Harris resisted the urge to yank at his cravat. “She is the duchess’ niece.” Harris tried—and failed—to make his voice as casual as possible. The damage had already been done. “Of course I feel some sense of responsibility where the lady is concerned.”
Barrett let an open palm fall to the table. “Bloody fabulous, I’m going to lose my damned shirt.” With his spare hand, Barrett swiped his half-drunk brandy and downed the remainder of his glass. And then, muttering to himself, Barrett grabbed the bottle near Harris’ hand and poured himself another.
“You’re making more of it than there is,” Harris said, looking back and forth between his friends. But are they? a voice needled at the back of his head. How much of his earlier annoyance at the other men’s discussion stemmed from loyalty to his godmother, and how much had come down to his appreciation for Julia? Pushing aside those uncomfortable musings, he settled his gaze on an incredulous Barrett. “Furthermore, you are not going to lose your shirt,” he assured. “You aren’t,” he said more insistently when his friends gave him matching dubious looks.
Then, angling themselves in a way that cut Harris out and made theirs a conversation of just two, Barrett said, “First, he gave up the most-sought-after widow in London, though Rothesby should thank you for that.”
“Unrelated,” Harris said, but he might as well not have even spoken.
“Then a trip to Gunther’s.” As he enumerated his list, the viscount lifted a finger, counting while he went.
The duke lifted his glass toward Barrett. “And do not forget passing out bread to strangers in the street.”
Both men shifted their focus Harris’ way, and he resisted the urge to squirm. “You heard about that?”
“That you were staring at her, besotted, as she did, and then you proceeded to distribute items together?” Lord Rothesby rejoined. “I hear everything.”
“God, you are worse than any old woman with your possession of gossip,” Harris said between clenched teeth, earning another laugh from an entirely too amused Barrett. Suddenly regretting the decision to come here and the favor he’d put to the other man, he rushed to end this discussion. “Either way, you have my assurance that my feelings for the lady are entirely respectable.” Aside from this yearning he had for her; a hungering that had existed almost from the start. “I’m merely here to enlist your support as she makes her debut.”
“And this from a man who questions all women’s motives and didn’t believe for a moment the lady was, in fact, who she claimed,” the duke murmured.
As Rothesby’s wasn’t a question, Harris sat there stiffly without a response.
Finally, the duke lowered the snifter in his hand to the tabletop and leaned forward. “Of course I’ll throw my support behind the lady, if the duchess and you wish it.” He lifted his spare hand. “However, I’d advise you to be warned, man. You’ve been hurt and betrayed before by one deceiver, and I’d not see it happen again because of some waif on the streets passing herself off as someone she’s not.”
Harris didn’t know why those words spoken by the other man, his best friend, should make him want to punch him hard in the face, and yet, they did. Because, in a short while, he’d come to know and appreciate Julia and believe in her. He believed her, too. “You needn’t worry about me. I’m not a child.”
“No, you’re something worse. You are a besotted man,” Barrett said, his tone ringing with all the bitterness he’d exuded since his heart had been broken by a treacherous woman with whom he’d considered himself in love. But she’d been using him only to get to the man she really wished to have, Barrett’s brother-in-law.
“I’m not besotted,” Harris insisted. And yet, that denial felt weak to his own ears.
“Are you sure of that?” the duke asked, leveling his gaze with Harris’.
Harris opted to take that question as a rhetorical. For the truth of it was, anyone would be hard-pressed not to be taken in, even in some small way, by Julia. She wasn’t the self-absorbed type, like Harris and almost all the people he kept company with.
Harris put in the requisite amount of time necessary to not raise further questions, playing several more hands of whist before quitting his gaming hell for the night. Taking the reins of his mount, he headed to the duchess’. Unlike before when Julia had first arrived and Harris had set himself up at the duchess’ out of concern for his godmother and worries that Julia’s intentions were nefarious, now his return to that household was different. It had taken just a short amount of time to see that not only did she care about the duchess, but that she wasn’t capable of hurting another.
A short while later, Harris was handing the reins off to a servant and making his way through a household now doused in darkness. He headed down into the kitchens and found himself at a different table than those of his usual haunts. How was it that he’d not realized along the way that it had all grown tiresome? Tedious. The wagering and the string of mistresses. There’d been an emptiness to his existence he’d not known was there… until his life had been filled in a different way.
A tray of pastries had been set out, as it so often was. Since as long as Harris could remember of his boyhood, the duchess’ cook had always had treats assembled and left waiting.
Collecting the tray, he started back through the household, carrying the assortment of treats in a new way. How many times had he snuck down to find them? How many times had they, in fact, been left out for him? That, however, had been more than a simple luxury, one
