His friend drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “And just how is a dukesupposedto act, Farrington?” He leaned back, a grin on his face.
Alonzo pulled out his watch and pretended to care about the time. Just when he thought things were getting better, his friend had to remind him of why he had chosen to live a hedonistic lifestyle away from his homeland, away from the probing, judgmental eyes of theton—away from his family that too often made endless demands of him. Instead of providing sound, moral direction as any normal friend would, Damien served as his immoral compass.
He flicked at an imaginary speck of dust on his coat. “A man needs something to hold on to.”
“Aye…a pert pair of breasts will do for me.”
Lord Presley walked by just in time to overhear Damien’s lewd remark and lifted his glass in salute.
Damien chuckled. “It seems I am not the only one who thinks so.”
“Tell me,” Alonzo said, “do you not grow tired of waking up in a strange bed every morning?”
“The bed is of no concern to me, but the stranger next to me surely is.”
“You have not reached that point, then.”
“What troubles you? Are you not at the height of your popularity? Wealthy beyond imagining? In good health? Blessed with the voice of an angel in God’s own heavenly host?”
Alonzo snorted, then stared at his friend’s hand on the table. His fingers were long and elegant, had never felt the pain of labor. A gifted pianist, Damien had reached fame in much the same way he had. He started playing the piano at private gatherings to seduce women. But once thetonrealized they had their own virtuoso among them, the duke found himself playing for Prinny at the palace, then at galas hosted by foreign dignitaries and nobles. Fortune and notoriety naturally followed.
As it had for Alonzo. And though he would not trade it for anything, sometimes, when he found himself drifting helplessly in the past, remembering his mother and father, wishing life had given his family a better fate, he longed for more—for something sacred.
The waiter returned with their drinks and set them on the table, then cleared away the empty glasses.
“A bit melancholy before your concerto tomorrow?” Damien asked. “The countess has spared no expense to host this extravagant event, you know.”
“I am well aware of her attempt to latch onto us to benefit herself, if that’s what you mean.”
His friend shrugged. “As should be expected, my friend.”
He cleared his throat after draining the content of his glass in one, greedy swallow. “Finest whiskey I’ve ever tasted. Damn happy the Scots have a real use.”
Damien’s face twisted in mock offense. “Do not let the Earl of Ganes hear you speak in such a way.”
“Is he here?” Alonzo looked about.
“Just came in.” Damien waved at the entryway across the palatial room.
Graham Stoker might be half Scot by birth, but he was as much a bloody Englishman as any noble sitting in White’s. His father had married the daughter of a Scottish earl, and though their friend spent summers in the Highlands, he had been raised in London. His way of thinking always provided a fresh perspective.
Graham settled in one of the empty leather chairs at their table. “Did someone die?” he asked, looking between them.
“Alonzo is about to swear off women,” Damien said with a smile.
Graham looked at him aghast. “Christ! Do you need a five-week treatment of mercury?”
“I am fine,” Alonzo said soberly.
“Tis good to know, friend.” Ganes slapped him on the shoulder. “If not an ailment from the fair Venus, then what would have you thinking about taking vows of self-denial?”
Alonzo shifted in his seat, more than ready to take his leave.
“He smells of April and May,” Damien offered.
“I prefer Syphilis,” Graham said.
Alonzo glared at him. “I fail to see the humor in that remark, Ganes.”
