In an attempt to shake off these thoughts, John rose and left his study, nearly colliding with his new butler, Fitzgerald.
“Your Grace,” the man said, looking unusually nervous. “Lord Tremberley is waiting for you in your library. He has been here for over an hour. I informed him that you were out but he insisted on staying.”
John groaned. He was worn out from the visit with Catherine Forster. He wasn’t in the mood to see anyone, not even his best friend.
The butler disappeared down the stairs to the kitchens and John made his way to his library. He had to face Tremberley, whether he liked it or not.
When he walked into the library, he found Trem, boots removed, stretched out on a divan, reading a novel and sipping a snifter of scotch. He had somehow procured a platter of cold meats and cheeses, which lay half consumed on a side table.
“I see you have made yourself comfortable,” John said, hoping to startle the unsuspecting viscount.
“I had no choice, given how long you lingered at Halston Place,” Tremberley replied, tossing the book aside. “It took quite the series of threats to convince your butler to reveal your location. After all, as I impressed upon him, you would want me, your best friend, to know your whereabouts. What if you found yourself in a scrape or challenged to a duel? It turns out that the young man isn’t quite ready to be your second.”
John grimaced. He would thrash the butler. He cast a glance behind him into the hall, hoping to catch the man scurrying by.
“No use looking for him. He’s probably gone all the way to the cellar, hoping to outrun you.”
He dropped onto the sofa. John had never shared his feelings about Catherine Forster with anyone. But Trem knew how he felt about her. John knew he must, because his best friend had always been delicate about the topic, never making it a subject of fun as he would have with anything else.
The loyalty didn’t surprise him. A special affinity had always existed between John, Trem, Leith and Montaigne. Since their first meeting at Eton, they had become a kind of family to one another. His friends kept him entertained and—he could admit it—from a potentially dangerous loneliness. Montaigne always had a scheme that involved visiting one of his many aristocratic relatives. Leith was always free for a whiskey and to listen to his complaints about his most recent loss at cards or—when he had been alive—a gloomy letter from his father. And Tremberley was always happy to repeat the newest gossip or to host a party at the manor…as well as more than eager to meddle in John’s affairs for his own amusement.
Furthermore, in recent years, as his despair over being unable to forget Catherine had deepened, none of his friends had complained about his increasingly dour company.
“Very well then.” If Trem knew John had been at Halston Place, then he knew who he had seen there. Most of thetonknew the address as the abject corner into which the Wethersbys and their infamous ward had crawled. He reached for Trem’s snifter and drained it in one swill. “Aren’t you going to ask why I went to visit Catherine Forster?”
“I have a notion.” Trem rose and walked to the sideboard. He helped himself to a new snifter of scotch and then filled his old one for John without asking. “Should I be tendering my congratulations?”
John fixed Trem with an incredulous stare. His friend was truly barking.
“Come on, brother.” Trem settled back on the divan. “I know the tragic history, your father and her beloved aunt, and on and on. I know that you have sworn up and down to hate anyone by the name of Forster except yourself until you draw your dying breath. But I also remember that night. I figure that you have ended your war with yourself and have decided not to let history stand in the way of…well, your years-long desire to bed her.”
John thought of Catherine. Her ink-stained fingertips. Her long silvery hair, wisps falling around her jawline. The swell of her breasts underneath her worn day dress. His cock jumped at this cascade of images. He knew he wanted to bed her but it didn’t help to hear someone else say it.
“You’re mad. Could you imagine what they would say in the papers? I couldn’t do that to Henrietta before her season.”
“I’ve heard by report that some things feel better than reason.”
“Go to the devil.”
“Surely it would disrupt Henrietta’s season. But, with her dowry, it would all come to rights.”
John winced at the mention of Henrietta’s dowry.
“I’m not going to marry her.”
“Fair enough, mate. I hear she has fallen on hard times. I am sure you persuaded her into a favorable arrangement. It is the prudent thing, of course. I would have suggested it myself, except I know your penchant for being honorable.”
“When have I ever beenhonorable?”
Trem waved his hand. “Perhaps honorable is not the right word. But you’ve never liked keeping a mistress.”
It was true. He had never enjoyed the idea of having that kind of power over—or obligation to—a woman. An evening was one thing and a standing relationship was another. But he wasn’t about to admit that Trem was right.
“God, you’re an arsehole. I didn’t offer to make her my mistress.”
“If you’re intent on torturing yourself, I suppose no one can stop you. Although I don’t have the foggiest why you let all that bollocks from years ago interfere with a good time.”
“I don’t recall you thinking it was such bollocks when you nearly killed yourself running across your own grounds to warn me ofMiss Musgrave’s real identity.”
