He looked at the paper as if it might burn him if he touched it. “No.”
“No?” The earl exhaled. “There are other names on the list if you can’t muster the appropriate enthusiasm for Lady Agnes. Though you must admit, she fills out a gown quite nicely.”
Tobias cringed. “Father, please refrain from making such comments about anyone you’d like me to take to wife.”
Not a moment too soon, the footman delivered a glass of Tobias’s preferred brandy. Tobias took a long sip and briefly closed his eyes as the delectable heat soothed his irritation.
“I’m sure you’ll find someone who will suit. I expect a proposal within the week.” The earl leaned toward him, the gray of his eyes crystallizing to ice. “Do not disappoint me again.”
As the earl started to rise, Tobias whispered, “I loved her.”
“What’s that?” his father asked a bit crossly.
“I said I loved her. I don’t think I can summon the interest—or emotion—to propose to anyone else within the next week, let alone this Season.”
As he dropped back into his chair, the earl’s mouth tightened. “You listen to me, now. Interest and emotion aren’t required. Duty is all you must consider and the only thing that matters. Take the list.”
Reluctantly, his anger rising to the surface once more, Tobias picked the paper up and tucked it into his coat. “Satisfied?”
“Not until I hear the bells of St. Paul’s chiming on your wedding day.” The earl gave Tobias a sharp stare before standing and leaving the room.
“Brilliant,” Tobias muttered. He noted a pair of gentlemen at the next table staring at him.
One of the men raised his glass. “Condolences, Deane. Better luck next time!” He laughed, and his tablemate joined in the chorus.
Biting back a curse, Tobias swept up his glass and abruptly stood. He’d find a private alcove where no one would bother him.
Except as soon as he went back into the subscription room, he nearly ran into two of his closest friends.
“Drinking already?” Lord Lucien Westbrook asked. “Good.”
“Come.” Ruark Hannigan, Lord Wexford, clapped his hand on Tobias’s shoulder.
They led him upstairs to Lucien’s father’s private chamber. The Duke of Evesham had one of the finest private rooms in the club, not that he ever used it. He preferred the more conservative air of White’s.
“Why does your father still keep this room?” Ruark asked in his lilting Irish accent, closing the door behind him. The dark wood and deep blue hues of the chamber’s décor declared this to be a masculine space, while the paintings by Hogarth and Reynolds and the thick Aubusson carpet demonstrated opulence.
Lucien shrugged as he crossed the chamber. “Because he can. Aldington uses it occasionally.”
The earl was Lucien’s staid older brother.
Ruark flashed a brilliant smile that never failed to make young ladies swoon. He would be the most sought after bachelor in town if not for his Irishness. “He should be more comfortable at White’s too.”
Lucien arrived at the sideboard, where he poured two glasses of brandy. “I don’t think he’s comfortable anywhere. Awfully hard when you’ve a stick up your arse.”
Ruark laughed, and Tobias found himself smiling despite the afternoon’s revelations.
“Thank you,” Tobias said before taking another sip of brandy and throwing himself in a sturdy, high-backed chair adjacent to the fireplace.
“Don’t mope,” Lucien said as he took another chair—there were several scattered about the room, with four relatively near the hearth, including the one he now inhabited. “Act as if you never cared a whit for her.”
Tobias appreciated his friend’s support and his advice. “You know I did.”
“What is real and what you present to the world do not have to be the same thing.”
Ruark lifted his glass to his lips and murmured, “Said the former spy,” before taking a drink.
Lucien rolled his eyes. He’d returned from Spain just a few months prior after serving under Wellington. “I was not a spy. If I was, don’t you think I’d still be there?”
“Just jesting with you.” Ruark was ever the wit.
“Everyone is talking about my rejection,” Tobias said evenly, despite the anger and disappointment welling inside him once more. “I made no secret of the seriousness of my courtship.”
“This will pass,” Ruark said encouragingly. “Soon, you won’t even remember her name, nor what she looks like.”
“That’s what my father would prefer. He’s instructed me to propose to someone else with due haste. Even gave me a list.”
“What a bloody nuisance,” Ruark muttered. “You poor blokes with your meddling, dictatorial fathers. I’ll count myself lucky I don’t have one anymore.” He gave them a smug smile.
Tobias grunted into his glass before tossing the rest down his gullet. “I need more brandy.”
Lucien obliged, fetching the bottle and refilling Tobias’s glass. “When you finish that, I’ve just the gaming hell to distract you.”
Yes, distraction was good. Tobias lifted his brandy. “I’ll drink to that.”
Chapter 2
Mirabelle Renault watched in agitation as her older sister trailed back and forth across the small parlor of Mirabelle’s lodgings. What should have been a happy, triumphant day, Heloise’s first outing in Society since becoming Mrs. Alfred Creighton a fortnight ago, had instead been a disaster.
“I don’t understand. I did precisely what Society demands. I married well!” Heloise paused, wringing her hands as her gaze darted to her husband, who looked on from his chair with love and support.
“That is not enough for some,” Alfred said softly. “I don’t care, my love. Let them think what they must. They are the ones trapped by their own stupid rules.”
Heloise’s light brown curls swung against her neck as she resumed pacing. “Stupid indeed. What are we to do now?” She stopped again and fixed her anguished gaze on her husband.
A strident fury rose in Mirabelle. She and Heloise had done what they must to survive, and that Heloise had risen from their awful circumstances and found not just love, but respectability and security was a
