One
The Earl of Branford shifted, the slight movement causing a grimace to pass over his well-chiseled features. One eyelid slowly came open, then fell shut at the sight of a hazy but eminently recognizable bottle of brandy perched on the delicate gilt side table.
Good Lord, had he really polished off that one too?
With a groan he rearranged his long, muscled legs, only to find them entangled with a pair of much shorter, softer ones. A slender hand ran lightly over the dark curls of his chest and across the hard planes of his stomach.
“Milord,” murmured a sultry voice. The lady snuggled closer. “It appears you are … awake. Quite awake.”
Stifling another groan, Branford turned and drew his mistress into a deep kiss ….
Half an hour later, he sat up on the edge of the rumpled bed. The dull ache in his head only mirrored the one deep inside him. After briefly massaging his temples, he finished pulling on his boots and then reached for his shirt.
“Must you go? The raven-haired beauty reached up to feather a caress to his cheek.
In answer, the earl hurriedly pulled it on and tied his cravat into some semblance of neatness. He then stood up and donned an impeccably cut coat of navy superfine. Without a pause, he reached into one of the pockets and took out a small box, exquisitely wrapped in embossed paper.
It dropped with a feathery rustle onto the rumpled satin.
“Yes, I’m afraid I must take my leave, Serena”
She unwrapped it. Her jaw tightened slightly, she draped the filigree gold bracelet winking with diamonds and emeralds around her wrist. “It is beautiful.” After a moment she added, “I take it this is goodbye?”
“It’s time, Serena.”
Serena gave a toss of her head, sending the dark ringlets cascading over her shoulders—even in anger, he thought cynically, she managed to look perfect.
“I suppose I should feel flattered that I’ve lasted longer than most of previous your mistresses.”
“It’s nothing personal, m’dear.” He straightened the gold signet ring on his little finger. “My banker will make the necessary arrangements, though with your charms, I doubt you will be without protection for very long.”
“You are a hard man, milord.”
“Come now, Serena, please don’t play the injured party with me. You know very well that you expected no less.” With that, Branford turned and left the bedroom, quietly but firmly closing the door after him.
Outside, the raw chill slapped his face. After turning up the collar of his greatcoat, he settled his curly-brimmed beaver hat on his disheveled locks and climbed into his waiting carriage.
“Damnation.” It was nearly three in the morning and though he was dead tired and feeling muzzy from the effects of the brandy and the boudoir, Branford found that he couldn’t facethe idea of returning to his townhouse—an elegant mansion filled with naught but ghosts and recriminations.
Uttering another oath under his breath, the earl rapped on the roof with the tip of his walking stick. “White’s,” he called to his coachman, before settling back against the squabs and forcing himself not to think of the past.
Despite the late hour, there was no dearth of activity at the exclusive club on St. James’s Street. Gentlemen—many far more inebriated than he was, noted the earl—were still at play in the gaming room while others nursed port or brandy in the comfort of the leather armchairs clustered throughout the rest of the establishment.
Branford handed his greatcoat to the porter and entered one of the sitting rooms. A hush fell over the gentlemen still lingering over their drinks. Ignoring the wary looks following his progress, he made his way toward a vacant chair and called for a bottle of claret. After seating himself, he stretched out his legs and slumped back against the soft leather.
The wine quickly appeared and he poured a glass. But instead of raising it to his lips, Branford merely cradled it in his palms and closed his eyes.
He sensed the air of tension in the room dissipate. The buzz of conversation slowly began again as it became evident he didn’t intend to make any of the gentlemen a victim of his hair-trigger temper and razor-sharp tongue.
Notoriety had its benefits—he had a reputation for being dangerous, so thank heaven they would all be more than happy to leave him in peace …
And if he were truly lucky, mused Branford as he drained his glass of wine in one long swallow, he might sink into a welcome interlude of oblivion by dozing off.
The small groupof gentlemen gathered by the hearth also had a reputation for heavy drinking, high-stakes gambling and profligate behavior—though they, too, seemed wary of sparking Branford’s ire.
But as the earl’s eyes remained closed, and the empty glass in his hand fell to the carpet, the group resumed resumed exchanging nasty gossip about their fellow members of the beau monde.
“I heard that the Chilton chit behaved in such a shocking manner the other day that she’s all but ruined her reputation,” said one of them, a middle-aged viscount with darting, ferret-like eyes set in an otherwise unremarkable face. “What was her aunt thinking to allow it?”
