In truth, his meeting wasn’t for another three hours. He just desperately needed some space to breathe and think…and defrost his bollocks.
After a bitof wandering, regaining his bearings along the streets of London, savoring the familiar—if sometimes unpleasant—smells and sights of home, Sterling found himself on St. James’s Street at the foot of the steps leading White’s. As one of the most coveted memberships for men of theton, the prestigious gentlemen’s club was one of his former haunts. Morton association dated back to the club’s formation more than a century earlier. His membership had been a foregone conclusion as soon as he’d come of age. Staring up at the familiar Greek columns propping up the building’s stately facade, he wondered if that membership remained valid after an eight-year hiatus.
He climbed the steps and was somewhat amused when he had only to mention his name to the doorman before he was admitted with a buzz of barely contained excitement. The Morton name still created a stir, it seemed. In no time, his hat and gloves were whisked away by silent, efficient hands, and he was escorted into the hallowed hall of masculinity.
Engulfed in the warm, musky scent of cheroot and oiled leather, parchment and spirits, Sterling felt more at ease than he had since he had returned to England. No furious wives were lurking around the corner, driving him mad with their barbed tongues and sinfully gorgeous bodies.
He selected an upholstered armchair in the corner and took his seat. Its position afforded him both a clear view of the rest of the room and its inhabitants, as well as an interesting vista outside the tall windows swathed in heavy velvet draperies. He settled in and awaited the drink he’d requested, but his senses remained keenly aware of the interest his arrival had stirred. This was his first real outing since his return to England, so it was unsurprising that his presence garnered such a reaction.
Sterling slowly scanned the room through the light haze of smoke billowing from a portly lord flipping through a newspaper. He marked each man present, where he stood, with whom he spoke, and how often his eyes flicked in Sterling’s direction. He recognized several familiar faces, though they were older or softened by years of overindulgence. Curiosity flared in their eyes; several men bent their heads together as if discussing whether Sterling was, in fact, the Duke of Morton returned…and whether or not he could be approached without offense.
He’d known even before he set foot outside of Morton House that his presence would attract some interest—in fact, he was surprised that word hadn’t gotten out before then—but it was a far cry from the greeting in his own home. It was refreshing to be around people who, even if they weren’t his closest friends, didn’t try to commit his murder with their eyes… It was a welcome difference from the climate at home, and that realization was at once sobering and depressing.
His warmed brandy was delivered by a silent servant, and it was as if a bell had been rung at the starting gates. Several lords took that as their invitation to approach Sterling and renew his acquaintance.
He spent the next hour being greeted by a variety of White’s members. Men who had known his father and wished Sterling well; former classmates at university were eager to reminisce and be counted once more amongst his comrades. Others simply wanted to be able to say they’d conversed with the notorious Duke of Morton.
He received several verbal invitations to balls and gatherings from husbands who claimed their wives would never forgive them if they didn’t present the opportunity to the newly returned duke. He shared drinks and answered questions about his time on the Continent; artfully dodging the inquiries he wished to avoid answering and, instead, responding with a practiced tepid smile and falling back on his rank and his right to dismiss anyone without a word of explanation. This especially came in handy when a couple of comments edged toward rude with references to stories of some of his more debauched activities. Those were the ones that earned the full force of his icy glare and most withering rebuff.
When those topics were exhausted, conversation naturally shifted toward more serious subjects. He was asked by those who were more politically minded when he might finally assume his seat in the House of Lords. It wasn’t a lie when he reassured them that he looked forward to educating himself on the issues coming up for vote. He hadn’t lied to Alaina earlier; he knew it was long past time he made a difference at home. His influence was more than substantial, and it had cost him no small amount of guilt that it was yet another thing he’d abandoned for the “debauched life of excess” everyone believed he’d led on the Continent. It was one more deep-rooted regret he doubted he’d ever reconcile. All he could do was move forward. Turn a new leaf. Whatever bloody aphorisms one used when he was trying to make himself feel better about turning his back on the life he’d once had.
Sterling signaled for another drink and it appeared with all the speed and efficiency for which White’s was known. He deftly steered the conversation to places he wished to go; he presented the proper ducal facade and, with each man who eventually returned to his day or excused himself from their group, Sterling knew all of London would be abuzz with news of his return well before he set foot outside of those walls.
