Anything to help her to ignore the restless stirrings of her heart and the dreadfully inconvenient feelings she continued to develop for him. After all, it was too soon, far too soon for love.
Was it not?
*
“Searle.”
Of all the ill-timed interruptions, Morgan could think of none more vexing than the appearance of his old war friend the Duke of Whitley whilst he was at The Duke’s Bastard in the midst of attempting to drink himself to oblivion. Duncan Kirkwood’s smuggled Scottish whisky had one hell of an effect upon the senses. At the moment, he was not certain he could stand without swaying.
“Whitley,” he greeted curtly, not bothering to rise from his chair because…well, it simply would not do to fall upon one’s face before half the peers in London.
“You have been avoiding me,” Whitley observed, seating himself in the empty chair at Morgan’s left.
He skewered the duke with a pointed glare. “Unsuccessfully, it would seem.”
“You appear to be enjoying far greater success at giving the bottle a black eye.” Whitley’s drawl was acidic.
“If you sought me ought to cast judgment, you can go to the devil, Cris,” he slurred. “I am not in the bloody mood for company.”
No indeed, he was in the mood for drinking copious amounts of whisky to deaden the troubling emotions burgeoning within him. Emotions which had everything to do with the woman he had married. Emotions which would only serve to make him weak and undermine everything he had set out to do.
He could not bear to lose sight of his plans, to stray from the path he had settled upon. Not when vengeance was almost within his grasp. If the thought of betraying the woman who surrendered herself to him so sweetly each night—and morning and afternoon, at that—made him ill, he would simply drown his compunction with more spirits.
Whitley sniffed, raising a sardonic brow. “You are more soused than a drunkard who fell into a barrel of blue ruin.”
“Precisely the judgment I am speaking of,” he growled, lifting his nearly empty glass to his lips for another draught. “Have you a point to make, or did you sit here with the sole intent of causing me unnecessary irritation?”
“Perhaps causing you irritation brings me pleasure,” Whitley quipped.
Morgan drained the rest of his glass. “If it is pleasure you seek, you ought to be looking to your wife.”
“Speaking of wives, tell me, why are you here in the club, in your cups, when you are a man newly wed?” the duke asked with deceptive calm.
Morgan stiffened at the mentioning of Leonora. Sweet, delectable Leonie, as he had come to think of her.Hellfire, why were these maudlin sentiments inescapable? For that matter, why was Whitley inescapable? He should have known Cris would come sniffing about for the truth, undeterred by Morgan’s efforts to rebuff him at the Kirkwood ball.
“I fail to see why the ordinary pursuit of my daily activities should be of such interest to you.” Though he strived to affect a tone of boredom, Morgan could not deny that Whitley’s continual probing set him on edge.
“Because I know you, Morgan,” Whitley countered. “I know you do not take any action before careful planning and consideration. We were at war together, after all.”
“Yes.” He busied himself by splashing some more whisky into his glass. Thank Christ he had managed to cozen an entire bottle for himself. It rendered getting soused so much easier. “But we are at war no longer, and I fail to see what you are after.”
“The truth,” Cris persisted.
“The truth is I wish to get drunk.” He took another leisurely swallow of liquor. “And I wish for you to leave me in peace.”
“You compromised her intentionally,” Whitley bit out.
Damn him.Morgan’s hand shook, sloshing a splash of amber liquid over his fawn breeches. “I did nothing of the sort. Cannot a gentleman seek to aid a lady in distress without possessing motives that are less than noble?”
“You made certain you would be found alone with her,” the duke persisted.
Morgan thought briefly about smashing his friend in that straight, even row of white. It would serve him right for his bloody meddling. Could he not see his interference was neither wanted nor needed?
“I did not,” he lied calmly.
“Why prevaricate with me, old friend?” Whitley asked in a tone that was deceptively soft. “You told me you were concerned for Lady Leonora’s wellbeing, and then you set off in search of her. When you did not return to the ballroom and neither did she, what was I to think? I had no choice but to seek you out, and to involve the lady’s mother, which you anticipated I would do. There was no look of surprise on your face when we entered that chamber, Searle. Not even a blink.”
Very well.He could hardly argue the point. Nor did he have the time or the inclination. He had a very alluring half-bottle of whisky awaiting him, along with the promises of silence and numbness.
