Felix had been drinking since eight, which in White’s was not exactly cause for scandal, but did draw the sidelong glances of men who were more accustomed to brandy as punctuation rather than the morning’s entire grammar. He had found a battered wingback in the corner, the color of old liver, and occupied it with the intent of a man besieging a city.
He was not alone for long. David slid beside him—somehow, the man was always within arm’s reach—with a smirk and a glass of his own.
“Dear God, Felix, have you started without me?” David regarded Felix with the fond exasperation usually reserved for younger brothers. “Sleep poorly, did we?”
Felix thumbed his brow. “It was an eventful night.”
“Still at war with the child’s fever?”
“Lizzie’s on the mend. The real battle was elsewhere.”
“Do tell,” David said, leaning in, his lips twitching in anticipation.
Felix rolled the snuff box between his palms. “She won’t have me.”
David choked on his sip. “I beg your pardon?”
Felix nodded, staring into his glass. “Rose has made it clear. She prefers distance. I am to keep to my side of the house, not trouble the arrangement with sentiment.”
“You poor bastard.” David’s laughter was bright, teasing him the way only someone so close to him can.
Felix’s jaw clenched. “She wants affection.” He stretched the last word out, practically spitting it.
“What is stopping you from giving it?”
He fixed his friend with a steady glare. “In our world,” he sighed, “love is a currency more volatile than the pound. It turns on a whim and leaves you penniless.”
David twirled his glass, watching the amber spin. “You say that as if you believe it.”
“I do.” Felix finished the third glass, then poured a fourth. “She’s better off without it. I’m better off as well.”
“And yet here you are,” David said, watching him over the rim. “Drunk before noon, sulking in the only club where heartbreak is still considered a sport.”
“I am not heartbroken,” Felix shot back. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Perhaps not,” David agreed. “But you are certainly sulking.”
Felix fought the urge to roll his eyes at his friend as they both lapsed into silence, the only sound the distant clack of billiard balls and the low murmur of parliamentarians arguing over the newsprint.
At last, David said, “You could always try, Felix.”
“Try what?”
He smiled wickedly. “Affection. Vulnerability. All those things you pretend to abhor. You might even like it.”
“She would see through it in a moment.” Felix snorted. “She’s not a fool.”
“No, she’s not. Which is why you’re in such trouble.”
Felix wanted to retort, to change the subject, to do anything but sit in the gaze of a man who knew him far too well. But instead, he watched the smoke curl from the fireplace, saw the way it wove itself into the sunlight, refusing to be banished.
He felt very much alone.
David finished his drink, setting the glass aside. “You’ll see her again soon enough,” he said. “Maybe by that time you’ll have your mind made up.”
Felix said nothing.
“Don’t ruin it, Felix,” he leaned in, his voice dropping. “You’ve been given something rare. You’re just too damn proud to claim it.” Then, David stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “If you come crawling back, bring a decent bottle. The brandy here is terrible.”
