Page 31 of One Night with an Earl

The duke may be a bit eccentric, but highly intelligent. Even Oliver, who prided himself on his own intellect, recognized Warwick’s genius. His friend tinkered in his workshop and was an inventor—sometimes successful, sometimes not.

The art of invention, Warwick often said, is most times accidental success rather than perfectly planned.

Warwick may be a duke, a handsome one at that, but he was as far from an eligible bachelor as any commoner. His reputation as a recluse was well known in society. He was rich as Croesus, owned a dozen estates, never entertained, and preferred the country, even during the Season. It was a tossup as to whether the mamas of the ton never had an opportunity to wed their young daughters to him or if they preferred to avoid him for fear of madness. Either way, Warwick was well-satisfied with the arrangement.

Perhaps that was what Oliver liked best about his friend.

“I never gave up spirits. What made you think so?” Warwick asked, clearly perplexed.

“You don’t attend clubs,” Oliver pointed out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not a member of all of them, White’s, Brooke’s, and Boodles.”

This caught Oliver by surprise. “Why ask me today?”

Warwick’s green gaze studied him like one of the complex machines in his workshop. “I know you, Drake. You rarely lose focus in the ring. I may not be the best at interpreting a person’s feelings, but I’m confident when it comes to you. Something’s irking you, and a drink might loosen your tongue.” He reached for Oliver’s shirt, which had been discarded on a nearby stool, and tossed it to him. “Get dressed.”

…

After their last boxing match, Oliver had accompanied Warwick not to one of his clubs, but to a tavern. They’d shared more than a few tankards of ale, and he’d told his friend about his night with Ana at the Silver Chalice.

He’d never willingly whisper a word to anyone about that experience, but Warwick was different. Aloof and intelligent, his friend was safe and could keep a secret. God only knew, Warwick had his own.

By the time Oliver returned home, he wanted nothing more than a hot bath and the solitude of his study.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Burk said.

Oliver nodded to the butler as he handed him his hat, then placed a hand on the balustrade of the winding staircase. The alcohol had eased the pain in his side from their sparring match, but now, hours later, the ache had returned.

“The dowager awaits in the blue drawing room, my lord.”

Blast! His grandmother was here? Was he to have no peace?

With a scowl on his face, he turned away from the staircase and headed for the drawing room. His grandmother was sipping a cup of tea when he entered.

“Well, I’d ask where you have been, but from the look of you, I assume you were sparring or drinking,” she said.

“Both.”

She set down her teacup on a saucer on a table. “How is Warwick? Did he have grease under his fingernails from working on one of his contraptions?”

“I didn’t notice. We both wore boxing gloves.”

“Of course.”

“Is there a reason for your visit?” Oliver asked.

“Do I need a reason to visit my only grandson?”

He knew she didn’t mean to remind him that he was the only one left, but the result was the same. A look of anguish crossed her face, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes.

“Pardon, my boy. I didn’t mean—”

He sat in a chair across from her and reached out to touch her hand. “I know. I miss Henry, too.” She was a strong woman, and he hated to see any type of anguish in her gaze. “Shall I ring for more tea?” he asked.

She waved her hand. “No. My visit will be brief. I’ve heard from Lady Malvern.”

Normally, this was not a topic he’d want to discuss. He was not attracted to Penelope. As far as he could discern, the girl was not interested in him, either. But now that he knew her chaperone was Lady Scarlet, his attitude had changed.