“You’ll have to make yourself clearer, old chum.”
Dear God above, was the man so consumed by debauchery that he’d lost track of his paramours? Any guilt that Silas might have felt evaporated. Even if she could never be his, Caroline deserved better than this careless Lothario.
“I’m talking about Caro,” he bit out, each word barbed like an arrow.
“Caro?” West looked bewildered. “You mean Caroline Beaumont?”
Silas’s right hand clenched at his side. He’d dearly love to punch West’s smug face. How dare this bastard bandy words with him? “Of course I bloody well mean Caroline Beaumont. Who else do you intend to take as your mistress?”
“Nobody,” West said calmly, replacing the filled glass on the sideboard.
“Well, you shan’t have her.”
He continued to regard Silas as though a raving lunatic ranged about his library. “Very well, I shan’t have her.”
Silas rose on the balls of his feet, ready to thump West. Then he realized what the man had said. He felt like someone had ripped the floor away beneath his feet. He’d come ready for an epic battle, while West seemed unconcerned to the point of ignorance.
“Damn you, is that all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?” With a nonchalance that rekindled Silas’s itch to spill blood, he collected his brandy and wandered across to a leather chair near the fire.
“I want you to say…” Silas broke off. Actually West had said exactly what Silas had burst into this house to hear. He sucked in a deep breath and a glimmer of logic pierced his turbulent thoughts. “What in blazes is going on?”
West settled in the chair and regarded Silas with an amiable expression. “You tell me. There I was, reading the latest scandalous novel, preparing to retire to my couch in virtuous solitude, and my butler tells me Lord Stone is downstairs demanding my presence. I ask you again—why are you here?”
Silas narrowed his eyes. “You know.”
West shook his dark head. “Not an inkling, my dear man. And if all you intend to do is play riddles, I must send you on your way. I’m hosting that outing to Richmond tomorrow and I want my wits about me.”
Silas straightened and stared West down. “Act innocent as much as you like. I intend to fight you for Caro.”
West frowned again and took a leisurely sip of his brandy. That insouciant air had annoyed Silas for months. Right now, it made him want to crown his lordship with the gilt celestial globe set on the table at his elbow.
“I’m always ready to play fisticuffs with you, Stone, even if we haven’t sparred since our teens. From memory, the honors then were fairly equal.”
West was one of the few men who could best Silas in a physical contest—at least until Silas had decided brawling ill befitted a man of science. “Then stand up, you bastard,” Silas said belligerently.
West didn’t budge. “By all means, old man. But please put me out of this agony of suspense—why have you chosen me as your punching bag, out of all the men in London?”
Silas paused in the act of raising his fists. “Caro has decided to take you as her lover.”
At last, genuine emotion flashed in West’s eyes. “Good Lord above, really? I had no idea.”
His friend—former friend—sounded sincerely surprised. And much as Silas wanted to think West an unregenerate liar, thirty years of acquaintance told him the man was caught unawares. “You’ve fl
irted with her all season.”
West shrugged and drank some more brandy. “She’s a lovely creature. And entertaining besides. Of course I’ve flirted with her. I never sensed any genuine interest.”
Silas scowled. “She wants you in her bed.”
West looked more cheerful. “Well, that’s remarkably interesting.”
“If you lay a finger on her, I’ll tear you limb from limb.”
“You’ll need an army. I’ve kept up with my sporting pursuits. You, my boy, have wasted your youth and vigor digging neat little holes in teeny weeny flowerpots.”
“I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back,” Silas scoffed, while his dull, obsessed masculine brain battled to come to terms with the astounding fact that West was no rival at all.