“If he happens to come home, say tonight, or tomorrow, can you please tell him I called? I will await a message from him at Oxford Street.” She gave him her direction. “Also, tell him it is urgent.”
“Very well, sir.”
Pen raced back to White’s.
Alworth satin the bow window, in the precise spot where his good friend Beau Brummel used to sit before he fled to France to escape his creditors. He’d been part of Brummel’s set and learned much of him. A shame, really, that he’d had to flee the country.
He tapped his finger against his brandy glass. He did not drink, but merely swirled the light brown liquid round and round and round. Between his brows perched a frown. He found himself, most inexplicably, beset by an activity he’d always thought he was a stranger to: brooding. It wasn’t a healthy pastime; he decided. Brooding could easily turn into worry. Worry meant he cared about someone sufficiently to let himself be thus distracted. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. This was worse than worrying. This was a mix of apprehension, anxiety, and concern. As well as annoyance at himself for feeling all this in the first place.
Worry and concern for that brat, Pen.
He swore and set down the glass. Some of the liquid sloshed onto the table.
What did it matter to him what Pen was up to? She was not his responsibility. So why did he care? That question threw him into confusion. Care. By Jove. He certainly didn’t care about Pen?
The last time he’d allowed himself tocareabout a woman, he’d had his poor heart thoroughly smashed into a thousand little shards. Crushed, pulverised, and blown away by the wind. There, where his heart was supposed to be, was an organ that pumped blood through his body, but that was about it. Ever since Serena, he was incapable of care. Of being attached to anyone other than himself. Of love. His lips thinned into a sneer. He hadn’t felt his heart stir at all in the last decade or so, and he’d been content with that.
Serena. His childhood love. He listened deeply into his heart and found with relief there wasn’t so much as a hollow thump when he thought of her. There used to be a time when the mere mentioning of her name caused lightning bolts of agony to shoot through his being. All because he used to believe in love. How young and green he’d been.
He and Serena were going to get married. Granted, they were only children when they’d promised each other eternal love. But by the time he was eighteen, and he stood up with her in the ballroom at his father’s country house, he knew it wasn’t just a passing fancy. She was the love of his life. She looked radiant and lovely, a diamond of the first water, sought after by many men. How proud he was that she’d chosen him!
They were going to elope together. First to Gretna Green, then they would travel the entire world. Europe, Egypt, India, the West Indies.
On his twenty-first birthday, he’d stood under her window, feeling he could conquer the world. He’d climbed up to her balcony like Romeo and wanted to carry her down.
She stood barefoot in her nightgown, pity in her eyes. “But, Archie. I cannot come with you. These are children’s dreams.”
He jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “I love you, Serena. I always have. And I know you love me. You always have.”
“Of course, I love you, Archie,” she’d replied, taking his hands in hers. “I always have.” Relief flushed through him, and he felt giddy. “But not like that.”
This is when he fell. Not physically, but existentially. “What do you mean? Not like that?” it broke out of him.
She averted her eyes. “In truth, you are more like a brother to me, Archie. A very, very good friend. But even more a brother.” She looked back up with a smile, a dimple on her face. “Anyway, there is another reason I can no longer travel the world with you. You won’t believe what happened. I received a marriage proposal. From the baron who has been courting me this past summer. And I accepted. He is a colonel, you know. To tell you the truth,” she bent over to him, “he is so dashing in his uniform, I fell a little in love with him already.” She tinkered a laugh.
A month later, Serena had married her colonel baron.
His world spun out of control as he fell.
He’d been falling since.
All that, Alworth decided, was deeply buried in the past, dead and gone. He’d learned his lesson well: one was better off without love. So why was he dragging up all those memories as he sat in his favourite club, staring through the window at St. James’s Street?
He was no longer the green boy he used to be. He’d transformed himself into the dandy he was today. Worldly wise, cynical and eternally bored.
Live life on the cusp. On the surface. Don’t dive deep. Don’t depend on others. Don’t form any attachments. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t love. He preferred the superficial veneer not only in the appearance he showed to the world but also in his relationships. He’d broken off any relationship to the female sex as soon as he noticed it threatened to penetrate the light, shallow veil. Friends, family, lovers. Casual, light, and fluffy. If that was not possible, then keep them at a distance. Like his family. Thus, let things be.
This odd friendship with Pen had become more than entertainment, and it bothered him.
He downed his brandy and set the glass down with unnecessary vehemence.
Curse it, it was time to finish this.
He would help her find her bloody guardian and hand her over, dust himself off, and move on with his life. He had to turn back to his more imminent problem, one he had been working on before Pen had hurtled into him full force at Pall Mall. His move to India was one thing. He had bureaucratic matters to tend to, overdue visits to his estates, and one other thing he had been procrastinating about.
Dash it if he hadn’t entirely forgotten about it.
He needed to find a wife.