In all, he was able to forget himself for a while and settle back into the role to which he’d been born. While not free of artifice, it was a different sort than that which he’d become so adept at practicing over the years. To him, this was child’s play.
Another brandy and several conversations later, Sterling enjoyed a brief period of peace before he was approached by a tall, immaculately turned-out man with a pronounced limp and a silver-tipped cane. He appeared to be around Sterling’s age, perhaps a year or two older. Sterling scoured his keen memory.
The cane.
The shockingly green eyes and golden hair.
“Sommerfeld,” Sterling greeted the man and received a warm grin in response.
“Morton. I’d been unsure if you’d remember me—we were a few years apart at university, after all.”
“How could I forget?” Sterling gestured to the vacant seat beside him, and the viscount nodded in thanks. He sat with only a little awkwardness before propping his cane against the small cherrywood table between them. The last time Sterling had seen the man, he hadn’t required the cane’s assistance. He wasn’t privy to the exact nature of the injury, but he’d heard of the near-death incident even while on the Continent. Anytime something happened to a handsome, wealthy, well-connected man, news traveled remarkably fast. Though the viscount’s physical limitations were clear, he seemed otherwise healthy. “You managed to create quite the reputation.”
Sommerfeld waved away the comment on his rakehell youth. “I thought I would take the opportunity to welcome you home. Are you here to stay, then? Will we be seeing more of you in Town?”
“I suppose so,” Sterling replied as he settled more deeply into the comfortable chair. A carriage rumbled by outside in the street and he watched as the gray and green conveyance disappeared from view. “It was long past time to return home,” he added somewhat wistfully as Alaina’s face materialized in a dreamy haze against the glass. She was a specter, forever taunting him with her nearness, yet always out of his reach…determined to hold his sins against him like a sword above his neck.
“Then I suspect we shall be seeing a great deal of one another.” Sterling could hear the wry grin in the viscount’s voice and he turned to face him. “Our wives are rather close,” Sommerfeld added by way of explanation.
“Of course.” Sterling nodded to mask his discomfort over the fact that he knew so little about Alaina when it came to who she had become. She was close friends with a future countess who had married into a family known for their more liberal political leanings…and he knew nothing about it. He’d have to remedy his lack of knowledge about his wife’s companions, if only to ensure her wellbeing. He’d failed in many of his obligations, but this was one thing he hoped he might correct. Alaina had gone so long without someone to directly look after her, and he fully intended on doing so.
It was also disheartening how the list of things he didn’t know about Alaina was steadily growing far larger than the ones he did. Yet another of his shortcomings.
He set those thoughts aside for the time being and simply allowed himself to be in the moment—something he hadn’t done in what felt like a lifetime.
He and Sommerfeld wound up passing another hour in companionable conversation. They took a light lunch while Sterling enjoyed another brandy, and the viscount sipped overly-sweetened tea. Though he and Sommerfeld had never been great friends prior to his trip to the Continent, Sterling found the man to be immensely likable and easy to talk to. This—coupled with the several drinks in him—allowed Sterling to drop his guard more than he had in recent memory. Despite common belief, he had avoided strong spirits as much as possible these past eight years. Lowered inhibitions were not something to be taken lightly.
While Sterling recounted a couple of amusing anecdotes from his travels—one of which involved a particularly aggressive donkey and a German prince—Sommerfeld returned the favor by catching Sterling up on the latest news in Town. There was some interesting legislature being prepared for voting in the House of Lords; a few old disputes between ancient families continued to boil. Though Englishmen were not known for being overly demonstrative, the viscount did explain a little of how he’d met his wife. The viscountess was immediately endeared to Sterling when her husband warned him off of ever playing cards with her because she couldn’t be beaten.
At one point, Sterling accidentally knocked his foot into Sommerfeld’s cane and sent it clattering to the ground. He quickly apologized and moved to retrieve it, recognizing the distinctive snarling sterling silver lion with glowing garnet eyes from university. The young viscount had used it in a prop during a prank on one of the crueler professors and quickly adopted it as a signature accessory. Now, it was clear the cane was much more utilitarian.
Sterling handed it back to Sommerfeld and, though he said nothing, he must have read the curiosity in Sterling’s eyes.
What had happened to bring down a man so young and full of life?
