Chapter Eight
Ramsey added the figures once more, then set his pen down on the desk with a slight click. After checking his fingers for ink stains, he rubbed a hand down his face, all the while damning his friend Heathcliff to the seventh circle of hell.
Or lower, if that were an option.
What had started as a usual evening in Temptations had turned into a nightmare.
At least,hisversion of a nightmare. It started as a few whispers that carried his name.
The result was several bets placed in the betting book with his name in permanent ink.
All because of his damned oversensitive sense of responsibility to Heathcliff and his bloody, irritating, and clumsy ward.
If he hadn’t attended the ball, then he wouldn’t have witnessed the disaster that Miss Grace Morgan created. And if he didn’t witness the scene, then he wouldn’t have felt pity for the poor creature. And if he hadn’t felt pity, then he wouldn’t have marched over there and spoken with her and he bloody wouldn’t have offered to dance.
A waltz no less.
It was as injuring to his toes as it was to his reputation.
Which, clearly, was in tatters. Again. As if he needed help in that department. Though, this time around the whispers were of lesser damage than before with that whole sordid mess with Rebecca. Dear Lord, nowthatwas a disaster of traumatic proportions.
But, as it were, he was once again the object of scrutiny, suspicion, and whisperings, which he utterly hated to the core of his being. All because he attended the ball and bloody danced.
He glanced back to the betting book, reading the wagers. His eyes grew unfocused as he read through the five wagers placed on whether he, Ramsey Scott, Marquess of Sterling, would marry the mysterious and quite accident-prone chit.
Five. It might not seem like many, but it was five more than he wanted, that was for sure. And if there were five last night, then there would certainly be more tomorrow, and the next day, and so forth and so on until the girl married someone else.
The only upside was that Temptations would turn a tidy profit from all the losers of the betting pool.
Though that wasn’t much of a silver lining in his opinion.
He slammed the book shut, then stood from his desk. The chair made a scraping noise on the floor as he abruptly scooted it back. He paced the floor, his gaze flickering back to the betting book, and then forward. What was he to do? Truly there was nothing hecoulddo except wait it out.
Damn.
And he blamed Heathcliff. If he hadn’t requested his help, if he didn’t have some misbegotten sense of loyalty—he started all over, grumbling. But even as he held the grudge against his friend, he knew that the next ball would find him in attendance and he would once again take vigil over Heathcliff’s ward. He wasn’t sure why his loyalty was so excruciatingly demanding, but it was, and it wasn’t about to change.
Damn the consequences.
The night was over, and to confirm it, he pulled out his pocket watch while suppressing a yawn. Yes, it was after dawn and as such, his optimum time for catching whatever sleep he could attain.
After giving one last glare to the betting book, he quit his office, locked the bolt, and strode from the hall into the foyer of the Barrots’ residence, also the location of Temptations. With a determined stride, he took the back exit and, in no less than five minutes, was riding his gelding home.
However, even though he was soon comfortably situated in his rooms there was no rest to be found. He should be exhausted, he should be falling asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Yet he was not; rather he was tossing, turning, and sticking one foot from under the bedclothes in an effort to keep from being too hot, only to discover that the single foot outside the bedclothes made him entirely too cold.
Blast it all.
And to top it off, his bloody mind wouldn’t stop spinning. He considered a snifter of brandy, but decided against it. He was too tired to actually rise from bed and get it. He was too tired to sleep; thathadto be it. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was hell.
He should have expected the day would simply continue to be as wretched as the night had been.
No rest for the wicked and all.
At some point in the early afternoon, he opened his eyes, thankful to have fallen asleep for at least a few hours, though, it was the kind of sleep that made one imagine they were only thinking of sleeping, rather than actually falling under the spell of unconsciousness.
Whatever the case, he’d take it, and with a sigh, he rose from bed and rang for his valet.
In short work he was dressed for the day, or rather the afternoon, and he quit his room in search of some sustenance. It was his custom to take tea once he woke up; it was usually that time of the day anyway, and he found the tea service awaiting his leisure in the breakfast room. Beside the teapot was a plate of biscuits, and an assortment of sandwiches. He lifted one from the plate and took a bite as his eyes scanned for the correspondence that would be waiting for his attention. He took another bite of the cucumber sandwich, set it to the side, and then lifted a small stack of thick envelopes—invitations, no doubt.
