It was an impulse to wave at her, to get the running lady to come to me. But she stayed safely inside, away from more scandal and me, a man whose future was in flux.
Livingston walked over and offered a glass of champagne. “Oh, this is going swimmingly well. We’ve weeded out candidates of quick tempers and the gamblers.”
“Honestly, sir, this is a disaster. The ones remaining are better liars.”
“O, ye of little faith. Trust me. Trust the process.” He rubbed his hands together like an evil minion. “The only woman to tempt my friend to think of renouncing his bachelorhood will soon be taken. That’s a celebration.”
“Maybe I’m the old-fashioned one, but love should be enough, for her and me.”
Livingston laughed so hard, I thought he’d faint. “No, Sebastian. What does love have to do with it? Or anything? For a woman, a marriage is security and trust. For a man, it’s trust, a warm bed, and a partner to reach the hard-to-reach places. None of it is worth more than your freedom.”
“Freedom to buy courtesans and spend your time gossiping with your mother? Yes, you’ve surely done a great deal with yours.”
He took a ginger-smelling biscuit hidden in a napkin and ate it in front of me. “Well, if you had married her, you would need to ensure she sent me a basket of these Cornish Fairings regularly. The woman is gifted.”
“I’m in pain, and you torment me with her biscuits.”
His face darkened. The levity in his brown eyes disappeared. “My wife did the best thing by leaving. If you can’t be happy that there are good choices for Miss Wilcox, perhaps you should consider walking out the door and going back to the safe, distant music room.”
“What, you want me to go to Dido too?”
“What? Dido Belle, the Kenwood painting, is here?”
“Yes, Torrance arranged for it.”
“You twat, Sebastian. You’re in love with a painting and transferred your lusts to a real woman. You made Miss Wilcox a fetish. Go to your music. Stay away from her.”
“No. No. Not a fetish. I know the difference between paint and flesh. I love her flesh. I mean, I want . . . I want Georgina Wilcox.” I put my palm on his sleeve. “Calm down, sir. Help me find a way to win her. I’ll gamble everything for her.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “You can’t do this to Miss Wilcox. You can’t make love to her and allow her to make life-altering decisions when all you’re experiencing is some Pygmalion transfer emotions. It’s not to be borne.”
My mouth hung open. I was speechless, truly without words.
A gentleman bumped me, offered his apology, and walked with his friend to the sideboard. One I recognized as the man who bred ponies for the races.
“She’s a little brighter than I expected, but I thought she’d be fairer,” he said. “Maybe that’s only the girls sent up from the plantations in the Caribbean.”
“Yeah,” the friend said. “This one’s just from across the river.”
They chuckled amongst themselves.
I looked at Livingston.
We exchanged no words but each of us grabbed a man by the shoulders and hauled them out of the study.
“What’s the meaning of this?” The big fellow who’d made the river comment adjusted his tailcoat. “We have not been dismissed from the competition.”
I pointed to the door. “You failed the test. Both of you must leave.”
“Don’t make a scene,” Livingston said. “Just leave.”
“Let’s take this outside.” The one who made the plantation comment chortled.
As soon as the four of us were outside and the footman had closed the doors, the horseman put up his fists. “Let’s settle this quickly, I have a prize pony to win.”
I wrenched him up by his lousy tied cravat.
Livingston grabbed the other, and my friend, the man of science, gave him a chop perfectly centered in his back.
