Chapter thirty-two
King Louis traced his fingers down the map on the table, a glass of rum in his other hand.
Kilmarnock!
He stopped his forefinger on  Scotland, then sipped from his cup.
After a short while of scrutiny, he called out with his deep, sour voice, "James."
The King didn't wait longer than a moment before a footman strode in with his head low and a hand on his chest. "Your Majesty."
Another gulp of rum and a little while later, King Louis raised his attention from the map he had been studying all night, "Would you call my two youngest sons for me?"
James paused in fulfilling the order and managed to look up at the older man with a frown. After the short silence, he declared steadily, "I apologise my King but they are still away on their trip to Anfield."
Louis looked at him and dropped his cup, his brows joining slightly, "And why is that? They do not usually stay this long!"
The man he spoke to obviously had no answer to that. All he did was make his gaze travel to the floor.
However, someone who had the answer just graced the study with his presence. Stamping boots walked in through the doors without His Majesty's permission.
Prince Stephen, first son of the King was an almost big figure, proud, tall and brown-haired. He had the most prominent green eyes in London. And tonight, those eyes seemed disturbed for some reason while he walked up to his father.
"It seems both my brothers have more business then their usual visits to the Duke of Anfield," Stephen snarled harshly when he had reached both men.
By now, the footman had chosen to walk away and allow the father-son chatter to resume.
Meanwhile, the King had a frown on, obviously too old for puns and proverbs, "Well that is an ambiguous statement don't you think. Elaborate."
After the Prince rolled his eyes, he sighed and hesitated just for drama. Then as always, he spoke up with his usual snarl," I just got news from St Ives. Both your sons were seen at a harlot's party. The King's own sons! My brother's!" Now fine lines stretched along his forehead as frustration and disgust dawned on him.
King Louis curled his mouth. To him, the entire story was still a pun, "No. My sons took a trip to Anfield. They would never sleep around with cheap women!"
"Oh really," his son snickered in mockery and looked at him, "Well Raymond was seen with a woman, feeding him…pork. I am certain they did not also make up the story of his favorite food."
The older man was still a bit skeptical, looking back at the map just to distract himself from being furious. When he did not have much luck with that, he hit his fist on the oak table and faced his eldest son, "Go to St Ives! Bring your brothers home! First thing tomorrow morning!"
Prince Stephen slumped into a chair at his father's side and curved his lips with a nod, "Very well father."
***
Monica emerged, wrapped in a towel. Stalking to her balcony, she rested her hands on the barristrade and looked out, sighing hard, "Now what could that little fox possibly want from me?"
She bowed in frustration, mainly because she had no idea how to escape from this palaver unaffected. It wasn't supposed to be this hard for her, but Elizabeth was twice as confusing as her own self.
A knock on the door made Monica  turn around suddenly. With a tilt of her head, she crossed both arms over her chest and shouted so her voice was heard from across  the room, "Who's there?"
She did not receive an answer. Instead, the door creaked open slowly only to reveal the last person she expected to have shown up.
After his obvious display of genuine anger downstairs, The Duke was here in her room. As he stepped in and pushed the door closed with his fingers, he narrowed his eyes, "Monica. We need to talk."
She shook her head sadly in refusal. Given how furious he was downstairs, she feared the outcome of this conversation would not be favourable in any way. Now, she felt herself walking a tightrope, "Your Grace…"
Her words were cut short when he raised a finger, then stalked to the balcony to join her.
A little while of silence followed which he used to sigh and study the sky for a while. Afterwards, he broke it, "I know you're a killer. However, I do not believe you killed the Viscount…"
Monica was a tad more confused than she had ever been in her life. Even while his last words brought her a frown, he continued, "At the same time, I believe you're hiding something. So tell me the whole story."
As the lady opened her mouth to rush some words out, Philip added, "If you don't come clean, I may not trust you again to carry on with this trip of ours."
That made her pause and look at him. As much as she relished his visit to hear her out, he had set a very dangerous dare.
There was no way she would tell him every single detail, but then at least a half-truth could set her in good terms with him.
Now she shifted so she could be beside him, and after a small gasp, she began, "I was truthful from the very start. I did not kill the Viscount."
