“A favor?” Robert gaped. He stood. Water streamed from his hair, coat, flattened cravat, everywhere. “This is you asking for a favor?”
“I need you clear-headed enough to comprehend my words.” Stirling’s tone was reasonable, but amusement lurked in his features.
Robert muttered a few choice curses as he stepped over the edge of the tub. Water sloshed across the floor. One of the footmen immediately began to wipe it up. The other offered Robert a towel, his expression neutral.
Robert took the proffered cloth and mopped at his face. “Look what you’ve done to my jacket. My vest.” He let out another curse. “My boots, man. Look what you’ve done to my boots.”
“Put them by the fire. John will take your clothes and see them made right.”
Robert turned to take in the cheery blaze. Now that his vision was clearer, he also noticed a set of clothes laid out, as well as a nightshirt and robe. His clothes. His nightshirt and robe.
He cast Stirling an incredulous look. “You’ve been to my residence?”
“Yes. Your staff are rather worried about you. They haven’t seen you in three days.”
Robert shook his head, bemused. He crossed to the fire, then began stripping his lean frame. Stirling ordered the tub removed and the floor mopped. Robert shucked his sodden attire.
After toweling dry, he took up his robe. His original intention had been to dress, but weariness had settled. What was the point in dressing, after all? Once he heard Stirling out and sent him on his way, Robert could return to drinking just as easily in a private room in his robe as he could in the public room, dressed.
He belted his robe closed, plopped into an armchair and propped his feet on the nearby stool. He watched with little interest as servants gathered his wet garments, sopped up the last of the water and disappeared. The chair was near the fire, the warmth lulling. His eyes closed.
“Now, about that favor.”
Robert forced his lids open to find Stirling seated on the other side of the fireplace. “The answer is no,” Robert muttered.
“All I require is for you to attend three balls.”
“Balls? With dancing?” Robert scowled. “With ladies?”
“That is generally the way of balls.” Stirling rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers before him.
“Can’t. I’ve sworn off women. For good. No more.” Robert shook his head, then regretted the movement as the room bounced. “I will not be jilted a third time, and certainly not again in Scotland. I’m leaving.”
“Oh?” Stirling raised an eyebrow. “Headed back to London, are you?”
Robert looked away from those perceptive eyes. He could never go back to London. Every inch of the city reminded him of Cinthia. “Maybe the Continent. Perhaps even France.”
“France? Do you intend to get yourself shot?”
Robert shrugged. “At least in France, when a man is jilted, he can drown his sorrow in cognac.”
Stirling watched him over his steepled fingers.
Robert resisted an urge to squirm under that gaze. “Or I could hang about Edinburgh for a time. I’ve nothing against Scotland, just women.”
With a sigh, Stirling brought his hands to the chair arms. “Miss Thomas did the right thing, breaking it off with you.”
Robert went rigid. “What did you say?”
“Kitty Thomas did the right thing when she broke your engagement.”
Anger coiled inside Robert.
“Anyone can see you’re still in love with Cinthia.”
Robert’s anger disappeared like summer rain. Cinthia. The real reason he’d come to Scotland. For two years, they’d been engaged. In London, they were the toast of theTon. Every dance, the theater, the park. Always together. Blissfully happy as they waited for her father to return from his government appointment in India so they could wed.
Then Lord Ailbeart had come along, with Scottish title. He enticed her with his lineage. Whispering that she was meant to be a member of the peerage, Lady Cinthia, Viscountess Dunreid. Not simply Missus Banbrook.
