As Miss Montague began to wheel his new bride toward the open French doors, the companion met Dash’s gaze over her shoulder—steady and a little grateful.
He inclined his head in silent acknowledgment.
When they were gone, he glanced toward the other end of the table where the Earl of Beresford stood, laughing with two of the countess’s cousins. The sound was too loud, too false.
But he’d gotten what he wanted. A duke for a son-in-law.
Even if Dash wasn’t his original choice.
Dash’s jaw tightened. The man barely seemed to notice his daughter’s absence—barely seemed to notice her at all.
Dash took a sip of the lemonade that someone had placed in front of him and grimaced. Warm. Diluted.
Hawk arrived at the table, lifting a porcelain cup in greeting. The tea within nearly sloshed over the rim, dark and steaming, no doubt the strong blend he always favored. He had long since sworn off spirits, and now brought his own supply to such gatherings—a habit that never failed to remind Dash of that fateful night long ago…
“The first of us to fall,” Hawk said with mock cheer. “Congratulations, old chum.”
“Your time will come,” Dash murmured.
The Earl of Grimstead—Grimm—strolled up a moment later, all languid elegance and wry amusement, though Dash knew how quickly that charm could turn to steel. “Thought you might need fortifying,” he said, passing over a glass of brandy identical to his own.
“Ah, so that was the purpose of the second brandy,” Longstaffe drawled as he came up. “Not like you to be so excessively thoughtful, Ashe.”
Grimm scoffed, hand to his chest in mock affront. “Excessively thoughtful? You make it sound a vice. I’ll have you know I can be considerate when the mood strikes.”
“Right.” Longstaffe rolled his eyes, then turned to Dash. “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you. Honestly, I’m shocked your new in-laws allowed this reprobate to join us at all. He hasn’t exactly courted polite society.”
At that, Dash huffed a bitter laugh. “I doubt that matters to them at all. As far as Beresford is concerned, so long as one holds enough influence, the rest does not signify. Not honor or manners…” He trailed off as a familiar figure caught his attention from across the room. The brandy in his mouth turned bitter.
“Or a penchant for sadism?” Hawk finished for him, having followed his gaze.
Dash merely nodded.
Dudley Groby was currently exchanging pleasantries with the Beresfords, the dissolution of their agreement apparently not enough to discourage a friendship between the two. Tall and slim, with dark brown hair and eyes that were cold and empty as a dark pit, Groby only superficially resembled his late half-brother, though it was always a bit of a shock to see him out and about.
“He looks like Sebastian, doesn’t he?” Hawk remarked, as if idly noting the weather—yet echoing Dash’s private thought too neatly for comfort. Sometimes Dash wondered if his old friend didn’t see straight through him. Hawk gave a dry snort. “I’m astonished the lout even wanted to attend—after being snubbed in favor of a real duke.”
He nudged Dash’s shoulder with a weak attempt at a smirk, and Dash replied in kind. Although he wasn’t exactly happy with the outcome, he was glad to have been able to save Lady Hannah from a man who, by his sister’s account, may well turn out to be a true villain.
But of course, Grimm broke up the small moment of levity with ease.
“He’ll find some other victim soon enough,” he threw in like a dagger, callous as ever. “If what he claims is true, that is. If he really does become Lovington, half of London’s debutantes will be trailing after him by this time next year.”
Dash’s small smile twisted into a grimace. Unfortunately, that likely wasn’t even untrue, but it wasn’t as though there was anything he could do about it. He couldn’t exactly marry every naive young lady Groby tried to ensnare, could he?
If it came to it, they might be able to hold him up in the House of Lords, though a solution like that was only temporary at best.
A final figure arrived then, saving him from having to reply one way or another—Camden Rensleight, the Earl of Blackwell. Golden-haired and possessed of the sort of good looks much extolled in drawing rooms and tittered over behind fans, he was the eldest of them, though only by a handful of months. And months hardly signified, considering they had all come of age together—figuratively, if not literally.
“Thanks for coming, Black.” Dash dipped his chin.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” the other man said.
“Even if the entertainment’s sorely lacking,” Grimm drawled.
Now that they were all here, Dash came out from around the table, and together they drifted toward the far end of the room, their formation instinctive, a habit born out of necessity.
After a few seconds of silence, Longstaffe looked to Dash pointedly. “There are some notable new arrivals this Season I thought you might like to hear about.”
