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Before evening’s end, he’d have a word with his sister and tell her to cease her interfering. He’d plodded down the road in pursuit of the delectable Regine once. Only a beef-witted, bacon-brained, codpated fool would do so again. He was none of the aforementioned.
A partnership in a successful law firm and a handful of prosperous investments didn’t now, nor would it ever, make him her equal. The girl he’d fallen in love with no longer existed—if she ever had. Mayhap, he’d only seen what he’d wanted to see. His eyes were wide open now, however. The key to his heart, firmly secured away.
Regine gracefully angled her head toward him in a restrained, yet regal greeting. A hint of disquiet dulled the brilliance of her black-fringed, azure gaze.
James doubted anyone else noticed the discomfit that compromised her smile and had her midnight lashes sweeping her cheeks, she masked her unease so skillfully.
Showing a modicum of wisdom, Theadosia guided her newest arrival to the seated women and made introductions.
God’s teeth, this was going to be a devilishly long and exacting evening.
James downed the last of the amber spirit in one gulp, earning him a scold from Bainbridge. “That’s no way to treat a superior cognac, old chap. I suggest ale if you don’t want to savor the flavor and simply wish to gulp your spirits like a cup-shot sailor on leave.”
Sutcliffe caught Bainbridge’s eye and gave a discreet shake of his head while cutting a pointed glance toward Regine.
Ah, hell. Theadosia had told him. The last thing he wanted was pity from his indecently happily-wed brother-in-law.
“What?” Eyebrows knit in puzzlement, Bainbridge shifted his attention to her and then back to James. Twice. He flexed his eyes, narrowing them a fraction as comprehension took root, and they went platter wide and soft around the edges.
Not him too? Blast and damn. A fellow could only tolerate so much unsolicited commiseration.
“I take it you’re acquainted with the duchess?” Bainbridge drawled, a good deal of amusement and incredulity dripping from each word.
“Which one? The damned room is overflowing with duchesses,” James snapped. He regretted his sarcasm at once. Particularly since they well knew he was acquainted with the other ladies. “I apologize, Bainbridge. That was uncalled for. I’m a bit off my step tonight.”
Since a certain lady with ebony hair the midnight sky would envy, and eyes of the palest shade of blue disrupted the rhythm of his heart.
“Think nothing of it.” Bainbridge swept a glass from the tray of a passing servant. Thrusting the brandy at James in exchange for his empty glass, he said, “Feel free to quaff the entire contents. You look as if you need it.”
Thank you. Just what a chap likes to hear.
Bainbridge deposited the empty glass upon the tray, and the footman moved on.
No. James wouldn’t use spirits to numb his senses. He’d done that every night for six months after Regine’s marriage. He might’ve wallowed in self-pity longer, but his law-firm partners had taken him firmly in hand and told him enough was enough. Either get off his arse, pull himself together and move along with becoming a solicitor, or see himself to the firm’s door.
He owed much to those two curmudgeons. Both avowed bachelors, with high expectations, treated him like a beloved son. But they’d refused to coddle him or allow him to continue to muck about, feeling sorry for himself. They’d given him the kick in the rear he’d needed to pull himself up by his bootstraps and move on with his life.
He’d be damned twenty times to Christmas if he’d ramble the convoluted path of courting Regine again. Really? And that’s why I must keep reminding myself of that?
Another covert scrutiny of the room revealed more guests had arrived. So absorbed in his musings, James hadn’t heard the butler announcing them.
“James?”
“Pardon?” He hauled his attention from the woman whose memory had tormented him these many years.
“That’s the third time I addressed you.” A distinct devilish twinkle brightened Sutcliffe’s eyes, and by God, Bainbridge hid a chuckle behind a raised fist and feigned cough.
Devil take it.
Devil take them!
James realized with an unpleasant jolt, he was the only person present, lacking a title. Heretofore, he hadn’t given a strumpet’s virtue about his common birth, but surrounded by this lot, most of whom he considered friends, for the first time he felt—
What?
Not inferior or inadequate. Just not quite up to par. The sole plow horse amongst thoroughbreds at Ascot’s racecourse or a Tattersall’s auction.
The dinner gong rang, and everyone trailed to the doorway. James held back, aware he was the lowest-ranking male present. There were no lower-ranking females, which meant some unlucky peeress would find herself accompanied to dinner by an inferior. His sister, Jessica, came to his rescue, looping her gloved hand through his elbow.
