Page 51 of How to Tempt a Duke

“Somersville!” The Marquess of Kentworth waved him over from where he stood near the broad fireplace with the Viscount Rawley ever at his side. The volume of Kentworth’s voice indicated that the man was thoroughly in his cups.

Charles sipped at his own ball of fire and made his way to his old university chums. They’d certainly had some fun together in their heyday, and he was more than ready to reminisce over those fond memories rather than dwell on the dismalness of his current life.

“How are you, old chap?” Kentworth smiled at him, revealing the dimple in his right cheek which had always set the ladies aflutter.

“Relegated to London society.” Charles lifted his glass in silent toast.

Kentworth bellowed a laugh. “Aren’t we all?” He drank deep from his overfull glass, sloshing some over the rim.

“Rawley.” Charles nodded at the tall, thin man, who gave the shy half smile that had followed him into adulthood.

“Have you found all the gold in Africa yet?” Kentworth asked with a bleary grin.

The question rankled, teasing at Charles’s already tense nerves. He hadn’t gone to seek fortune. Fortune he had in abundance, thanks to generations of cunning investments and the well-known financial accoutrement of the Somersville ancestors. But then Kentworth’s demeanor had always edged near the obnoxious when he was foxed.

“I don’t believe gold is precisely what Somersville was seeking,” Rawley said.

Kentworth squinted and nodded. “Of course, of course... Antiques and other things of the like—correct?”

Charles chuckled in an attempt to be more good-natured than he felt. “Mmm...other things of the like.”

“I bet you found yourself a good bit of sport around the world, eh?” Kentworth said with a wink.

Before Charles could answer, or Rawley could intervene, Kentworth gulped more of his drink and put up a finger to indicate that he was prepared to speak again.

“You recall that bit of ice we danced with at Covington’s masquerade ball?”

That bit of ice.

Charles clenched his jaw. “I might...” he replied slowly.

“The one with the glittering dress and the bright red hair?” Kentworth tilted his head as if the details weren’t important. “She rather surprised us by being quite unlike the prim and prudish miss that Ledsey had led us all to believe she was. After all, the chap was once considering marrying the ewe.”

“Lady Eleanor was quite impressive.” Rawley nodded in agreement and took a measured sip from his own glass.

Kentworth lifted his drink in the air. Somehow it was already half drained. “If I were the marrying sort I’d make a bid for her myself. Though she won’t be long on the market.”

“Why do you say that?” Charles’s stomach flipped. A ridiculous reaction. He should be grateful to be saved from having to work his way out of his promise.

“Devonington is going to make an offer.” Kentworth snorted. “He may not be much of a boxer, but the old goat is full of spirit—I’ll give him that. And I can’t say she’ll be inclined to refuse, considering she’s got enough dust on her already to be lobbed on the shelf, and he’s got enough wealth to make the heavens sing on command.”

Charles’s drink soured in his gut. Kentworth went on to prattle about some other such nonsense, but Charles had stopped listening.

Devonington was going to ask for Eleanor to marry him.

He was an earl with an unrivaled fortune. He had a strong name with titles that could be traced back to the Conqueror. The man was a bloated beast, and his conversation was a dead bore. But eligible ladies long on the market—ladies like Eleanor—might easily be pressed by their desperate families to accept such a proposal.

Kentworth was right. The odds of her refusal were low indeed—especially with the Countess of Westix shouting in Eleanor’s ear.

Of course, she might refuse—but then she might do so in order to come to Charles, for him to make good on his promise. And he could not follow through.

Either way, he did not like the outcome.

Charles finished off the rest of his brandy and excused himself to obtain another, eager for the slow burn and inevitable numbness of its embrace. Because apparently, no matter where he went, he was haunted by all his choices.

Eleanor was near bursting with excitement. She practically ripped off her cloak, mask and wig the moment she passed the threshold of Lottie’s town house in Bloomsbury Square. She’d been forced to hold her news until now, as the prior evening her mother had insisted she attend Lady Bunton’s soiree, which had been a wretched bore.

Certainly not as exciting as the night at Vauxhall. Not the time she’d spent with the Earl of Devonington, but the quiet moments stolen in the dark with Charles. Her face went hot at the memory, and she tried to still her pulse-pounding eagerness at the prospect of seeing him again.