Page 33 of The Language of Love

Chapter 6

Henry watched Colin dance with one of the Bowman cousins, although not the one who had snubbed him, and chided Annis as if she were a recalcitrant servant.

The sisters were undoubtedly beautiful, but he saw through them as clearly as a pane of glass. They were after a title rather than a fortune since their mother had come from the merchant class and was well-larded.

Because Henry was bored—and also a little intrigued by Miss Annis Bowman—he had engaged a private inquiry agent to investigate the Bowman family.

He’d learned that Annis’s grandmother, Lady Cecily, was the daughter of an earl who’d married a commoner and had two sons. Annis was the daughter of the elder son, who’d died several years back. The second son, Thomas Bowman, had married Agnes Lewis, an heiress whose social status was blighted by her overly forthright manner and proximity to trade.

Thanks to her background, the Bowmans wouldn’t have stepped so much as a toe into the Duke of Tinley’s house tonight if not for Henry’s influence.

When Colin had solicited one of the Bowman sisters to partner him in this set, Henry had been tempted to ask the other one for a dance, just to elicit a scandalized reaction.

But he’d decided it wasn’t worth it. They were naked social climbers who’d already made their disdain of a mere clerk obvious. They were exactly the type of chits he’d hoped to weed out with this little charade.

Henry couldn’t help chuckling at the sight of Colin gawking down Miss Bowman’s decolletage—which was impressive—like a slavering hound. Any minute now he’d start humping the woman’s leg.

Well, at least one of them was enjoying himself.

Henry wondered if he should have given in to Colin’s incessant demands to visit a brothel. Perhaps that might have calmed the other man’s amorous behavior. If Henry wasn’t careful, Colin could end up engaged under false pretenses.

Increasingly, Henry feared that his little deception was ill-conceived.

Just like his pursuit of Annis Bowman was ill-conceived.

It was as obvious as the enormous nose on Henry’s face that the woman was in love with the impoverished, godlike Earl of Avington. Her expression as she’d watched Avington walk away had been like a kick in the crotch.

Hell, he couldn’t blame her for falling for the man. The earl was so bloody handsome it was ridiculous. On top of that, he’d seemed a friendly, amusing bloke; the sort of man Henry would like as a friend.

Henry snorted. He was behaving as if he were sixteen years old again and smitten by a woman who was in love with another man. Would he never learn?

Not that he was smitten—or anywhere near it. But he genuinely liked Annis Bowman and enjoyed talking with her, something he couldn’t recall happening with a female in quite some time.

He’d had plenty of women over the years and, of course, he had enjoyed their company, but he couldn’t remember laughing or joking with any. Laughing and joking were activities he reserved for his male friends. The women in his life were for sex; wanting to talkto one was something new.

Not that his interest in Miss Bowman was entirely platonic, of course. Indeed, he found her attractive, even though he had always preferred voluptuous women. He also liked his mistresses to be sexually confident and experienced, and Annis Bowman had turned ten shades of red at a little harmless flirtation.

Or maybe it hadn’t been harmless. Had he been too aggressive with her? Hell, he had no idea how to flirt with a virgin. All he’d ever done was engage a mistress, put her in a house with servants, fine clothing, and other luxuries to keep her happy, and then visit her when he’d needed sexual release.

Obviously, he needed release right now if he was interested in a female who was clearly in love with another man.

Henry rolled his eyes; this uncustomary uncertainty was bloody annoying. It was because of this sort of emotional turmoil that he’d avoided romantic entanglements for the past two decades. All love ever led to—in his experience—was pain and confusion.

Henry set his glass of warm champagne on a passing footman’s tray and made his way to the card room. Perhaps a bit of mindless gambling could help him forget Miss Annis Bowman.

The room was busy, but he spied a free spot at a table with four men playing vingt-et-un.

“Mind if I sit in?” he asked.

They glanced up, their cool gazes sliding over him appraisingly. For a moment, he thought they’d tell him to sod off, but one of them gave an abrupt nod.

The play was brisk, with little chatter initially. When they realized Henry knew what he was about, they warmed up.

“You came with Rotherhithe from India?” the oldest man at the table asked. He wore clothing that hadn’t been in fashion for at least half a century.

So, they knew he was a servant, and yet still invited him to play. Interesting.

“Yes, that is correct,” Henry said. “I worked for the Company in Dacca.”