Manningham’s seed.
“Oh, my lady. What have you done?”
Felicity raised her hands to her face and burst into tears.
Waiting
Mantis balanced his cue on one end, vaguely listening to Chaswick, Westerley, and Stone Spencer negotiate their latest wager over the billiard’s table. Peter Spencer, Stone’s brother, coaxed interesting melodies from his cello, where he sat playing at the opposite end of the room.
One week had passed since the house party ended—one week since most of the guests had returned to their own homes or, in some cases, traveled directly to London in anticipation of the spring season.
And nine days had passed since he’d taken advantage of Felicity. Since he’d released inside of her.
Nine days since she’d declined his offer of marriage. Mantis released the cue and watched it hover for a most satisfying ten seconds. He caught it before it unbalanced itself.
She wasn’t all that distant, physically—less than two miles. Her father’s property most conveniently bordered Westerley Crossings, but she might as well be in the America’s, what with the ocean she obviously wished between them.
She’d avoided him the morning after, leaving for home before daylight, and when he’d presented himself as a visitor at Brightland’s, she’d declined to meet with him. Her mother had been ill; she’d relayed this information through their butler. Felicity refused to leave her side.
Lady Brightley was well known for suffering a variety of malady’s, but even so, Mantis had seen through Felicity’s cock and bull story for what it was; a convenient excuse to avoid speaking to him.
His only solace came from knowing she was safely ensconced in the comfort of her own home. And she hadn’t been abandoned.
For as long as he’d known Westerley, the earl’s sisters had treated Felicity like family.
And neither had quite forgiven their brother yet—even if they did like Miss Jackson, whose father had just returned from his tour of the distilleries to presumably bestow his blessing on the newly engaged couple.
“Stone insists you cannot balance two balls on top of one another.” A cigar hanging from his mouth, Chase taunted Westerley from where he lounged sideways on a plush leather chair near the hearth. Mantis had never known a gentleman who was more comfortable in his skin than Chaswick.
“Doubting me, Spencer?” Westerley cocked a brow, looking all too satisfied with himself.
Mantis was happy for his friend, but he was also conflicted. For all intents and purposes, Felicity Brightley had been groomed to become the man’s countess.
Given, Westerley had treated Felicity with respect and affection, but he’d never once looked at her the way he looked at Miss Jackson—like the world revolved around her.
And Felicity insisted that she’d loved him—loved him still.
Which left Mantis feeling another inconvenient emotion—an ugly one that he’d rather not acknowledge.
He returned the cue to its shelf, and then examined the balls Westerley had lined up on the billiard table. “It’s physically impossible.” Mantis scoffed. Even he knew that two perfectly spherical objects could not balance upon one another.
“What outcome are you wagering on, Stone?” Arms folded casually across his chest, Greys, as per usual, was dressed to the nines; lace at his sleeves, and an embroidered satin waistcoat beneath his perfectly fitted emerald jacket. “And how many attempts will Westerley be allowed?” He would ensure all pertinent details of any bet were declared and noted.
“One attempt,” Stone declared. “And once you’ve failed, I want unlimited access to your baby for the duration of the season.” Westerley’sbabywas a new curricle he’d purchased just before the holidays. Was he willing to put it up over such an idiotic bet?
“When I succeed,” Westerley produced two billiard balls from the pocket nearest him on the table, “in balancing these two balls atop one another, I’ll expect a boon.”
“So long as you don’t expect me to act as your butler,” Stone laughed, because another fellow in their group had bet just that… and Lost to Greystone. The Duke of Blackheart had returned to England ahead of schedule to put his affairs in order. Presumably, once he stepped into the role of Grey’s butler, he wasn’t allowed to reveal the terms of the bet to anyone. The trouble was, Blackheart was a bloody duke. It might be impossible to keep his identity under wraps for long.
“Speaking of butlers,” Mantis turned to Greys. “When do you expect Blackheart to join your London staff?”
“One week before the season commences.”
Mantis nodded thoughtfully. Because he, too, had a stake in the duke’s success. If Blackheart failed or gave up,which he would not, he and Chase would lose a different bet, one which would compel them to run through Hyde Park wearing nothing but the splendor God gave them. If Blackheart succeeded, Westerley and Greys would be obligated to make the invigorating sprint.
Furthermore, added as an even more outlandish addendum to the bet, if Blackheart failed to complete the stint, then Greys would win the dubious distinction of choosing a duchess for their duke.
Which provided Mantis confidence enough to wager on his success. Blackheart would never allow that to happen.
