Snorting, Dorian delayed his response by sipping his drink. Although now… he was wondering how Ellie would react to such a suggestion.
With time. It will have to be with time.
How he’d keep her thighs splayed, as he set his mouth on the most intimate place on her body. How her pants and gasps of feminine surrender would be an orchestra to his ears as he gave her the wickedest of kisses.
“See,” Drake jabbed a finger into Dorian’s arm. “That is what I mean. You should be back with your new wife, sampling her favors.”
“I will when I get home,” he replied. “But I must speak with Harcourt.”
The marquess shrugged. “I know nothing about a commitment with women, much less of a wife, but I would imagine very few of them would be happy their new groom ran off to play pow-wow with his male friends.”
“I—"
“Your Grace,” a nasal, pompous drawl from Diggory Trent, Earl Davenport, a self-proclaimed second arbiter of British men's fashion following Beau Brummel, emanated from behind him. “Color me surprised to see you here.”
“And why is that?” Dorian asked dryly.
“With all of London aflutter about your marriage and hasty disappearance to god-knows-where, there is a supposition that we would not see you until ten years’ time with a gaggle of children in tow.”
Davenport’s cronies tittered.
“I hate to disappoint you, Davenport,” Dorian replied. “But some men can focus on more than two things at a time. Marriage does not stop business, nor vice versa. And, speaking of children, how are those two bastards of yours? The ones their mamas are parading off as their husband’s?”
Davenport was livid. “I have no idea what you mean, and anyone who claims the contrary can meet me at dawn.”
“You’re a horrible shot as well,” Dorian remarked coolly. “Now, do me a favor and scuttle along. I have important business to deal with.”
Boldly turning away from the irritant, Dorian spied the door. Harcourt should have arrived by now.
Plucking out a pocket watch, he checked the time. It was after nine, half an hour after the man usually arrived. It was entirely possible the man had a delay, it happened to the best of them, even the ones that were as obsessed with a timely routine as was Harcourt.
He and Drake had found a table in the back of the club away from the crowd. “Have you heard from Carrington?”
“You mean aside from the moment he saw how you’d stolen his bride and pledged eternal damnation on anyone who tried to take her from you?” Drake’s lips twitched.
“Beyond that,” Dorian said flatly. “Have you seen him or not?”
CHAPTER 13
“He went out of town the night of your wedding,” Drake shrugged. “I do not know why, and no, I have not seen him from then.”
“Probably went to his estate,” Dorian said, his eyes flickering to the door. With every passing minute Harcourt did not appear, his hope dimmed. Still, he and Drake talked about their businesses.
By the time the clock chimed eleven, with Harcourt still not in sight, Dorian gave up on waiting.
Rubbing his forehead, he sagged into his seat and fiddled with the serviette. “The one time I have decided to seek him out, he is nowhere to be found.”
“I don’t think it for naught,” Drake shrugged. “Leave a message with the floorman in case he comes in tomorrow or next week. He’ll get it.”
Dorian barely held back a liberal eye roll. “If he has not responded to the two dozen letters I’ve sent to his home, I doubt he will respond to this one.”
“Oh, so this was an ambush,” Drake laughed while picking up his drink. “You might want to take some notes from the Romans about how ambushes go, Beaumont. You set a trap in the front and also cut off their way of retreat.”
Balling up his cloth napkin, Dorian tossed it at his friend as he stood. “I’ll be taking a quick drop in at The Labyrinth before I return to my wife. Do you care to join?”
“Certainly,” Drake shrugged.
While Drake vanished into the card room, Dorian made for his office to get a copy of that night’s records. It was standard procedure for Weston to make two copies on the nights he was away, so he did not think it would take him too long to compile the separate folios.
