Hawk lounged opposite him in his study, stone-cold sober, of course, while Dash poured himself another drink. The room smelled faintly of leather and old pipe smoke—a gentleman’s refuge, although Dash found little comfort in it, if any.
“Beatrice has gone on ahead of me to Dasborough Park with Edwards and some of the staff. I’ll follow on Guinevere.”
Dash hadn’t indicated when he, himself, would leave town. He’d leave when he was damn well ready. For now, a fog consumed the air, thick and relentless, and he could hardly focus through it.
At the mention of Beatrice’s departure, Hawk’s expression tightened. He muttered under his breath, “Always running…” before lifting his cup in a sharp, dismissive gesture.
“What was that?” Dash asked, frowning.
“Just rambling,” Hawk said, his usual smirk snapping back into place.
He leaned back, all careless ease again. “It’ll do you good, I imagine, to get out of town. You did your best, old chap. Hell, you did more than your best. I cannot imagine myself ever acting so foolish over any one woman.” Hawk shrugged, but there was an edge to his words. “She doesn’t deserve you.”
Dash just stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. Alcohol, he knew, was not going to numb his pain.
“What you need,” Hawk went on, “is to get right back on the horse.”
Dash turned his head and frowned. “I’ll ride home soon enough. Gwennie is in your stables at the moment, and I do not wish to?—”
“Good God, that’s not the kind of riding I mean.” Hawk pinched the bridge of his nose. “Has she ruined you completely? There are other women, Dasborough. Dozens who would fall at your feet.”
“And how many have fallen at yours lately?” Dash shot back.
For a beat, Hawk’s smirk faltered. His gaze slid toward the fire. “Enough.” Then, almost under his breath: “Although not the right one.”
Dash looked up sharply. “What’s that?”
Hawk waved a hand. “Suffice it to say, I’ve had no shortage of admirers.”
Whatever trouble lurked there, Hawk wasn’t ready to share it, and Dash was too mired in his own misery to press.
Instead, Hawk tugged the bell-pull, and his butler appeared instantly.
“Have the coach brought round. The duke and I are going to have an evening on the town.”
It was the last thing Dash wanted. Mon Dieu, he didn’t even have the will to argue. What did it matter? He had already lost.
Truth be told, he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman in two years. Pas une seule. And by God, he was just drunk enough to wonder—might he find some buxom young thing to ease the pain? A blonde? A brunette?
He tried to picture it, but non. No one could replace his princesse.
Nonetheless, an hour later, he sprawled on a red velvet chaise, one of each in his lap. Pretty, he supposed.
He poured some stinging spirit down his throat. It didn’t matter what it was. Brandy, whisky, gin—it all tasted the same now.
Would the women be the same?
“Which of us would you prefer, sir? Or would you like to take us both into one of the rooms?” The brunette pouted, lashes low.
Wet kisses trailed along his other ear, down to his jaw.
Which did he prefer? “Rien.” Nothing. He was dead inside.
“We can take care of you, Love,” the blonde teased, catching his slurred mutter. “Your friend said you are a duke? But I think he is fibbing. You’re far too handsome to be a duke.” She giggled, her hand slipping past his waistband to rub the fabric over his cock. It twitched under her palm, more out of reflex than desire.
Tiens. His body still responded, but it was nothing—nothing like the fire Ambrosia had lit in him two days ago. Or was it three now?
He turned his head and accepted the dark-haired girl’s kiss. She tasted of spices, sharp and foreign. Not unpleasant, but…still. Nothing.
