He glared at his friend. “I’d hardly call it pathetic. Perhaps I was being charitable, allowing you a rare victory.”
King chortled. “Ha! Charitable. Tell me another, if you please. This billiards game is deadly dull, and I’m in need of amusement.”
Brandon sighed. “I have a problem.”
“I know.” King gestured at him airily. “Only just look at that waistcoat.”
Frowning, he glanced down at the satin waistcoat he was wearing. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s purple.”
“And?”
King shuddered. “And it looks like something more suited to a Georgian chap than a modern gentleman.”
“Pandy chose the color for me,” he admitted.
He had taken her shopping, and she had found a bolt of satin at his tailor’s that had struck her fancy.
“Ah, a child is responsible for that monstrosity,” King said. “I feel ever so much better now.”
Brandon scowled. “Why do I like you?”
His friend grinned. “I haven’t an inkling.”
“That makes two of us,” he grumbled.
“Will you take your turn, or are you intending to glower at me for the rest of the evening?” King wanted to know.
Blast.
He hadn’t been paying attention to the game.
“Glowering at you might yield a better result,” he pointed out. “It looks as if I’m about to lose to you for a third time.”
“It does indeed.” King made no effort to hide his glee. “I’ll not lie. Defeating you at billiards is one of my favorite pastimes.”
“You’re only winning because I’m too distracted,” he said, taking aim.
“And what are you distracted about? Your impending nuptials? You never did say who you’d settled upon as a bride. Whitby and I have a bet, and the only thing better than triumphing over you at billiards would be collecting fifty pounds from him.”
Brandon’s shot was woefully amiss. “You’re betting over me, now?Et tu,Brute?” He straightened to his full height. “Who did you choose?”
“Lady Lavinia,” King said. “Whitby was persuaded that it’s Lady Grenfell. Didn’t think widows were to your taste, however.”
He swallowed hard against a rush of longing at the mentioning of Lottie. “One widow in particular.”
“Oh Christ.” King stared at him. “Never say you’ve fallen under the Countess of Grenfell’s spell.”
Her spell?Damn it.Accurate words. She had ensorcelled him quite neatly, and he hadn’t even realized it until it had been too late.
“I’m not sure I like the way you’ve phrased that, King.”
“How else to phrase it?” King shrugged. “It’s been said she has a magical?—”
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll break this cue stick over your bloody head,” he bit out, interrupting before his friend said something they would both regret. “That’s the woman I love that you’re talking about.”
He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, and he felt his ears and neck growing hot beneath his friend’s steady regard.
