Page 93
“Winston!”
The Dunmore butler appeared at his side. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Why is it dark as Hades in here?”
“His Lordship requested it so, Your Grace.”
Rafe frowned. That sounded ominous. Derek did tend toward the dramatic when it came to broody-and-wounded man, but this seemed…excessive. Bloody hell, he couldn’t wait to see his mate.
“Where is he?”
“He is in his study.”
Rafe nodded and strode off down the dark hall, running a hand back and forth over his short, tight curls. He hated the damn things. If he let them grow any longer than an inch, he looked like a bloody poodle. Well, he was back in London now. So he could at least fix that. He rubbed at his chest. Hopefully being back in London could fix some other things.
He reached the study, stepped in, and froze. The chamber was pitch black. Rafe could only just make out the whites of his best mate’s eyes blinking dazedly at him, having just shot up from where he’d apparently been lying flat against his desk…
“Well, this is melodramatic. You look like you need a drink.”
“Rafe,” Derek whispered like he didn’t truly believe it. “You’re home. When did you get back into town? How was—”
Rafe shook his head. “Not now. I’m back, and we’re going out.” Now. He needed his best mate, and he needed whisky. Drums of it. Which, apparently, Derek was in need of as well. He glanced around the low-lit study. “Somewhere with a bit more light.”
Derek nodded. “After the day I had, I could use a drink.” He hastily grabbed his coat.
“My carriage is out front and waiting.”
Derek waved his hand. “Then, by all means, after you.”
* * *
A whisky appeared on the green baize in front of Rafe, and he immediately downed half the contents. He closed his eyes. Ah, that burn. There was nothing that made a man feel more alive. He downed the rest and refilled his glass while eyeing Derek. His friend was quiet. Rafe frowned. Why wasn’t he drinking?
“How was Iron—”
“So will you tell me why you were moping in a darkened townhouse, facedown on your desk?”
Derek’s gaze shot to his, his lips turning down. “I was not moping.” He rotated the glass in his hands. “I was…”
“You were…”
Derek ran a hand down his face. “You wouldn’t believe how much has happened while you’ve been gone,” he murmured.
Rafe scoffed. Oh the bloody fucking irony of that statement. And his friend was still not drinking. He jerked his chin in the direction of Derek’s glass. “Do you need me to pour it down your throat?”
Throwing down fifty pounds, Rafe studied Derek while the cards were dealt. His friend was different. But why?
“I fell in love,” Derek blurted.
Rafe spit out his whisky. All over Derek.
“Unnnghhk.” Derek grimaced and wiped the spew from his face. “Bloody hell, Rafe.”
“Bloody hell, me? Did you hear what you just said?” Rafe’s knee bounced erratically, and he sloshed more whisky into his glass. “Now fucking drink.” Sweat built on his palms beneath the leather of his gloves. Love? Fuck. Why was it so hot in here?
They downed their whiskies and quickly refilled them. “So, how was the estate? Was it as bad as your steward—Thomas? Timothy?—made it out to sound?”
“Theo,” Rafe said bitterly.
