Not as much as he should have.
Because there could be only one solution that would ensure the properties and monies they still had did not pass to Mr. Meadows. Another person.
An heir.
An heir only he could provide. He and . . . a wife.
Oh, bloody hell.
He slumped in his chair once more.
“Why is he looking like that?” Eris whispered up at Delia, and when the twin didn’t answer, Eris turned her questioning gaze up to Daria. “Is he . . . going to be sick?”
He certainly felt like he was going to cast his contents up. “I’ll do it.” His voice emerged strangled.
Eris screeched and, flying out of her seat, rushed to the opposite end of the gathering. “I don’t want to get his sick.”
“I’m not . . . going to be ill,” he assured. “I’m . . . I’m . . .”
All his kin looked back expectantly.
“I’m going to be the one who marries.” He managed to get the words out.
He braced for the onslaught of shock and disbelief.
Oddly, there was an almost bored expectation from the group. It lasted no longer than a moment that might have been imagined.
“Are you certain?” His sisters spoke over one another, their words of praise rolling together.
“That is so very wonderful of you . . . You are the very most devoted brother, you are.”
And with that, the group came to their feet and, following behind their mother, filed from the room, leaving Clayton thankfully and blessedly alone.
Chapter 3
One week later
White’s
London, England
Clayton had inherited his friends through his connection to Norman, Lord Norfolk, at Oxford. He’d always been the odd man out of the group.
With their penchant for womanizing, drinking, and wagering, that much remained true.
Their friendship, however, remained strong.
And given the state of his best friend, the Earl of Scarsdale, his head buried in his arms on the table, the man was in dire need of friendship.
Waving off a servant who came forward to pull out his chair, Clayton availed himself of the seat closer to his other best friend, the Marquess of Landon.
Landon cupped a hand around his mouth and whispered, “He’s in bad shape.”
“I . . . see that.”
As did all the other patrons and servants stealing curious looks the way of their table.
Scarsdale groaned. “Broff-off, shedid.”
“Another drink will do.” Leaning over, Landon patted Scarsdale hard between the shoulders. “It always does.”
Clayton was in possession of an entirely different and unpopular opinion to the one Landon now spouted. At this particular moment, however, that seemed neither here nor there. Broff-off, shedid. Broff-off, shedid. Alas, no matter how many times Clayton tested those mismatched syllables in his mind, he came up empty with the deciphering. “What was that, Scarsdale?”
The Earl of Scarsdale downed a drink, and hadn’t even finished the swallow before he had his arm up, gesturing to a White’s servant for another.
The notorious rogue, who’d recently decided to settle down and see to his responsibilities as earl, set his glass down hard. “She . . . broff it off.” With that, the man slumped forward, letting his head fall hard on the table with a thunk that earned winces from Clayton and Landon.
Clayton slid a questioning glance over to Landon.
“Broke it off. His betrothed, Miss Gately.” The other man silently mouthed the latter part.
Ahh. So this was the reason for Scarsdale’s misery. “But you didn’t want to marry her anyway.”
“Notthepoint, St. John.” Either grief or too much drink added a slur to Scarsdale’s response.
“Uh . . . isn’t it?”
Landon lifted his half-empty brandy Clayton’s way. “It is because you are the optimist of the group.”
“It is trueyouare.” That response, buried into the smooth mahogany, came muffled.
Clayton frowned. “I’d hardly call myself an optimist.” His sisters and his mother, yes. Clayton himself? Decidedly not. After all, a man who’d accepted his fate was to die young and likely to leave a family of hoydens and hellions to their own defenses would hardly ever be confused as someone with a rosy-by-nature look at life. “But as I said before, you didn’t even want to marry the girl.” In fact, Scarsdale had done nothing but complain about his fate since the day he’d offered for the young lady.
“That’s not the point.” The other man surged forward, but Landon put a calming hand on his arm.
“Tsk-tsk, St. John,” Landon chided. “Bad form, piling on a man when he is down.”
“I’m not attempting to pile on; I’m just pointing out that detail for solace’s sake.”
“Solace’s sake,” Scarsdale muttered. “As I said . . . optimist.” Grabbing Landon’s glass, the earl saluted Clayton, then drank down the remainder of their friend’s fine French brandy.
A servant arrived with another bottle.
No sooner had the young man left than Scarsdale let his head fall to the tabletop once more.
Landon continued. “Either way, it isn’t just you, Scarsdale,” he pointed out commiseratively. Grabbing up the bottle of brandy, he refilled Scarsdale’s glass and put it within reach of the other man’s fingertips. “Lots of men are in the very way you are.” That managed to bring the earl’s head up, revealing tired, bloodshot eyes. “Why, look at Bowick over there.” Landon gave a discreet nudge of the chin, and they followed that gesture over to a gentleman with his head in his hands and a drink framed between his arms. “And Cobham.”
Cobham, who was currently cradling a whiskey in each hand and alternating sips between the two.
“All of Polite Society has gone insane; you are just one of the many, many victims,” Landon said, helping himself to another drink.
“Whatever are you talking about?” Clayton asked, looking about the room at the men Landon had listed.
The marquess paused midpour. “You gentlemen don’t know?” There was an almost gleeful relish from that member of their group, who’d always taken delight in being the first in possession of any information.
Scarsdale turned his head so he rested his chin upon his palm. “Know what?”
Dragging his chair closer to the table, Landon spoke in hushed tones. “Ladies everywhere are refusing to wed. They are breaking their betrothals, turning away suitors, and calling for greater freedoms. All of society is in an uproar over it.”
What? When there was a whole time of the English calendar dedicated to that very institution? Clayton snorted. “That is preposterous. I’ve heard nothing of this.”
Landon shrugged. “You aren’t often abreast of what is happening in society.”
No, that much was true. “Gossip,” Clayton corrected. He’d at least have his friend call it what it was. “I don’t bother with it.”
“Which is why you don’t know,” the other man pointed out. “Either way, call it what you will, it also happens to be how I know, and you”—drink in hand, he stretched his littlest finger out and wagged it in Clayton’s direction—“do not.” He shot his left arm up, and held two fingers aloft.