Free Lady Vice by Wendy LaCapra

allowing no more than a half-spoonful to glide across his tongue.
    Heaven. Just like her kiss.
    When he had kissed Lavinia, he had glimpsed a safe harbor protected from the ravages of anger and blame. In that brief second, he had believed…
    What? That he’d found his elusive missing half, as Plato’s Symposium described?
    He closed his eyes, remembering the trembling softness of her lips. Lips coated in poison for the pain stretching and twisting his gut. He was an infatuated, besotted, useless-as-a-third-horse-with-a-matched-pair fool.
    Everything about Lavinia was illusion.
    He rolled his neck to loosen dense and strained tendons.
    Illusion or not, the beast within had laid claim and the animal was not about to back down, especially when facing such a feeble foe as reason.

Chapter Eight
    The floorboards just beyond Max’s doorway creaked, herding tension to his shoulders.
    Not Geste. Geste’s shoes clicked.
    He set his glass next to the globe, bracing as the door clattered open. Light from the passage framed six feet of sputtering duke.
    “I know you spent the morning in the company of my duchess,” the duke bellowed.
    The duke’s punch ripped away Max’s breath. As he shook off the sting, instinct warned: duck . Even so, he barely dodged the duke’s doubler.
    Rules governed this sort of situation: a gentleman did not goad another, not when the source of the other’s madness was a woman, and especially not when the woman was the man’s wife.
    “Wynchester, be reasonable.”
    “Did you help yourself to a slice?”
    Slice? “I met your wife.”
    The duke attempted to land a dig. In defense, Max planted a facer against Wynchester’s smooth, aristocratic jaw. As he pulled back his arm for another hit, a glimmer of glass caught Max’s eye. His bottle of Armagnac balanced perilously at the desk’s edge. If the duke stepped back, the decanter would shatter.
    “Stop and listen!” he yelled, keeping fists ready.
    The duke blinked and swayed. A red mark stained Wynchester’s chin and his deep, heavy gasps punctuated the silence.
    “Yes, I went to Lady Sophia’s home and, yes, Her Grace was present.” Max spoke slow and clear. “But my only purpose was to see Lady Vaile.”
    “You were not alone with my duchess?” the duke asked.
    “No,” Max replied. “Nor did I wish to be. Now please, step away from my cabinet.”
    The duke glanced down and then shook his head, blinking. “Bronward said—”
    “Bronward? The jealous, lying ass must still be angry that I interrupted his play with Lady Vaile. I have known Lavinia since we were children.”
    Use of Lavinia’s Christian name was tantamount to announcing an affair but, damn good tipple’s satisfying burn, Max wanted his Armagnac. The smell of sweat and alcohol thickened the air as the duke examined Max’s features and remained ready, just in case.
    The duke rubbed his jaw and sighed, closing one eye. “You never said you were a bruiser.”
    “And you fight cunning.” Max softened his stance, though not fully. “Are we finished?”
    The duke frowned and then winced. “For now.”
    “Drink?” Max asked warily.
    “Hell, yes.” The duke raked his hand through his already disheveled hair.
    Max stepped past the duke and slid the globe of Armagnac into his grasp: safe. He exhaled. He poured two generous portions, and then joined the duke. Together, they pondered the glorious view of the mews stables.
    “The study hasn’t the best aspect,” Max commented dryly, “but when the wind flows northeasterly, the smell is unforgettable.”
    “I remember it well.” The duke snorted and took the drink with a flinched nod of thanks. “Eustace and I took lessons in this room.” His eyebrows rose as he sipped. “What is this, Harrison? Brandy?”
    “Of sorts,” Max replied. “Brandy distilled from wine: Armagnac.”
    “Ah.” The duke sighed as if he eased into a warm pond. “French?”
    “Pays de Gascogne. But before you ask, I do not have an