“Cats are vicious hunters who murder for sport,” said a wide-eyed gentleman named Hyatt with a shudder. “Wednesday may be cute and kitten-y right now, but one day you’ll wake up with the head of a pigeon on your pillow.”
“Spoken from experience,” another whispered. “Poor sap still wakes up with nightmares.”
“I like pigeon heads,” Thad said firmly. “Preferably still on the pigeon. I shall gently advise Wednesday not to store dismembered murder victims inside the townhouse, pillow or otherwise.”
“Mmhmm,” said another. “Get your gentle opinions in now, because that strategy stops working the moment you take a wife.”
“Speaking of which,” said a sharp-eyed baronet, “when is the happy day? I’ve never seen someone spend an entire decade at Almack’s without finding someone to take home.”
“What are you waiting for?” teased another. “Hoping to find a royal princess?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Thad assured them. “I’m a simple man with simple tastes. All I require is—”
“Perfection?” said the baronet, with an arch look.
“A perfect match,” Thad corrected. “Which, fortuitously, does not require perfect people. Nonetheless, I do concede the point. Almack’s has failed me grievously on this score.”
“What could be more efficient than the Marriage Mart?” asked another. “Have you an alternate plan?”
“Many,” Thad assured him. “Extensive research into the art of ‘happy ever after’ indicates I should either paint my horse white, build a library with a ladder, or seek a vengeful sorceress to enchant me via rose petals and ill-tempered rhymes.”
“Start with the horse,” another advised. “White paint seems fastest.”
“Trot it about Hyde Park a time or two,” the baronet agreed. “If no one tosses her handkerchief into the ring, mention your love of ladders, and the impending sorceress. Something will spark.”
At the mention of a spark, Thad could not help but think again of Miss Weatherby. The spark was there. So was confusion. Things had been going so swimmingly, and then suddenly… not.
If there had not been a spark, Miss Weatherby would be much easier to put from his mind. She wasn’t just a spark. She was a cornucopia of sparks. Dangerous and delightful.
“Look at his face.” Nudging each other, Thad’s friends exchanged knowing glances. “Almack’s hasn’t been completely useless.”
“Or perhaps he knows a good sorceress,” whispered another.
“There may have been a spark,” Thad conceded. “But I fear I made a poor impression.”
“Burned by a spark?” The baronet assumed a haughty expression. “It’s not to be stood for.”
“Not at all,” agreed another. “We’re all honorary Wicked Dukes. Are we frightened of little sparks?”
“Hyatt is frightened of kittens,” Thad pointed out.
“Be strong,” said the baronet. “Try again.”
“I’ve tried twice,” Thad admitted.
“Sparks both times?” asked another.
Thad nodded. “Sparks both times.”
“Then thrice is the ticket,” the baronet said firmly. “This time, pay close attention to all the signs. If the spark is a dud, walk away. But if there’s a fire to be stoked…”
“Stoke it,” finished the others.
“You lot are very poetic today,” Thad pointed out. “Fine use of simile and metaphor. It is only because I wish to encourage such scholarly pursuits that I accept this challenge. If she slaps a glove in my face, I shall return to duel every one of you.”
A roar rippled through the salon as its occupants all named their seconds at once.
“Adorable,” Thad scolded as he pushed to his feet. “Just for that, I shall duel you all even if the young lady proposes marriage on first sight. From this day forth, a pox on your porters and may all your metaphors be mixed.”
