Franny held her hand out for the other earring, but Prue hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to be the cause of a rift between Montford and Basingstoke. “I think it’s best if I make this right with Montford myself.”
Franny raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain?”
Hardly, but she’d made this mess. She couldn’t burden poor Basingstoke with the whole, ugly business. “Yes. If I can’t resolve it with Montford, then we can always ask Basingstoke to intervene.”
“Very well.” Franny took her hand and pressed the other earring into her palm. “If you think that would be best.”
Best? She’d forfeited any claim to that days ago, but she nodded with a decisiveness she didn’t feel, and slipped the earrings into her pocket.
CHAPTER10
“Nice shot, Montford.” Grantham followed the progress of the red billiard ball as it rolled across the baize and dropped into a corner pocket, then turned and slapped Jasper on the back. “Well done! It’s fortunate your shot this morning wasn’t as accurate, eh?”
“Quite fortunate, yes.” Basingstoke leaned a hip against the table. “My wife wouldn’t have taken it kindly if Miss Thorne had returned from her morning ride riddled with birdshot.”
“I told you already, it was an accidental discharge.” Jasper set his cue aside and dropped into a chair with a grunt. “I never fired on Miss Thorne.” A gentleman didn’t shoot a lady simply because she’d blackmailed him, for God’s sake.
She didn’t truly believe he’d firedather, did she?
“Of course, you didn’t, Montford.” Grantham glanced at Basingstoke with a frown, then abandoned his own cue and joined Jasper in front of the fire. “I beg your pardon. I was only jesting, but that was in poor taste.”
“Never mind, Grantham.” Jasper slumped in his chair. Dinner hadn’t yet begun, but already his head was pounding so relentlessly streaks of bright light were pulsing behind his eyelids, and his skull felt as if it were shattering into jagged pieces. “Perhaps it would be best if I had dinner in my bedchamber tonight.”
“Come now, Montford, there’s no need to banish yourself to your bedchamber.” Basingstoke took the chair beside Grantham’s. “No one believes you actually meant to do Miss Thorne an injury today. It was an unfortunate incident to be sure, but in the end, no harm was done.”
No harm, no. Miss Thorne was perfectly well, and would live on to torment dozens of other unlucky gentlemen with her forked tongue, as he’d been reminding himself all day.
It had worked, at first. But once she was safely inside the house and his heart had ceased its thrashing about, he found himself replaying the chilling scene over and over again in his mind—the stallion’s tail a black streak behind him as he flew over the crest of the hill, and Miss Thorne jolting like a ragdoll on top of him, clinging to his mane as if her life depended on it.
Because ithad.
One misstep on the horse’s part, or an instant’s inattention on Miss Thorne’s, and it would have ended differently. “She might have broken her damned neck.”
“Yes, but you saw for yourself that Miss Thorne’s neck is entirely intact.” Basingstoke gave him a baffled look. “I don’t deny it was a near thing, but you seem to be taking it rather badly.”
“You do,” Grantham agreed. “It’s not like you, Montford.”
“Indeed, it’s not, because I’m a rake and a scoundrel, a man devoid of all proper feeling, a man of no tenderness or sensibility. Is that what you mean to say, Grantham?”
Grantham’s eyebrows shot up. “No. Not at all, Montford.”
Damn it. How had that slipped out? This was what came of lying about in his bedchamber all afternoon, imagining a dozen different conclusions to this morning’s fiasco, all of which ended with Miss Thorne in a twisted, lifeless heap on the ground.
That wasn’tallhe’d imagined, however. No, there’d been that other, er . . . matter. A dream, nothing more, only he’d been awake at the time, so—oh, very well then, it had been a daydream, a perfectly harmless bit of erotic fantasy not unlike others he’d indulged in, though admittedly never after a near tragedy before.
The lady in today’s sensual flight of fancy had hazel eyes, and long, caramel-colored curls, and she’d driven him to such a fever pitch of desire he’d been obliged to take matters into his own hands. Pathetic, really, that a notorious rake like himself should be compelled to find his pleasure alone in his bedchamber.
Now in addition to being disgusted with himself, he’d turned all maudlin.
He glanced at the mantel clock, which had just chimed. Good Lord, was it really only nine o’clock? He was bloody exhausted, but there was no sense in returning to his bedchamber, as it would only exacerbate this moody fit he’d fallen into. “Let’s finish the game, shall we? It’s my turn.” He rose to his feet before either of his friends could say a word and retrieved his cue. “You’re down by six, Grantham.”
Grantham and Basingstoke exchanged another glance, but after a moment of puzzled silence, they rose and joined him at the billiards table. “If something is amiss, Montford,” Grantham began, “you can confide—”
“Don’t be absurd, Grantham. Nothing’s amiss.” Nothing a night’s sleep wouldn’t cure. Why, he’d be as fit as ever tomorrow. “Are we playing, or not? If so, then let’s get on with it.”
They resumed the game, but a strained silence had fallen over them, and they might have gone on that way if Grantham hadn’t decided it would be a grand idea to bring up the one topic guaranteed to turn Jasper’s dark mood even darker still. “How does Miss Thorne get on with Lord Stoneleigh? Do you predict a match, Basingstoke?”
Jasper fumbled his cue, and his ball went wide. “Damn it, Grantham, you just cost me the game.”
