Two
NOT MANY THINGS could ruin Christopher’s mood quickly. No, that was a lie. The list of things that could ruin his mood was long and constantly growing, but having his friend Benedict fussing around him would always be at the top of the list.
“Would you stop moving?” Benedict tugged at Christopher’s cravat.
The silk pressed on his throat, almost choking him.
Christopher loosened the knot of the cravat. “Hellfire, I hate this bloody thing.”
“It’s an essential accessory for a perfect gentleman, and watch your language. You’re not with your fellow soldiers in a dirty path in the middle of nowhere.” A corner of Benedict’s mouth twitched up. “You’re going to entertain two fine ladies in a few minutes. They expect to meet a gentleman. Lord Lyons, the Earl of Gladstone. Not Christopher, the dog lover.”
The cravat untied completely, its lapels hanging forlornly over Christopher’s chest.
“Dammit.” He yanked the offending accessory off his neck and tossed it on the couch. “How you convinced me to meet . . .”
“Amelia, Miss Amelia Ollerton,” Benedict said, rolling his eyes.
“I have no idea,” he completed.
Besides, what was the point of meeting her? He’d accepted Benedict’s suggestion and invited her for an afternoon tea just because he’d been sure she would’ve refused. After all, his reputation must’ve preceded him. The cripple, disfigured recluse who ate virgins for dinner. How easily people forget a soldier who had served the Empire. A hero one moment, an undesirable the next.
“Stop being so impossible.” Benedict reclined on the couch, chomping on an apple. “You spend too much time alone in that forgotten estate, surrounded by animals. Live a little.”
In any other gentleman, a pose like that of Benedict, sprawled on the couch, would seem vulgar, but whatever he lacked in manners, he more than made up for in elegance. A natural charmer.
Pretty much Christopher’s opposite.
A groan rumbled in his chest. “Have you met Amelia?”
“Alas, no.” Another bite into the apple. “I’ve just returned from Paris and missed London Season. Not that I mind. You can’t imagine the things I’ve seen in Paris. The things I’ve done.” A glint danced in his green eyes.
“I don’t want to know.” Slowly, Christopher eased down a stuffed chair.
Pain shot up his leg, and he winced. The scar on his thigh stung, despite a year had passed since he’d taken that bullet. And London was too damn humid for his injured limb.
Everything about his house in London was made of precious silk, polished wood, and expensive marble like a cursed museum. It’d be wonderful to sit in his plain chair in Harpenden and stretch his legs over the rough carpet.
“But I did some research on your behalf,” Benedict said.
“How kind of you.” Sarcasm dripped from his words, but his friend didn’t seem to notice.
“Amelia is a beauty. Golden hair, blue eyes. They say she’s so beautiful to leave a man speechless.”
“That won’t be difficult with me,” Christopher muttered, massaging his leg.
“By the way, let me talk during the meeting,” Benedict said, tossing the apple core into a bowl. “You’re terrible at conversing. Always brooding about battles and rifles. How boring.”
“I’m more than happy to stay silent,” he gritted out, letting his annoyance slipping into his voice.
The rattling of a carriage itched along his skin, and a ripple of tension rode his shoulder muscles. Damn London and its noises.
“It could be them.” With a leap, Benedict jumped off the couch and reached the window. “The ladies are here.” He lifted a fist in triumph.
“I don’t understand your excitement. They were supposed to be here.”
“Grumpy old man.” Benedict brushed a lock from his face. “You’ll thank me later.”
“I’d rather take another bullet.”
