Rhys sighed. Apparently their friend’s mood was even worse than any of them had supposed.
“Perhaps you ought to get some rest, old chap,” he suggested, taking pity on Richford. “You look weary.”
“Tell me, Richford, did you commission that waistcoat out of one of your grandmother’s dresses?” King asked slyly.
Richford’s only response was to bare his teeth, rather in the fashion of a dog hell-bent upon protecting his bone.
“Christ,” King muttered, shaking his head. “You need a drink, old chum.”
“I need four drinks,” Richford said. “Enough to render me insensate.”
“That bad, is it?” Riverdale shook his head in commiseration.
Rhys scraped up the last bite of cream ice and cornet, savoring the creamy delicacy on his tongue. Damn, but it was glorious, and he was momentarily distracted by the wicked thought of smearing it all over Miranda’s nipples and then licking it off. Not the cornets, of course. No need for crumbs. But the cream ice. The cold would make her nipples stiffen into taut pink buds. He’d swirl his tongue over the peaks, lick up the ginger and apple and then suck…
Fuck.
He had to stop himself, for his cock was growing hard and insistent in his trousers, and he was surrounded by his friends and the club members.
“Are you well, Whit?”
Riverdale’s voice interrupted Rhys’s sordid musings.
He flashed a smile. “Perfectly. Why do you ask?”
“You look like my sister did when she was taken with fever.”
“How should you know what your sister looked like when she was feverish?” King jeered lightly. “Never tell us you were playing nursemaid.”
“She’s my sister, and I love her,” Riverdale defended, frowning. “You know what it’s like, don’t you, Whit? You dote upon Lady Rhiannon.”
“Enough about sisters,” Richford retorted with far too much speed and bite.
Curious, that. Richford didn’t have a sister. His objection to the subject was either an extension of his mood, or something else. Something damned perplexing.
“You object to speaking about sisters now too?” Riverdale demanded. “Is there anything you’ve deemed a suitable topic of conversation this evening, sire?”
“Don’t be an arse.” Richford scowled.
King sighed. “Fortunately, I’ve brought several of my potions along with me. It looks like a restorative will be just the thing.”
“Let’s play a game of naughty charades,” announced the woman in the peacock mask, her voice loud enough to carry through the cavernous dining room.
A chorus of agreement rose up. He thought of Miranda’s assertion that he was hosting an orgy. He wasn’t. Not strictly. But naughty charades could often lead to a lack of clothes and all manner of sin. Ultimately, the revelers would find their way to bed—their own or each other’s. The prospect only left him feeling hollow. He had no interest in playing games that once might have amused him.
All he wanted now was her.
“What say you?” Riverdale asked Rhys, King, and Richford.
“The drawing room would do nicely for such a purpose,” Rhys suggested.
Dishes were being removed by the assiduous domestics. The hour was growing late. The wine had been flowing freely enoughthat, coupled with King’s potions, Rhys was beginning to hope no one would notice if he were to slip away from the festivities and go off in search of Miranda.
“I bloody hate charades,” King complained, taking care to keep his voice from carrying.
“Bring your potions,” Riverdale said, grinning. “I have no doubt they’ll make anything interesting.”
“I’ll join you there soon enough,” Richford said, his lip curling in distaste. “There is something I must do first, however.”
