“It’s the Dashing chit,” Ethan muttered.
“The viscount’s daughter you told me about?” Alex uncrossed his arms and lowered his knee, banging his chair on the floor.
“Yes.”
“The one you mistook for a maid?” Alex chuckled.
“Yes.”
“The one—”
“Stop while you’re ahead,” Ethan said softly.
Alex clamped his mouth shut.
Massaging the bridge of his nose, Ethan tried to lessen the steady hammering behind his eyelids. Alex’s eyes danced with amusement. “She must have given you quite a dressing down.”
“I’ve had worse.” The noise level in the tavern escalated, and his head began to throb.
“And probably better. Forget her.”
“I can’t,” Ethan grumbled. Behind him, a burly man called for a whisky.
“What?” Alex said when the man had taken his glass and moved away.
“I said,I can’t.” Ethan winced at the disappointment he heard in his own voice. Next he’d be writing sonnets.
“Can’t what?” Alex shouted as a rowdy herd of farmers tramped through the door.
“Can’t forget her.” His teeth were so tightly clenched he could have bitten through iron.
“Oh.” Alex waved a hand. ”Spend ten minutes in private with the blond. You’ll forget about the prim Miss Dashing fast enough.” He smiled rakishly at the woman.
Ethan sipped the last of his drink and massaged his temples. It had been so long since he’d shown any interest in a respectable woman that his brother would probably fall over from shock if he realized the direction of Ethan’s thoughts. It had been years since he’d even glanced in the direction of a woman from theton. Not since Victoria.
Victoria. The acid taste of humiliation was as fresh as his last swallow of gin. If he hadn’t spilled most of it, he would have taken another swig to wash it down. However young and guileless the Dashing girl appeared now, he knew she would be no different from Victoria in the end. No different from any of the women reared in a society where lies and betrayal were elevated to an art.
Well, he had never been much of a collector.
He lifted his glass. “Alex, the blond’s yours if you want her.” He clinked his empty glass to Alex’s. “I’m leaving.”
Ethan shoved his way through the crop of farmers and emerged on the street through a cloud of muttered curses.
There had been times, after Victoria, when he would have lost himself in the women, the noise, the stink of the tavern. Nights when slamming his fist into flesh—and having his own flesh equally abused—was the only way to banish the image of blue eyes and golden hair to the black well in his mind where it belonged.
Not tonight. Tonight he welcomed the unpolluted country breeze on his face, the reprieve from the grating of voices.
––––––––
ON THE STREET, HE TOOKa moment to find his bearings. Stepping out of the light leaking from the tavern, he angled for the livery stable where he’d left Destrehan then slowed when he saw two men standing in the shadows.
Ethan reached for his pistol, hand closing on the familiar handle before he’d even had time to consider them. But as he moved closer, he realized the men were deep in discussion and hadn’t noticed him.
His grip on the weapon eased, but he didn’t relinquish his hold. They were standing under the awning of a shop, long since closed for the night. The sign above read Bonnets and Begonias.
Both appeared to be locals—one dressed as a merchant, the other in what looked to be servant’s livery. As there were few large estates in the area, Ethan wondered if the man was one of Alex’s.
“When I left, Dr. Dawson had just arrived,” the servant was saying. Ethan came closer and noted the colors of the man’s livery were not those of Grayson Park.
