As though Fletch would be of any help, even if he had noticed George’s pleading look. It was quite obvious George had been served up as a sacrificial lamb to the overbearing and ambitious Mr. Hewitt this evening. There would be no rescue coming his way any time soon, not when Hewitt was so thoroughly enjoying himself.
Theo found it oddly irritating that George’s gaze had gone straight to Fletch, particularly when George didn’t even seem to have noticed that Theo was here. Was it possible George hadn't recognised him, he wondered? Was that why he hadn’t returned Theo’s nod? It seemed unlikely. Theo remembered the longing looks George used to send his way at school, and then there had been all those summers he’d spent dogging Theo’s heels around Dinsford Park. Theo had been very aware of George’s hero worship back then. He hadn’t encouraged it, but he hadn’t discouraged it either. He’d mostly pretended not to notice, deciding that, if George Asquith was going to be sweet on someone, it may as well be him, since he wouldn’t get annoyed about it.
When George had first arrived at St. Dominic’s, he’d been a little older than new boys usually were. Rather more sensitive too. He’d quickly found a friend in Fletch, but Fletch hadn’t done much to coax George out of his shell. Instead, he’d monopolised George jealously. And later, he hadn’t liked it when Theo encouraged George to make friends with the other boys. Fletch hadn’t wanted to share George’s attention with anyone, and George had tended to give way to his wishes.
Except when his helpless gaze followed Theo.
As the years passed, Theo had begun to wonder whether George and Fletch were more to one another than merely friends. And then, during that last summer at Dinsford Park, he’d come upon them behind the stables, kissing one another. George with his back to the wall, and Ollie pressed up against him, greedy hands moving under George’s loosened shirt.
“What in God’s name?”
Theo grimaced inwardly at the memory of his own half-shouted words. When George and Fletch had broken apart, and George had jerked his head towards Theo, his soft brown gaze had been utterly horrified.
It was, unfortunately, the last time they’d seen one another. That same day, Theo and Piers—both recently turned eighteen—had gone off to the local fair where they’d drunk far too much cider before heading off on a near-week-long adventure. By the time they dragged themselves back to Dinsford Park, George had returned to his family estate in Wiltshire, and Fletch was recovering in his bedchamber.
No one had spoken of what had caused Sir Joseph to lose his temper so badly one day that he’d thrashed his own son like a dog. But Theo had always suspected the man had found out what was going on between Fletch and George. As for Piers, he’d been cheerfully oblivious, entirely caught up in thoughts of Bessie Brownlie, the buxom village girl who worked at the local inn.
“—and of course we’re always looking for more gentlemen, Mr. Caldwell. If you’d be interested?” The sound of his name jerked him out of his thoughts.
He blinked and focused his attention back on the young matron who was looking at him expectantly, frantically searching his mind for a form of words that would not betray the fact that he hadn’t been listening. Fortunately, he was saved from the necessity of saying anything at all by the tinkling sound of a silver spoon tapping the side of a glass, a sign for the ladies to withdraw for tea while the gentlemen had their port.
Moments after the ladies departed, several footmen swept back in to set down crystal decanters of port.
Several of the gentlemen took the opportunity to stand and change their seats, while others struck up conversations with their neighbours. This, finally, was Theo’s chance to make an early departure, but he found himself lingering, casting his gaze again up the table to where George Asquith sat, still being talked at by Mr. Hewitt.
While Theo was dithering, Piers appeared at his elbow and settled into the empty seat beside him. “Still awake, old man?” he teased. “The last time I looked your way, I thought you were going to fall asleep into your syllabub.”
“I’ve been bored to death for the last few hours,” Theo admitted. “I plan to leave now while I have the chance. Once we rejoin the ladies, there’ll be no escape for hours.”
Piers groaned. “Please don’t go. I’ll be stuck here all night. Apparently, they’ve cleared some huge reception room and plan to have some dancing later—can you believe the size of this house?”
Theo grimaced. “If that’s the plan, I’m definitely leaving.” He paused, adding casually, “I should take my leave of Hewitt, I suppose.”
Piers sighed. “I suppose you should,” he said. “But I’m not sure he’ll notice. He’s only got eyes for Gracie tonight.”
Theo scowled at Piers’s use of the stupid nickname George had been cursed with at school. “You shouldn’t call him that,” he said. “You know he hated it.” Fletch was the one who’d come up with the name. It was a nod to George’s status, of course—that one day he would be Your grace—but that wasn’t the thing that made the other boys laugh. They’d laughed because the name was feminine and fussy, and George had been a little fussy too—a neat, soft, virtuous boy who always tried to do as Matron said and not get his clothes dirty when they played games.
“What’s wrong with it?” Piers demanded, seeming genuinely bewildered. “It’s just a nickname. Dukes are allowed to have nicknames, you know.”
Theo didn’t bother to answer that. He wasn’t in the mood. Throwing back his port, he stood. “I’m off,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the church.”
He left Piers, still grumbling, and strode to the top of the table, where Mr. Hewitt and George were sitting.
George was the first to look up when Theo reached them and his expression was unmistakably cool. Politely unfriendly.
What on earth?
Hewitt gestured to the empty chair on his other side, “Ah, Mr. Caldwell, do join us.”
Theo forced a polite smile. “Thank you, but I’ve actually come to say my farewells.”
“So soon?” Hewitt said, raising his brows. “I’m sure the ladies will be very disappointed to be deprived of the opportunity of dancing with you.”
“If that is true—and I’m sure it is not—I am doing them a great favour as their tender feet will be spared from being trod upon.” He offered a rueful smile. “I’m afraid I am no dancer.”
Hewitt laughed. “In truth, you are a man after my own heart, Caldwell,” he said. “I detest dancing. Of course, if my other daughters were old enough to attend this evening, I would probably insist you stay to dance with them, but since they are little maids still, and far too young to be thinking of dancing with gentlemen, I will let you off.” He winked then, a roguish look in his eye. “I must ask, though, are you leaving because you have”—he raised a suggestive brow—“another lady to visit this evening?”
Theo forced himself to grin. “It would not be gentlemanly to say,” he said, but he winked, and Hewitt laughed uproariously.
