He wondered how many foreign men had discovered her brilliance in all the strange and distant lands and royal courts she’d visited.
There again, a spear of heat, though this one burned a little differently.
He grimaced and opened his eyes, his gaze settling on that damned gold ring on his bedside table.
The ring that thought this was his fault.
The ring made him think about logistics. About banns and registrations and selling or at least getting a hold put on his commission with the cavalry. It kept his mind spinning for long enough to begin to lull him into something resembling rest, until mercifully, he blinked and the sun had made its way fairly high into the afternoon sky.
There was next to no staff in this house, after it having been closed for so long, with only a few servants who’d made a life of this place lingering to keep it from crumbling to dust. He’d left his cavalry valet back in Hounslow, not realizing how long he would be stuck in Brighton. As such, Elias saw to his own toiletteand change of clothes, shaving himself clean and ensuring that he was crisp and alert to face this new day.
He was going to need to have some unpleasant conversations, both with the barrister and with his bride-to-be. He reasoned that he may as well feel presentable while he did it.
If he expected everyone else to meet him in kind, he was sorely mistaken.
Those who were awake at this late hour were either slumped in the dining room, picking at an assortment of cold meats and cheeses that had been laid out in lieu of luncheon, or wandering the halls in their dressing gowns, complaining about the brightness of the sunlight.
He realized, in quick order, that he had left far, far earlier than he realized, given the scope of the night that had apparently transpired.
Good. It would be nice to have an advantage for a change.
In fact, he used to fantasize about exactly this sort of thing. He’d lie in bed at Eton and imagine coming back to Starling’s Rest as an accomplished, impressive, impervious adult and stunning them all into slack-jawed silence. A childish fantasy, but perhaps still one hiding somewhere in his ribs, regardless.
At the very least, that bent of childishness had kept his marks high and his aspirations focused. It had pushed him to shed his baby fat, hone his mind, and seek commendation. There was something to be said for that, at least.
He’d excelled at almost everything he’d attempted from the first day he’d arrived at Eton. He’d made friends. He’d won fencing competitions. He’d learned to ride for both practicality and performance. For the first time, he had been able to swell with pride at a professor’s accolade without suspecting it had been a consolation in the shadow of true genius.
And he had gotten many such accolades.
Many.
It was worth remembering, even if he never told the others about it. It was worth reminding himself that one did not have to be a prodigy to be a success.
And in any event, he was the only one of them smart enough to have gotten through to this morning without the pain of liquid regret.
He strode into the kitchen, feeling brisk and superior, and smiled brightly at the assembled wilted flowers. “Morning, all,” he sang, reaching for a strip of bacon. “Is Mr. Harcourt about? Or Harriet?”
Bleary eyed, Rhys glanced up at him from his position near the bread basket and shook his head, standing up as though his stomach had just turned. “Well,” he said, palming the side of his head where all his brown curls were completely flattened against his scalp, “aren’t you fresh?”
And then he strode out, murmuring to himself.
“That means ‘passing wind in a jar,’” Monica put in helpfully. “We learned it last night.”
“Charming,” said Elias, rounding the table to choose something from the bread basket. He had his hand outstretched toward one of the butter rolls on top before he noticed something odd about the one at the top of the tower, freezing mid-grab.
It had two golden eyes, shaped suspiciously like rectangular cufflinks, and a jagged smile made of plum preserves.
He blinked at it for a moment, uncertain if he was astounded or amused.
Malcolm Lennox, whose head had been nested in the crook of his elbow, muttered something against the table, then, realizing his voice was not traveling through the wood, sighed and looked up. “Parlor,” he said, his voice dry and crackly. “God, I used to be better at this.”
“Parlor,” Elias repeated, taking up the bun with a face and tossing it in Malcolm’s direction. “I think this is yours.”
Mal caught it on reflex, surprise registering on his face as Elias turned and strode out of the dining room, grinning to himself as he tore one of the other, unmolested buns in half and popped a piece of fresh bread in his mouth.
A few moments later, there was a booming cry of, “Rhys!”
Followed by an impish giggle somewhere in the halls.
