“Careful,” said another. “That sounds dangerously like a vow.”
“Not a vow,” Gideon returned coolly. “Rather an intelligent decision.”
“Dull, though,” Grimm added.
“On the contrary,” Gideon said as he pulled out a chair to join them. “It leaves me with my coin, my freedom, and—most critically—my peace.”
“Bourbon or port, my lord?” A uniformed footman stopped beside Gideon.
“Tea. With two sugars.”
He did not drink spirits. Not since that night.
It dulled edges, and he preferred keeping his sharp.
“Dash is still snubbing society, I see,” Major Jeremiah Penvale—Viscount Longstaffe to most of the ton—said as he flicked a chip into the center of the table. Longstaffe was broader than the rest of them now, war having carved something harder into him. A sketchbook lay half-concealed on the side table near his elbow.
“A disgrace to the peerage.” Grimm smirked, not even trying to hide the irony of his words.
“Personally, I find the image of a duke in gardening gloves refreshing,” Longstaffe added.
“Better gloves than shackles,” Camden Rensleight, the Earl of Blackwell, murmured from where he leaned against the ledge over the hearth.
“Perhaps,” Gideon said. “Your aunt was asking after you.”
Longstaffe shook his head. “No good ever follows that sentence.”
“She spoke with great affection.”
“That only confirms it.”
Gideon left it there.
Dash was going to have to endure the gossip. He had earned most of it.
Grimm leaned back. “No respectable rake would demean himself over a woman like Dasborough is doing. Makes us all look bad.”
“Wars have been fought over a single woman, Ashe,” Longstaffe said lazily. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised you didn’t pay attention in history.”
Grimm ignored his best friend’s teasing. “Well, the blighter can fill Miss Bloomington’s garden with prize lilies for all she cares. The lady is not inclined to forgive him.”
Gideon grunted. “You mistake Dash for a man easily discouraged.”
The corner of Longstaffe’s mouth lifted. “He does have a talent for persistence.”
“Obsession,” Grimm corrected. “No dignity in that.”
Laughter circled the table. Familiar.
“As if any of us possess dignity,” Blackwell murmured.
A beat passed, small but deliberate.
“Which makes Dash and his sister’s defiance all the more impressive.” His gaze flicked up. “If Lady Beatrice means to brave the Season while she ought still to be behind closed doors, one would think Dasborough might at least trouble himself to escort her.”
“Escort her,” Gideon repeated.
Blackwell’s expression did not change. “I realize she’s nearly thirty, but she is unmarried.”
