“That is preposterous,” he gritted out, his ears going hot, threatening to make a damned liar of him.
“While the others who actually know you also know there is no way in hell you’d go losing your head to any virtuous”—Barrett grinned—“or, for that matter, naughty lady.”
Harris swallowed a curse. Well, that had been quick.
Barrett let his chair legs come to rest on all fours and dropped an elbow upon the table. “Rest assured, old chap, that I placed my money firmly in the latter column.” The right corner of the viscount’s mouth quirked up. “As I know better than anyone that the absolute last thing you’d do is go falling for any woman and that any dealings you have with the lady are surely because of the duchess, whom you’ve never been able to say no to.” Barrett chuckled and proceeded to discuss some of the more outstanding wagers regarding Harris’ relationship with Julia.
Barrett’s was and had been the safest assumption and wager. Notoriously hard-hearted and disinterested in anything and all things innocent, Harris was the last person in the damned world who’d go losing his head, as Barrett had put it, over a woman. And yet, there was also no denying that Harris was incredibly drawn to Julia.
A woman he’d been wary of, and yet, with every exchange, he appreciated her dry humor and biting wit, and then there’d been the side of her he’d seen today—free and unrestrained—and he’d been captivated.
He stared into the contents of his glass, rolling the snifter back and forth in his palms so the amber drink conjured memories of Julia’s luxuriant strands as the sun’s light had struck them.
God help him and save his soul, but standing beside the Serpentine with her, he’d wanted to—
“Are you paying attention, man?”
Harris jumped. Liquid droplets spilled over the edge of his glass and splattered the table. A servant was immediately there. With an immaculate white cloth, he wiped away the remnants from the mahogany surface, leaving it immaculate once more.
The moment the young man had gone, Barrett gave him a bemused look. “Good God, man, one would think you are, in fact, woolgathering about the lady.”
“Do not be preposterous,” he muttered, taking a drink, wanting to talk about absolutely anything other than Julia.
Except, the other man must have heard something in his tone. Leaning forward, Barrett peered at him through narrowed lashes. “Wait… what is this?” he said in wondrous tones. The viscount looked over to Rothesby, who, damn him, wore an entirely too-amused expression.
“A very good question,” the duke drawled.
Oh, bloody hell. Both men were like hounds who had the scent of blood, and knowing them as he did, Harris knew they had absolutely no intent of abandoning this fun.
“And here, I was firmly in the column of ‘loyalty to the duchess compelled you,’ but now I must know more about this Lost Lady.”
This Lost Lady…
“There’s nothing to say,” he said coolly in tones meant to deter, though they only had the opposite effect.
Barrett grinned. “Which means there is absolutely everything to say. You must describe her.”
“I’m not describing the lady, Barrett,” he said impatiently. Something about the other man wanting a visual of her grated on his already frayed nerves.
“I can,” the duke volunteered. Shooting a hand up, he wagged his fingers. “I had the pleasure of seeing the young lady.”
The viscount’s all-too-knowing smile widened. “Ah, but it really begs the question as to why Ruthven is so secretive.”
Harris’s friends promptly shouldered Harris out of their discussion.
“Is it secretive?” Rothesby tapped his chin in feigned contemplation. “Or possessive.”
Oh, this was really enough. “I am not possessive,” Harris snapped.
“Protective, then?” Rothesby supplied.
Reclining in his chair, Barrett gave a dismissive way. “Either way, I don’t require any information from Ruthven. The evening papers have indicated she’s lovely.”
She was… a fay nymph, whose auburn strands he’d desperately love to see tossed about her shoulders. Except…
Harris frowned. “What exactly are the papers writing of her? The lady has hardly been anywhere.” She’d not been to a single ton event.
Barrett shrugged. “As I said, the evening papers.”—By God, the bloody gossip-mongers in this town could ferret out every last secret from every single person if they so wished.—“Servants talk.”
“They should be sacked,” Harris muttered.
The viscount continued. “The lady’s kindness has been remarked upon by them.”
He gritted his teeth.
Confusion brought Barrett’s brow dipping. “Are they wrong?”
A recollection slipped in of the servants smiling at the breakfast table and her comfortable discourse with them rather than Harris. “No,” he said. That had been the first time in his life he’d seen any lord or lady engage so with a servant. “She’s… perfectly lovely to them.” It didn’t matter what the hell the servants were saying, it should be absolutely nothing about the lady.
Ruthven pounced. “Perfectly lovely, is she?”
Bloody hell.
Barrett slapped both hands over his face in an exaggerated manner. “I’m certain to lose my shirt on this wager, then.”
Harris kicked the other man hard under the table, earning a raucous laugh from both men. Just then, his skin pricked with the attention turned on them. Men abandoned their seats and rushed to those betting books, no doubt to make more wagers about Harris. “I’m not captivated,” he said tightly.
The pair across from him went absolutely still.
Oh, bloody, bloody hell.
Ruthven grinned. “I didn’t use the word ‘captivated.’” The duke looked to Barrett. “Did you?”
“Not I,” the other man shook his head, and grinned.
“Would both of you just quit? I’m not… I don’t even know the lady, and I hardly trust she is, in fact,
