Etienne looked taken aback. "Well. " he said. "I see. I had no idea my friendship had become burdensome. I'll relieve you of it. . . "
“Don't be tiresome, Etienne," Adrian said. "You know I love you, and there's no one I'd rather spend time with. " A month ago, a week ago, that would have been true. Now, for all his polite protests, he wanted nothing more than lo get away from him. "It's simply that I want some time alone. Is that so difficult to comprehend?"
Etienne was clearly undecided as to whether he should continue to be offended or let Adrian charm him out of it. "It's not like you," he said grumpily. "And I don't believe it's good for you. The season has barely begun. If you still feel the need to rusticate in another month then I won't argue. "
This was getting as tedious as everything else, and Adrian gave in. "A month," he agreed. He looked around him. "Where's that boy with the wine? My glass is empty. " He managed to summon up a smile. "I'll wager a hundred pounds he doesn't come before I have to go fetch him. "
"Done," said Etienne, grinning at him. "Though I might have to borrow the hundred pounds. I'm running a bit short nowadays. "
"Just get the boy here sooner and you'll win the money. "
"But if you lend me the hundred pounds for the wager then when I win I'll have two hundred," Etienne said, practical as always.
Adrian laughed. "So you will. Consider it done. We'll settle up tomorrow. "
He didn't really want to go to the country, he thought, tossing back the glass that Etienne had seen promptly filled. He didn't want to be alone, with nothing to distract him. He didn't want to be thinking about the look on Charlotte Spenser's face when he was inside her. He didn't want to be thinking aboul any woman. He wanted to get roaring drunk, visit Lady Kate's bawdy house and work out his frustration.
Charlotte had never taken him in her mouth. There hadn't been time to talk her into that particular delight. Perhaps he could enjoy Lady Kate's specialist again. Or he could simply see if the madam had a girl with coppery hair in her exotic stable.
Faith, one wench was as good as another. He hadn't truly enjoyed those two days in his little cave, had he? It must have been the novelty of it that made it stick in his mind. If he'd had an experienced woman the time would have passed in a much more pleasant fashion.
Then again, if he'd an experienced woman he would have never activated the locked door, and he would have gotten rid of her as soon as he politely could. So perhaps his current edginess was simple boredom, the need for novelty.
He could seek out other virgins, like some of the Heavenly Host were wont to do. Or he could broaden his horizons and consider men.
No, he couldn't see the appeal.
Which brought him around to the question of Montague. After taking off in pursuit of Charlotte, he hadn't seen his old friend again. He'd looked more frail than usual, and it was difficult to tell whether the bright spots of color on his pale face were signs of fever or a lavish hand with the rouge pot. If he retired to the country for a bit he could go by way of Sussex, check on Monty to make sure he was feeling well. He hadn't been in town this season, and Adrian had the lowering feeling that Monty's London days were at an end.
As long as he didn't die. No one had died in Adrian's life, no one he truly cared about, since Charles Edward, in France, fifteen years ago. Of course, he refused to allow himself to care about anyone outside his family, and his mother and four sisters, all tended to give birth easily, without the dangers usually inherent. He already had seven nieces and nephews, and while he'd been intemperate enough to adore them, he was cheered by the fact that they were incredibly healthy little monsters. Even so, he did his best to keep his distance from his sisters and their families
He could just say to hell with Etienne, take off, and by the time he found out it would be too late to talk him out of it. But that smacked of cowardice, and Adrian had never shied away from a challenge in his life.
Besides, the nervy bastard would probably just follow him out to the country. Why Etienne seemed so intent on his company was an absolute mystery. When he'd first appeared on the London scene and attached himself to Adrian he'd been flattered by the older man's attention, not to mention completely in favor of the dangerous excesses he exposed him to.
But the delight had definitely begun to wane.
He rose, sauntering over to the faro table where Etienne seemed to have grown roots. "I find Fm unaccountably tired," he murmured. "I'm heading for an early night. Shall I see you at the ridotto tomorrow night?"
Etienne's small frown turned approving.
"It will be my pleasure. Though I would think we'd find more. . . specialized entertainment elsewhere than Ranelagh Gardens. Things tend to be so English there. "
Once again the irritation rose. "You're in England, Etienne. What do you expect?"
Another night of boredom, Adrian thought as he strolled the few blocks from the gambling club to the small house on Curzon Street he'd bought for a mistress several years ago and then moved into once she'd moved on to greener pastures. The night was cool and clear, the recent rain having washed the stink from the streets, and he was reminded of the night air in Sussex. The chapel that Monty had had constructed, the Portal of Venus.
He slashed his ebony walking stick in the air, annoyed with himself And continued determinedly onward.
Miss Charlotte Spenser sat in a large, comfortable chair in the solarium in Evangelina, the Countess of Whitmore's mansion. The greenery was abundant, the air moist and warm, and the scent of fresh spring flowers filled the air. She was drinking a cup of tea. Not the wretched stuff that Lina had been forcing down her throat by the gallons, but nice strong, black, English tea, with a little milk and a great deal of sugar. So far it was easier on the stomach than that evil brew.
It had been three weeks since the Revels of the Heavenly Host. Her twisted ankle had healed nicely, the scrapes and bruises from her tumble down the embankment were almost gone. It should have been hard to believe any of it had ever happened. It was only when her mind started to drift that the feel of his hands, his mouth his. . . cock, he'd called it. She could almost feel everything again, and she wanted to weep.
Charlotte Spenser wasn’t a weakling. This was hardly that traumatic—no one had to know anything about it.
But she found herself looking at hands. Lina had any number of callers, but for some reason she'd stayed home recently, and no one had spent the night with her. The gentlemen came, and she looted for hands as beautiful as Rohan's. With long, artist's fingers, deft and elegant, and narrow palms. Clever, beautiful hands.
Author: Anne Stuart