Page 102 of Make Mine a Marquess

Rather than pour himself a whisky, Aram took the decanter and returned it to the sideboard. “Careful, friend. Fine whisky goes down too smoothly.” He joined Landon in a leather chair by the fireplace.

Landon glared at his friend. “Did you hear me? She said no.” His voice was terse.

Aram was unintimidated by his tone or glowering expression. “Do you blame her?”

Frustration roiled Landon’s gut. “You’re the one who convinced me that I was worthy of her. Now what will you have me say? I told her I love her.”

“Love is a tricky word. Women who have been lied to tend not to believe it.”

“Now you’re just rubbing it in.”

“I’m not trying to. Rather, I’m here to get you to stop drinking your misery,” Aram said.

Landon lowered his glass. “What’s it to you? I bet a hefty amount that you have seen Beatrice.”

Aram returned the scowl. “Then you would lose that wager. I tried to see Beatrice. I showed up at her home. She refused to see me.”

Landon rose and reached for the decanter. “Then hell, you should join me for a drink and cease lecturing me.” He sat back in his leather chair.

“I never thought of you as one to give up so easily,” Aram said.

His friend’s comment sparked Landon’s already simmering anger. He wanted a fight, wanted an outlet for his frustration. He slammed down his glass. “Are you looking to box?” He had a membership at Gentleman Jackson’s. Stepping in a ring with gloves seemed like a good way to exorcise his anguish.

Aram rolled his eyes. “I’m not the fool to challenge you in a physical fight.”

Landon’s jaw clenched. “Then what do you want?”

Aram leaned forward in the leather chair. “I want you to go after the lady. To not give up. Don’t wait until she leaves for Scotland—never to be seen in London society again.”

Landon scrubbed a hand down his face. “She’s already rejected me.”

“For five years you’ve been away. When that fisherman dragged you from the boat and onto shore, I’d never seen such determination in a man. First, determination to live. Then, determination to recall who you were and how you’d ended up in a foreign land. Last, determination to gain justice…and revenge. It took months, years, to physically heal. There were bad days, horrible hours, when the best physicians believed you would die. You proved them all wrong. You are a fighter, Landon. Why give up now?”

Landon looked away. “This is different.”

“How? You want her. Go get her. Tell her you love her until she finally believes you.”

Landon turned back, frustration mingling with anger and anguish. “Words mean nothing! She was betrayed when she was sixteen. She swore to avoid rogues. Then I ruthlessly gained her fragile trust, only to grind it beneath my boot.”

Aram rubbed his chin with a thumb and forefinger. “I see your dilemma, my friend.”

“Then go away and stop bothering me.”

Aram waved a hand, dismissing him. “I said I see your dilemma, but I do not accept your position. You shouldn’t, either. You must prove yourself.”

“How? Flowers? Chocolates? Poor attempts at poetry?”

“Would a woman like Phoebe Dawson appreciate flowers and chocolates and badly written poetry?” Aram asked.

“No. She’d prefer nonmaterial things.” Phoebe wouldn’t accept any of these gifts. Rather, she’d see them as trifles and thoughtless.

“So…acts of service?” Aram asked.

“Yes, precisely.” As Phoebe’s charity came to mind, Landon stood and started pacing. Her blue eyes had sparkled when she’d first spoken of it during a particularly heated game of backgammon. Her enthusiasm had captured his attention. He’d never found a woman more attractive. Until he’d helped her with the country charity. She’d been ferocious in her generosity, her willingness to help others, and a streak of unexpected jealousy for her passion had nearly bowled him over.

A plan formed in his mind and for the first time in a week, his dark mood lifted. He needed to prove himself, prove his love. After all, she was more than justified in mistrusting him.

“Acts of service,” he repeated. “And I know just where to start.”