As long as Dorset had some spirits in hand. Wherewasthe goddamn brandy? Dorset found himself desperately in need of another glass.
“One might issue the same remark to you, Wilton,” he pointed out, perhaps unkindly.
He took aim and sent his cue ball neatly into the viscount’s and the object ball, scoring another point.
“You are despicably good at billiards, and I dislike losing,” the viscount responded, taking his turn and scoring a point of his own. “Surely that is reason enough.”
He supposed. Wilton was quite skilled at billiards, but Dorset had yet to meet a billiards player he could not trounce. “Losing is dreadful.”
He’d been blessed with the devil’s own luck his entire life. There had been very few instances when he had lost any game or sport, fromvingt-et-unto cricket to football. His biggest loss of all had been Anna.
And he must not allow himself to forget the reason for that loss. She had a name—Lady Clementine Hammond. Unfortunately, because his body was a hateful traitor, she also made his cock hard.
Deuced unfortunate timing. The woman was nowhere near him. He was playing billiards with Wilton. Far away from her, for Chrissakes. Irritated with himself, he took aim and hit the cue with too much force. It landed just wide of the viscount’s ball.
“I would think a newly betrothed man would be in finer spirits,” Wilton said, taking aim and scoring once more.
Blast on two counts.The viscount was nearly tying him now, and he had also brought up She Who Must Not Be Thought About.
“I wear my excitement on the inside,” he drawled, before sending his cue flying once more.
And missing the object ball and Wilton’s yet again.
“I am hoping to procure myself a betrothed before the house party’s end,” Wilton said. “Have you any advice, having snared Lady Clementine so swiftly?”
The viscount earned another point.
Tied now. Dorset was bloody well in danger of losing. And in more ways than one.
“Get caught with your hands under the lady’s skirts,” he said wryly, though he knew he ought not.
The less mentioning of the scandal, the better. If he reminded others of his ignominious scene with the meddlesome Lady Clementine, how the hell was he going to throw her over at the end of the damned house party?
With ease and with relish, of course. Who the hell cared if he caused a scandal? No amount of wagging tongues could persuade him to marry her.
“I had heard some rumbling, but surely you jest.” Wilton was staring at him, looking dismayed.
He sighed, for he knew the viscount was a curmudgeonly stickler, but he had forgotten the extent of it. Could a man not simply have a drink and play a game of billiards and relax his guard?
“I wish I were jesting,” he muttered. “Unfortunately for Lady Clementine, a bee decided to find its way under her gown in…er, the moment I was confessing my undying love to her.”
Those last words stuck in his throat like a fish bone. They lingered, painful and unwanted. There was only one woman he had ever loved, and she was forever beyond his reach.
“Ah, I begin to understand.” The viscount’s expression had gone as stiff as his posture. “I am not seeking a love match. My felicitations to you.”
Neither am I, old chap, he wanted to say.
But he forced himself to recall that Wilton was not his friend but an acquaintance. And one whose rigid sense of propriety would likely find offense in the dismal truth.
“Thank you,” he said grimly as he took his next shot.
Accepting the congratulations felt wrong. He had no intention of marrying Lady Clementine.Hell, he had no wish to marry anyone. Anna had cured him of that particular ailment. He supposed he ought to offer Lady Clementine his thanks.
“What do you know of Lady Charity Manners?” Wilton asked.
The blonde beauty had a bold reputation. Rumor had it that she had posed for a famed portrait of Venus which had been shown at the Grosvenor Gallery the year before. It would not have been particularly shocking had not the Venus in question been nude.
Dorset studied the viscount, wondering if he had failed to hear the rumors. “Scarcely anything,” he lied brightly, deciding that if Wilton had not, there was no need for him to be the bearer of ill tidings.
