No one was.
Years back, he’d attempted to feel…more, and he’d courted the diamond of the Season as his father had done before him, but although he’d appreciated her charms, he’d felt nothing within.
His breath had not quickened, his palms had not sweated and so he’d ended their courtship without so much as a backward glance.
The Winterbournes purely married for money, prestige or an heir – sometimes all three. Of course, one day he would have to find a bride for the continuation of the line, but it would be when the debauchery which dwelled within him had lessened with age.
Indeed, he was a Winterbourne in face and character – rascals, lechers, inconstant devils the lot of them.
The spit of his father…as his father would proudly say.
Besides, he was not unhappy with his lot. Who would be? He had wealth, privilege and a decent stash ofa la modewaistcoats. And he loved cheering a miserable face, bringing forth a smile; it filled him with well-being and a sense of contentment that he’d never dared scrutinise further.
Unlike his own dear pater…and grand-pater…and all the previous Winterbournes stretching back to the original and lowly Sir Magnus Winterbourne, who’d been knighted by Elizabeth I for…services rendered, his only real rule was no innocents or married women. Just willing, experienced, unencumbered females who knew the rogue’s rules better than he did.
The snoring resumed with vigour so he prodded Miggens anew, beginning to think it a ploy.
No one could sleep in this infernal coffin of a carriage.
“Are you awake, Miggens?” he shouted above the pounding thud of hooves, rattle of wheels and the coachman’s ribald singing about Lucy and her cat. “My boots need polishing.”
One glaring eye opened, clear and green with no hint of bloodshot. That’s what happened when you rarely drank liquor. Indeed, no wrinkles whatsoever etched Miggens’s brow and he looked all of his twenty-four years.
“Bugger off, my lord,” the valet burbled before that eye snapped shut.
Tawny-haired and broad-shouldered, his valet really didn’t resemble a valet at all. In point of fact, a pugilist would be more fitting, but he vaguely recalled the chap’s mother who’d worked as a dairymaid on the estate – also tawny-haired and broad-shouldered.
“Well I never.” Jack shifted in his seat, glad at least to talk to someone, even if it was only fusty Miggens. “I doubt the Duke of Rakecombe has to put up with such insolence.”
“And I would doubt,” he murmured, keeping both eyes shut, “that the duke’s valet is obliged to remove scarlet garters from the bedchamber floor as a part of his duties.”
“How do you know what Rakecombe wears on his night off?”
Miggens allowed himself a puckered smirk and unfurled his arms to press upon the carriage roof. “If you do not approve of insolence, my lord, you could always replace me.”
Grinning, Jack stretched out his legs.
“Come now, Miggs, how could I dismiss my own half-brother? And remember, I liberated you from the Earl of Fowlmere’s service, a fellow so stingy he made you wash out his cundums. Would you care to go back?”
“Not particularly, my lord.”
“And stop bloody ‘my lording’ me. We’ve been through this.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Imbecile,” Jack muttered. “You take after Father.”
∞∞∞
“Whhooaaa.”
Their carriage creaked to an abrupt halt, flinging Jack forward and upending all of Miggens’s books to the floor. The valet himself hardly budged – must be all that brawn keeping him grounded like a granite boulder.
Jack thrust his head through the window. “Why have we stopped, my dear coachman, and where are we?”
“Weeellll…” It trailed off into a sucking of teeth.
Oh devil’s balls and witch’s thighs. “We’re lost, aren’t we, Sobers?”