"Why not try telling me something I do not know," he rasped, smiled shortly and took his amber gaze to her.
Monica gawked at him. At how the cool breeze made his shoulder  length brown hair dance around his face. And how his yellow eyes searched hers, with those lushing red lips firm as a line. She then looked away and began playing with her fingers, forcing a grin on to disguise the desire in her eyes. Generally, she adored him, "When I walked into his chamber that day, he was already dead and lay right beside my cousin."
"Is that why you said she killed him?" He inquired patiently and dutifully, making the lady realize he wasn't just made Duke because he had to be, but because he was fit for it.
Back to his question, she still stuck to her decision of half-truths. Her voice grew shaky as she spoke, her eyes lost in the distance as though piecing up the memories one by one, "I suppose. I mean there was nobody else there and she had a bloody knife in her hand."
The Duke's brows joined in a deep frown as those words were said. Obviously, he was hesitant on believing that, "Is it my blind trust for her or she looks too prim to kill? And her brother as a matter of fact."
She grimaced and sighed. What was she thinking when she felt it was possible to convince him that his to-be wife killed his father. Expectedly, it was going to take far more than that.
Quickly, she turned to face him and clear the image in his mind she'd created, "Well maybe it was just a careless assumption. It is very well unlikely for her to kill her very own brother. But same goes for me."
Well there was something easier to believe. With a bow, he nodded and smiled, "Thank you."
What the…
He was about to leave!
Well she wasn't about to let sure a rare moment die like this. "If I may ask, where did you meet Elizabeth," she rushed her words.
Philip smirked at the question, something that surprised her, "At my home. My sister introduced us. You see my family wants me to marry her."
Her heartbeat stopped out of excess hope filling her valves. She concluded her victory over this fight over him already. After being half successful in hiding her excitement, she asked, "Do you not want to marry her?"
Silence…
She had expected that from him. His gaze travelled about, cringed from the breeze gushing past.
Was he…thinking of an answer.
Just as Monica was about to dismiss the topic unhappily, he answered, "Undoubtedly, I am a bit too young for life-changing decisions like Dukedom and marriage. But I do know what I want. And in all my starry-eyed life Monica," he paused and searched his thoughts again for the right words, "All I have ever wanted is heat and excitement. Generally, a fiery woman. Elizabeth is not that woman."
His conclusion was stern and came with a gasp.
Monica smirked wickedly and bowed to hide it. If he needed all he described, then she knew she was the double dose of those. She would take full advantage of that statement from now on, "Then I do not wish to see you enter a betrothal that goes against your taste."
He looked at her in what looked like admiration. But his laughter afterwards contrasted, "It's mutual. If I had a full diary of lasses to pick from, that would have been easy for me to say. But I ruined my teenage when I  hid away from girls and ball parties when my friends were sinning around. Now it hunts me that I know no woman. I have no other choice.
Now she understood him and genuinely felt for him. He didn't want the marriage, but he went on with it, because he had no alternative bride.
Alternative bride…?
She loved how that sounded. Especially if she was the one in question of course.
Now she was watching him, walking so close that she could feel his breath warm upon her face, a move she found arousing.
Philip turned to her and gasped at their closeness, wanting to move away. With the heat this lady before him brought with her, it wouldn't be long before she clawed that nobleman spirit out of him.
He tried to walked away, he swore to God, but his legs anchored to where he stood. Only he knew how much he tried to fight the urge to…
Luckily the lady spoke before he completed his thoughts. But then it wasn't something that helped ease his lustfulness. "No matter what happens, I, Monica Maitland, promise to be by your side," she whispered while her eyes ran him down possessively.
Did the lady just make a vow to him…
What more could he admire in her. She was all too perfect and the thought had become an addictive yearning.
At that point, all restraints broke. Philip raised his hands slowly and brushed her face lightly, an act that surprisingly affected them both. Especially the lady of course who shamelessly caressed her cheek against his touch with a cat-like purr.
He wasn't in the least displeased, "Thank you."
Before things went south, which he was sure of, he walked away after nodding a goodnight.
Secretly, Monica snarled after him like he was some prey, grinning in satisfaction afterwards. This was far easier than she thought.