Rhys realized he was grinning with pride. Grinning like a witless idiot. Because he was proud. He was proud of Miranda and her accomplishments. But he wasn’t about to share that with his friends. Not before an audience of club guests. Perhaps not at all. He was struck by the odd, possessive need to keep her to himself like a priceless jewel.
“Dessert,” he said succinctly. “It’s glorious, isn’t it?”
“Passable,” Richford decreed, his countenance grim beneath his black mask.
He was clearly in one of his moods.
That was just as well.
“What’s the matter with him?” he asked Riverdale.
Riverdale shrugged, mouth full of cream ice. “He’s in a foul mood.”
“I’m not in a foul mood,” Richford snapped.
“Rather proving the point, old chap,” Kingham drawled. “Perhaps it’s on account of that wretched waistcoat. I know I would be bilious as well if I had chosen to wear such a monstrosity in public.”
King was notoriously pedantic when it came to fashion. Mostly, their circle ignored his icy quips where their choices in waistcoats or hats or even neck ties were concerned.
In this instance, however, Rhys found himself agreeing. “The gold damask does look a bit like paper hangings, now that you mention it, King.”
Richford scowled. “He didn’t mention it, and it doesn’t look like paper hangings. There’s not a single goddamned thing wrong with my waistcoat.”
“Is the chest padded as well?” King asked, grinning like the devil he was, unmoved by Richford’s sullen response.
“Looks more like the middle is padded, if you ask me,” Riverdale interjected, having already eaten his cream ice and cornet.
“No one did ask you,” Richford pointed out acidly.
“Perhaps it was implied,” Riverdale offered mildly. “I say, you don’t pad your waistcoats, do you?”
“I have no need to pad them,” Richford growled. “Except I am perhaps too lean in the waist, unlike certain cream ice vultures I might name.”
Their insults were not heated any more than they were accurate. Riverdale was built like a prizefighter, muscled and massive, and Richford had a smaller though similarly brawny build.
Riverdale only chuckled, amused. “Richford needs one of your potions, King. No doubt that will improve his spirits.”
Richford did appear to be remarkably cantankerous, even by his standards. Rhys found himself wondering at the reason.
“Does this have something to do with a woman?” he asked gently.
“No,” Richford bit out quickly.
Too quickly.
Rhys, King, and Riverdale exchanged knowing looks. The reason for their friend’s mood was obvious.
“Who is she?” King asked.
“Stubble it,” Richford snapped with a glare.
“Has she thrown you over?” Riverdale wanted to know.
“Judging from the thunderous expression on his face, the lady has,” Rhys offered.
“No, she hasn’t,” Richford snarled. “Because there is no woman.”
His glare was that of a wounded wild animal, cornered and prepared to fight to the death.
