Chapter Nine

The next afternoon, James sat in his library, awaiting the arrival of Adrian Ross, Lord Kirkland. He had found himself somewhat surprised that the man had accepted his invitation, but he supposed a viscount of Kirkland’s standing could not afford to slight a duke of James’.
James had done some digging already this morning, and discovered some rather…interesting information. Kirkland represented both a boon and a liability to his seduction of Jilly, and if she truly had not yet recovered from the man’s defection, she might still harbor some depth of feeling for him.
Unfortunately for James, Kirkland had become available once again. But if he thought he could simply return to London and sweep Jilly off her feet and into his arms, he was going to be disappointed.
Bartleby scratched at the doorjamb and sketched a bow. “Viscount Kirkland, Your Grace,” he said, and backed out of the room. Bartleby had become rather judgmental of late. James suspected the dignified butler had overheard him speaking to Nick of his plans for Jilly and disapproved of them.
Kirkland appeared in the doorway, and James didn’t bother to stand to greet the man. Instead he opted for the deliberate slight of letting him linger in the doorway and assessing the man. His clothes were a year or so out of fashion, in good condition but undeniably not current. His face was severe and wary, as if he expected an attack. James suspected that Ross had once been a jovial sort, good-natured and kind—Jilly would surely not have fallen in love with a man so stern as the man who currently stood before him. James was willing to bet that Ross had aged at least ten years in the three since he’d abandoned Jilly. His dark hair showed streaks of premature grey at the temples, and what had likely once been laugh lines about his mouth had deepened to brackets of worry. Shadows ringed his dark eyes like bruises. He looked rather like a grim and forbidding villain from some wretched gothic novel, not at all the sort of man who would have earned Jilly’s love.
“Kirkland,” he said at last. “Please. Sit.” Only a fool would have mistaken it for a request, and whatever else he was, Kirkland was no fool. Or at least he wasn’t any longer.
Kirkland crossed the floor, striding to the chair opposite James. He took his seat stiffly, his jaw tight with strain. “I expect you have called me here to warn me away from Jilly,” he said.
“Lady Jillian.” James flashed his teeth in a feral snarl. “I thought we had sorted that last night.”
“Old habits die hard,” Kirkland replied. “She has always been Jilly to me. It’s difficult to think of her as anything else.”
“You’ll manage, I’m sure.” James poured a measure of brandy and slid it across the table toward Kirkland, who accepted it with resignation, as if he suspected it might contain some sort of poison. “But otherwise you are correct.