Page 67 of Counting on Love

*

Reginald was certain he would never be able to sleep. He was mortified. He might never sleep again. How could he have—how could she have allowed him to—God! Talking about embezzlement and bribery while standing around half-dressed.

He was disgusting.

He didn’t see how he would get through the next few weeks without Jasper calling him out. Damn it. For honor’s sake, he would have to allow Jasper the first shot. He snorted. And probably the second shot also. Jasper couldn’t hit a cow at ten paces.

He took off his jacket and boots and sat down on his bed. Shivering, though he was not cold, he pulled a blanket around his shoulders and then lay back to stare at the ceiling.

He could, he was fairly certain, manage to slog through account books without making an arse of himself. Not even he was green enough to imagine this was the sort of activity that would turn a woman’s head. Or a man’s—even if men’s heads were notoriously easy to turn. He could surely work in close quarters with Georgiana for a week or two without putting a knife in Jasper’s back. Huh. As if he could even succeed if he tried. How hubristic to think he—a third son!—could compete with an earl for a duke’s daughter. How ludicrous to imagine competing with Jasper at all.

But. After the next few weeks, after sorting this, after Father…passed, after Jasper ascended to the title and wed, what was he going to do?

He closed his eyes and tried not to picture Jasper and Georgiana together. Setting up their nursery. Throwing Christmas balls at Chaumbers for the good folks in Iversley.

Framingham was not far enough. Nor Bath. Not even Cambridge, not even with twelve untranslated Greek manuscripts awaiting him, nothing, without her, would be enough.

*

The bed shook, and Reginald woke to see that Crispin had flopped down on its edge.

“Are you awake?” Crispin asked.

“I am now.” He sat up and swung his feet, like blocks of lead, to the floor. “What time is it?

“Nearly teatime. What the devil happened to you? Reg! Those are last night’s pantaloons! Were you out on a drunk?”

“Yes, obviously. Because that’s what I do.”

“Did you ride over to the Boar’s Head in Grosling to give Maggie a bang? I know it isn’t your usual practice, but after Annie threw you over—”

If only Jasper, for once, could keep his mouth shut. Crispin was probably wondering what was wrong with Reg that he hadn’t sought out a lightskirt for some convenient solace. Crispin did not see the point in mistresses, preferring, so he said, variety, and the method “pay-as-you-go.”

He muttered, “Maggie is yours.”

With a wicked smirk, Crispin said, “Maggie is everyone’s. That’s rather the point.”

“Everyone’s except mine. And Jasper’s.”

“Oh, right.” He looked at Reginald sideways. “I’d forgotten. Our unwritten, unstated rule.”

Reginald felt his blood run down to his toes. Crispin was surely not saying what it sounded like. He had not let his attraction to Georgiana become obvious.

“If you must know, I spent the night in the library, working on the damned accounts.”

“If they are in that much of a state, leave them for Benjamin. That’s what Jasper will be paying him for.”

“Believe me, at this point, I would like nothing better than to dump the whole mess into Benjamin’s lap.”

Crispin pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket, pulled open the drawstring, and plucked out a couple of nuts. “Why don’t you?” He tossed them into his mouth.

Reginald hesitated. He couldn’t involve Crispin. He shrugged. “I will. But there are a few stray bits missing and I don’t want Benjamin thinking I did a half-arsed job.”

Crispin snickered and munched a few more nuts. “You’ve never been half-arsed in your life.” He looked up. “You’re more of a whole arse.”

Reginald stood and went to his dresser. The water in his washbowl looked filmy. Yesterday’s wash water. Barclay needed a talking to.

“Did you come to wake me up for a reason?”