Page 7 of Counting on Love

She cocked her head and regarded him steadily, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she sensed his relief.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“Well, no.” He tried to be magnanimous. “You’re in a difficult situation.”

She smiled a lightly mocking smile. Once again, he’d amused her when that was not his intention. “As are you. Believe me, I understand.” Her eyes danced, making her seem more like herself. “Sir Plodgett has said that, naturally, he will see to reimbursing you for your expenses.”

“God!” The oath exploded from his lips. “That mercenary blackguard.”

“Yes, he is crass,” she admitted.

“And a coward.” Reginald saw that with a sudden clarity, and it made him feel better. “He left this whole business to you to tell me?”

“I think perhaps he was leery of facing you.” She shrugged, excusing Plodgett’s poor behavior. It was a habit she would have to acquire. “He didn’t know what to expect. You’re rather a mystery, you know, compared to your brothers.”

Jasper would say it was beneath him to pummel an old man. Crispin would say to hell with it and pummel him anyway. But Reginald?

“Did he think I would take his money then? Third son? Pockets to let?” Was that how Plodgett had wooed her? Implying Reginald could not afford such a desirable courtesan?

“I believe he heard a rumor you were a crack shot.” Her eyebrows arched in question as if she, too, found him a bit of a mystery. Crack shot was not out of the question, but it was out of character. He was, after all, a man who wore spectacles at the theater.

“Where would he have heard that?”

She paused before saying, “At White’s. He overheard it. Lord Taverston let it slip.”

So Jasper knew. And he’d entertained himself by terrorizing the old sod. Well, it was a revenge of a sort. And Reginald would have had to face Jasper anyway. It wasn’t as if such choice gossip could be muzzled.

But, the deuce. He sank against the cushion. He would never have thought he could be the subject of the ton’s latest on dit. Certainly, no one would ever imagine such a thing. He grimaced ruefully.

“You may reassure him that I won’t shoot him.”

Her smile grew. She peeled the silk wrap from her shoulders and set it to her side.

“Now that’s settled, shall we go to bed before we part ways?”

He flinched. She wasn’t joking. That bothered him—how little she knew him. He picked up his sherry and drained the glass.

“No. You owe me nothing.”

Her expression flattened. Just there, about her eyes, he could see the start of fine worry lines. Until now, her age had never concerned him enough to notice the evidence of it. Unfortunately, that had been naïve of him.

“I am not offering out of obligation,” she said, peeved. “I’d like to go to bed with you.”

Scratching the itch, as Crispin would put it, in his indecorous way. Reginald supposed she did want him to take her to bed. Annie had taught him how to give her pleasure, and he was nothing if not a careful student.

Still, he shook his head. His face felt hot, and he wondered if he was reddening.

“I see,” she said quietly. Gently. Her expression reminded him of the look she’d given him the first time they’d lain together. She hadn’t been his first, but close enough to it. She hadn’t said anything, but she’d known.

That first time—he wished he could forget. He’d been home on break during his first year at Cambridge. His brothers had divvied up the chore of “growing him up”. Jasper got him drunk. Crispin took him to a brothel, disappearing at once with a favorite—a buxom redhead who acted delighted to see him—leaving Reginald to choose between two brunettes of indeterminate age whose faces he was too embarrassed to note. That night, and the morning after, he’d sorely wished he did not have brothers.

And now he wished he’d never involved himself with Annie.

“I feel like an idiot,” he admitted. How was it that he couldn’t bring himself to touch Plodgett’s mistress?

“Don’t. Reginald Taverston, you are a good man.” The worry lines appeared again. “I wish I were less practical. Or ten years younger. I’ll miss you.”

He leaned to kiss her cheek. Now the strong scent of her perfume—and the tobacco smoke—made him feel a bit ill. He stood. “I’ll miss you, too.” He suspected he might be lying. “You needn’t see me out. I’ll have Dolores fetch my things.”

She plucked the jewelry box from the davenport and held it up for him to take.

He shook his head. “You keep it. What in God’s name would I do with it?”

“No. It wouldn’t feel right.”

He laughed and said a Crispin-like thing. “Are you serious? That is what doesn’t feel right?” Then he softened it. “A goodbye gift.” He stepped to the door; as he moved through it he tossed over his shoulder, “Tell Plodgett I stomped out to clean my pistols.”

He thought it a fair approximation of a dignified exit.