frowned. “Edwin,” he said slowly, recalling the name of an acquaintance. Edwin Aston. A boy Stratford had once tried to befriend, and failed.

It was also the first time in his life he’d had an enemy…besides George, of course. He and Edwin had not gotten along well at all. They had rubbed each other wrong from their very first meeting. Stratford had tried to win Edwin over, but young Aston had rebuffed any and all overtures of friendship. It was funny, actually, that it was the only time in Stratford’s life another fellow hadn’t wanted the advantage of a friendship with a duke’s son.

“It was a very long time ago.”

“I bet you still have the painting you did of him,” Crawford teased.

“Probably. Somewhere about upstairs, I imagine. I keep them all.” All of Stratford’s past paintings, failures too, were tucked away in the attics somewhere. Edwin was probably still stored among them. Those paintings were not his best work, but he learned something every time he looked at the old ones.

“Oh, come now!” George Sweet cried out loudly, interrupting Stratford’s train of thought. “Surely you’re not so miserly that your father’s old friends are not welcomed guests at Ravenswood anymore.”

“Invitations are at the duke’s discretion, not yours,” Nash growled, stepping up beside Ravenswood, clearly angry with whatever their cousin had been saying.

Stratford and Crawford exchanged a glance and, by unspoken agreement, moved forward to join the duke as well. “What’s going on?”

“George has forgotten his place,” the duke noted, eyes flashing dangerously upon their cousin.

“He’s invited some of his cronies to the palace without asking if it was convenient or wished for,” Nash added in a clipped tone that spoke volumes for his displeasure, too.

“When our grandfather died, your father entertained his old friends for months on end. I assumed you would want to do the same in His Grace’s honor,” George protested. “I shall tell them all, of course, when they arrive that I have overstepped my bounds and apologize that they must all go away again.”

Of course, that could not happen. To turn friends of their father’s away at such a time would seem suspicious and rude. Algernon glared. “I shall always honor my father’s true friends with the respect they deserve.”

George puffed out his chest. “Gentlemen, let us raise our glasses to the late Duke of Ravenswood. May he be looking down at us from heaven with a glass of port in his hand and a smile on his face.”

Glasses were raised and the contents drunk.

But Stratford saw a hint of a smile hiding behind George’s raised glass. He would wager the invitations had been no mistake. George had planned this chaos well in advance of this moment. He wanted to make things as difficult for Algernon as possible. The added expense couldn’t come at a worse time, too. Father’s old friends were used to enjoying an excess of amusement when they came to visit.

Unfortunately, many of them were men to whom Algernon now owed a lot of money. Hopefully, George had not invited every single debtor to the palace for the summer festivities.

Stratford stepped forward. “Gentlemen, let us also toast the current Duke of Ravenswood. My brother, and the wisest man still alive. Give him the strength to face the challenges laid down before him, with the cunning of his late father to guide him.”