Page 17 of Pride & Petticoats


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“Oh, never mind. Your clothing is as puffed up and narrow as you!” She flicked his cravat and stiff collar for emphasis. “Go to your mistress, and I don’t care if you ever come back!” She turned, crossed the room in three strides, opened the door, and slammed it with all the force she could muster. A maid dusting one of the portraits in the long corridor jumped, and a footman dropped the candle he was using to light one of the wall sconces.

Behind her, Dewhurst’s door swung open again, and he barked, “You dare slam my door in my face? You ungrateful little wretch.”

“You arrogant, preening flamingo!” she shot back. “I have nothing to say to you.” She gripped the edge of the door, prepared to slam it again, but he put his hand over hers, stopping her.

“But I have something to say to you, my upstart colonist. And when I am ready to say it, you will listen.” This time he shut the door so hard that the house rattled.

Chapter Five

Freddie strolled into Brooks’s in full dandy mode—despite his former mistress’s attempts to turn into a human catapult. He rubbed his cheek. Josephine had thrown a variety of objects, and her heavy hairbrush had struck home. Dashed woman was dicked in the nob. Perhaps this charade with the colonist would not be all bad. When a woman like Josephine became too attached, it was time to end the affair. Best to send her back to Alvanley. Perhaps having her back would smooth the baron’s ruffled feathers.

Alvanley’s potential reunion with Josephine was the topic of the evening during dinner at Brooks’s. Romeo Coates wagered Alvanley’s good humor would return in three weeks, Lord Yarmouth wagered seven, and Golden Ball Hughes and George Hanger both put money on a fortnight. Freddie wagered a week; namely because when he had won Alvanley’s favorite hunter the year before, Alvanley had been in high dudgeon for ten days, and Freddie couldn’t imagine being more upset over a woman than a horse. Especially now that, after only three months, Josephine would be amenable to taking her former lover back.

Freddie had just begun perusing the wedding notices and wondering how he should word his—once-elegant dandy married to uncouth insignificant colonist?—when Alex Scarston, the Earl of Selbourne, thrust himself into the chair next to Freddie. Without so much as a word, Alex grabbed the gin and poured himself a large glass. Freddie frowned at the usurpation of the gin and then grimaced even more harshly when he got a better look at his friend. Alex’s hair was in wild disarray, as though he’d been running his hands through it, his cravat hung sloppily down his linen shirt, and his boots were scuffed and lacking polish.

“Has Hodges deserted you, old boy?” Freddie asked, referring to Alex’s valet.

“Unfortunately not.”

Freddie opened his mouth to comment on the state of Alex’s attire, but shut it quickly at a look from Alex. He’d known the earl since they’d been schoolmates at Eton, then Cambridge. Freddie was a few years younger than Selbourne and prided himself on being a good deal more charming. As a boy, he’d deliberately cultivated the good graces of the older and somewhat dangerous Selbourne, and the effort had saved him more than once from the abuse younger boys at Eton endured. But Freddie had repaid the favor more recently and therefore felt no compunction in needling his friend. “You’re looking a bit Friday-faced, old boy. Dare I ask if something has happened to alter your exalted state of conjugal bliss?”

Alex threw Freddie a murderous look, drank his gin in one swallow, and motioned to the waiter to bring another bottle. Freddie raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t care what you say, Dewhurst. Just don’t say it in Italian,” Alex grumbled.

Freddie threw back his head and laughed, causing several of the other gentlemen in the club to turn and stare. A few smiled. “I assume you’ve been to see Lady Brigham?” Freddie asked.

“I left Lucia with her parents. I couldn’t take it another second. That house is Bedlam.”

Lucia was Lady Selbourne, Alex’s wife of seven years. Her mother, Viscountess Brigham, was well known for her obsession with all things Italian and her frequent use of her woefully scant Italian vocabulary.

Watching Selbourne pour another drink, Freddie decided it might be worse. He suspected that Alex’s irritation with Lucia’s mother had less to do with Italian and more to do with her hounding the couple about when they would have a child. After seven years, they had no offspring, and Freddie knew it was not for lack of trying.

And it was certainly not for lack of grandchildren that Lady Brigham complained. Lucia’s sister, Francesca, and her husband, Ethan, the Marquess and Marchioness of Winterbourne, had four children, three boys and one girl. The undeniable fact was that Lady Brigham liked to meddle, and her daughters were fair game. Dash it if the viscountess hadn’t had him in her sights at one time or another as well.

Alex nodded and took another drink, and Freddie said, “Dipping rather deep, aren’t you, Selbourne? I don’t relish the notion of delivering you home and watching you fall flat on your face at your wife’s feet.”

Alex glared at him and deliberately took another drink.

“Besides,” Freddie continued, stepping lightly “My own wife is waiting at home for me.”

Selbourne choked on the gin, and Freddie had to pound him on the back. When Alex could breathe again, he said, “Your what?”

Freddie was loath to say it again. Wife had come out sounding unnaturally loud. It seemed to reverberate in the room like a death knell. He swallowed and forced himself to go on. He would have to convince the whole of the ton that, not only was he married to the American, he was besotted with her as well.

Freddie reached for the gin again. “Ah, I see the tittle-tattle hasn’t reached you yet. I have finally followed you into the parson’s mousetrap, Selbourne. I carried my bride over the threshold mere hours ago.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. They were gray and piercing as a hawk’s. Freddie allowed his gaze to wander about the room as though Selbourne wasn’t mentally eviscerating his words and putting them back together in a fashion Freddie doubted would be to his taste. Before Selbourne sliced too deeply, Freddie said, “Don’t look so surprised, old boy. It was going to happen sooner or later. What is it the poets say? ‘Under love’s heavy burden do I sink’?”

Selbourne slowly arched one brow. “I think it is more along the lines of ‘oh, what tangled webs we weave.’ ”

Freddie smiled. “Be assured that I am quite willing to play the fly in Charlotte’s lovely web.”

Selbourne looked unimpressed. “Charlotte?” he said, voice bland. “Do I know the lady?”

Freddie took another sip of gin. “Doubtful. Unless you have been to America recently.”

A flicker of interest lit Selbourne’s eyes. “The lady is an American?”