I’m not a gentleman?
He was always a gentleman. He’d worked to become a gentleman.
However, the moment the words had left his lips, his mind had leaped to an altogether sensual meaning to his statement. Other men might think with their cocks; he didn’t. He was always rational. He valued the mind over self-indulgent desire. Life had to have purpose. Man was here for a higher calling, not just hedonistic pleasure.
Ned came to a halt. He sounded like a right proper frump. If Mars or Balfour could hear him, they’d ask when he was going to join the matrons.
They’d also know he was lying to himself.
Gemma Estep wasn’t like any other woman he’d met before, and he didn’t understand why. Something about her made him both angered and aroused. He, who prided himself on control, had his sights set on her.
It was a shocking realization.
He was like other men.
And he didn’t know how he felt about that.
Or was he just having too many late nights? Not to mention how Mrs. Estep’s takeover of The Garland was in danger of upsetting his plans, his lectures, and his hope to make a mark on the sciences by providing a forum for free thought.
Yes, that was it. He wasn’t attracted to her; he was annoyed with her. She was shaking loose some matters inside him that needed to be attended to. She made him aware of how long he’d been alone. Perhaps Clarissa was right and the time had come to marry.
And yet, he had little interest in it. Although he seemed to have a great interest in Gemma Estep. Even to the point of taking foolish risks with every gossip in the village close at hand.
Ned began walking again, not liking the direction of his thoughts. He needed to take a hold of himself. He had iron discipline. He could not have accomplished what he had in life without it.
He also was promised to a lovely, graceful woman. He should direct his lustful thoughts toward her, although he’d never thought of her that way in the least. Clarissa and lust didn’t seem to fit together in his mind.
What he needed, Ned decided, was a good night’s sleep.
He’d been late to the morning service because he’d had trouble rising from his bed, and that, too, he could lay at Mrs. Estep’s door.
After the confrontation with the matrons, he’d herded the Society members to his house. Quarreling with the women would not give them what they wanted, especially since some of those women were their mothers. Ned didn’t have a mother figure. Or at least, the one he had didn’t give two thoughts for him and he felt even less toward her.
However, he’d spent the evening listening to men who were too full of themselves as they drained the small keg and drank every drop of liquor he owned. They wanted to know how he was going to reclaim The Garland. They relived the confrontation where they were bolder, more forceful. And they ignored every attempt Ned had made to send them home.
Sir Lionel had been the worst. He’d been so drunk, he could barely hold his head up. Yet, every time Ned signaled to his runners they pack him up, the old scoundrel had rallied. Even Fullerton, well into his cups himself, had acted fed up.
Royce had been wise enough to appear in the room with bread, cheeses, and meats. It was a trick Old Andy had employed. Ned had always thought Andy was being a good host. Now he realized the old man just wanted to go to bed, except it didn’t work that well with this crew.
Two nights of keeping up with their drinking and antics would make anyone ill-tempered. Perhaps that was why Ned had been unwise enough to take after Mrs. Estep, risking the wrong sort of gossip.
His lack of sleep might also explain why he’d fixated on the clarity of her skin, the fullness of her mouth, and the tempting curves of her breasts—
There he went again. It was as if he couldn’t take his mind off her. Clarissa is a beautiful woman. Think of her breasts . . . Except there was something fascinating about Mrs. Estep’s—
He bypassed his front door and went straight for the stables. He needed to call on the Widow Smethers and see how her ankle fared. Then he would visit Kate Balfour and, if there was nothing else, he’d come home and make an early night of it. He charged into the stables and discovered he had company.
The Duke of Winderton leaned a shoulder against Hippocrates’s paddock. The saucy horse was bold enough to rest his head on the duke’s shoulder as if fawning around the young nobleman the way Mark Dawson, Douglas Michaels, Robert Shielding, and Jonathon Fitzsimmons were as they stood around him.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Thurlowe,” the duke said.
God help him.
“I was in services, Your Grace,” Ned replied, trying not to sound testy, and failing.
“I didn’t make it this morning.” Winderton stretched languidly. “I blame one of the Belks girls, although I can’t remember which one it was. Perhaps both.” The duke laughed at his own little escapade, and Ned did not like him.
He’d known Winderton ever since he moved to Maidenshop five years ago. He’d watched him grow from a spoiled, but likeable lad, to this current incarnation of surly, self-indulgent nobleman.
“You are too young to be jaded, Your Grace,” Ned said flatly, reaching for a comb to give his horse a quick curry before putting on the saddle. He even shooed the duke aside to enter Hippocrates’s stall, something Winderton took with a chuckle. After all, Ned was good friends with the duke’s uncle, Balfour.
“We came to talk to you,” the duke said. “When are we going to reclaim our tavern?”
“As soon as Lord Marsden returns,” Ned said. “I’ve sent word. He will come when he is able.”
“And what do we do in the meantime?” Shielding asked. He was a short man and a bit pugnacious. He was not the best lawyer. He had made mistakes that had cost many in the parish plenty. He was tolerated because he was a village son. “I’ll take on her claim for us and put her in her place.”
Lord, Ned didn’t need that. “The magistrate will deal with it.” He knocked the dirt from the comb and reached for the saddle on the rack. “However, if we need more help, I shall turn to you or Michaels.”
That seemed to mollify Shielding.
The others were not so easily pleased.
“I think we should run her out,” Dawson said. “Just go over there and toss her on her arse. The duke agrees with me.”
“Do you agree, Your Grace? We should toss her on her arse?” Ned challenged.
“It is a figure of speech,” Winderton replied.
“And how will that go over with your mother, who has apparently decided to be one of Mrs. Estep’s patronesses?”
Winderton swore under his breath.
“Yes, I agree,” Ned said.
“We must stop her,” the duke pressed.
“That is my intent.” Ned set Hippocrates’s saddle on his back and faced the men. They were so ignorant in their arrogance, they made him feel ancient. “I don’t want her there, either. I was going to purchase the building, remember?” Or at least he was going to attempt to do so. He was comfortable but not wealthy.
“Is it for sale?” Winderton asked.
Shielding spoke up. “The property was a freehold. Old Andy won it in a game of cards decades ago from Marsden’s father, who had owned the property. However, Andy died without a will, as far as we could find. We were going to wait until The Garland reverted to the Crown and came up for sale. Mr. Thurlowe plans on making an offer.”