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At least he wasn’t as dotty as that fellow who put on and removed his shoes five times before he’d leave his home and then checked to make sure the door was soundly locked by pushing the handle then the door itself in rapid succession four times.

No one—bloody no one—kept to habits as he did. Several times, he’d tried to ease his inflexibility and found himself a wreck. Tense. His nerves on edge. Unable to concentrate or relax. His oddity was a damn curse. Indeed, it was.

Oh, he could do it—if push came to shove. In fact, typically, no one was the wiser except those closest to him. But he preferred not to stray from routine if at all possible.

He dragged his eyes open and squinted at the white marble and gilt bronze clock. Exhaling a long breath, he levered himself upright in the chair and tossed back the remaining spirits. Time to leave. He set the glass aside, then shoved to his feet.

No one paid him much mind, which didn’t bother him in the least. He enjoyed solitude. Craved it, in fact. He’d wanted to be a scholar before inheriting the earldom—had hoped to teach Natural History and Ecclesiastical History at Oxford or Cambridge.

But earls didn’t don austere robes and become professors. A rather irritating voice also dared remind him he mightn’t have been able to stand before a hall of students and orate.

God’s teeth. His own education had been as painful as hell, and he couldn’t deny the truth. Despite his desire to teach, he lacked the wherewithal. No, that wasn’t precisely correct. He possessed the knowledge but was without the ability to adequately communicate with or instruct a room full of pupils.

Reclining against the back of his usual chair beside the window, the Earl of Alcott smoked a cigar and stared morosely into his whisky tumbler. Somber, sad even, he raised the hand with the cigar toward Ansley in a silent farewell.

He acknowledged the salute with an elevated chin. Alcott was a decent chap. In fact, it was he who suggested Ansley join the Wicked Earls’ Club.

Nonetheless, he hadn’t ventured to the club tonight for titillating conversation. Or any other night, for that matter. Not a bit of it. No, he forced himself out of his rather ostentatious Grosvenor Square house four nights a week, else he’d easily become a hermit, locked inside his comfortable home, playing the pianoforte, wasting time on billiards, and reading musty old tomes till time for bed.

Sounded like bloody bliss.

Another sardonic twist of his mouth followed his retrospection.

He rather liked the thought, truth be told. Why, he wouldn’t even be required to shave or even dress, for that matter. All his meals might be taken in his banyan.

Recalling the correspondence from his mother this morning, suggesting the names of several eligible young misses that would make “exceptionally, wonderful countesses,” the tic near his left eye began twitching in earnest. A sure indication he was more upset than his outward façade of bored-nonchalance proclaimed. One would think he’d have become accustomed to the spasms, yet deep-rooted humiliation tumbled about in his stomach.

Dearest Mama had also recommended he host a Christmastide house party this year at Fawtonbrooke Hall, his country estate. He barely suppressed a shudder of distaste.

Horror of absolutely absurd horrors.

Guests tramping all about his sanctuary from dawn to midnight or later? Required to dine with them? Entertain the throng? Converse. Dance?

Absolutely not.

Bright-eyed misses with their coy smiles and simpering manners.

Hell on earth. A fate worse than death for a man like himself.

The muscle by his eye convulsed harder, and he angled his head toward the fireplace to hide the tremor lest it draw unsolicited attention. Disgust and anger at himself that he could yet be self-conscious of his—inconvenience—jabbed his pride.

Mama simply could not accept that at eight and twenty—nine and twenty in January—he possessed as much desire to wed as he did to have all of his teeth pulled. Or be keelhauled. Tarred and feathered. Eviscerated with a hairpin. Burned at the stake. Hung by his ballocks.

A wife dragging him hither and yon, chattering like a magpie about nonsensical drivel, would drive him stark-raving mad. And what kind of a spouse would he be? Other than his title and passably good looks, he held no false illusions about his appeal or qualifications as a husband.

Or lack thereof.

In short, Ansley Cecil Huxley Twistleton, sixth Earl of Scarborough, was a stuffy, dour chap who broke into a cold sweat when in a room with more than a dozen or so people. A man who had as much skill with small talk as he did needlepoint or midwifery. A lord who’d been thrust into a life he had no more aptitude for than a hippopotamus did for ballet, or a cat for archery.

He was an oddity.

And, blast and damn, he shouldn’t care.