Page 110 of A Figure of Love

Declan laughed, he couldn’t help it. People rarely surprised him, but this man had. An honest-to-God earl wanting a drink with the likes of him?

“Why not?” he said, even though he knew why—he needed to get the hell out of here.

The earl tried to push himself up but didn’t have much luck.

“You sit, I’ll pour.” He went to the decanters. “I’m afraid there is no champagne.”

“Thank God. Whiskey if he has it.”

“Oh, he has it.” Declan poured two glasses from a bottle he knew Gareth had paid triple digits for and carried both toward the other man. He handed him one and raised the other high, “To your upcoming nuptials, may they be as joy-filled as those we witnessed today.”

Avingdon tipped his head back and poured the contents of the glass down in one big gulp. He grimaced as the liquid burned its way down, the expression in no way diminishing his perfect features.

Declan had always been secure in his ability to attract members of the opposite sex but the earl was the type of man to make other men feel like inelegant oafs and get every woman in the room swooning. Still, Dec couldn’t help noticing his battered Hessians and threadbare coat. Everyone—even men who looked like this and had a title to boot—had their problems.

He glanced at the empty glass in the earl’s hand. “Another?”

Avingdon reeled back a little. “No shank, er, thank you, I had better not.”

Dec shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He took the chair across from him.

“I don’t know your friend well, but I believe they make a fine couple, don’t you think?”

Declan agreed, although he hadn’t always. Of course he now knew some of that was fear at losing Gareth’s friendship, a foolish fear. “Yes, I believe they will rub along quite nicely together. What about your future wife?”

Avingdon blinked. “What wife?”

“I thought you said you were soon to be shackled?”

He watched with amusement as realization dawned slowly in the man’s enormous blue eyes. “Ah. Yes. That wife. Well,” he raised his glass and then saw it was empty. “I have not spoken the necessary words yet.”

“Are you worried she will not have you?”

An expression of anger or something like it flickered across his face. “No, I’m afraid she will.” He shook himself, as if he’d just heard what he’d said. He grimaced. “Dear me, that sounds quite dreadful. I’m afraid I may have given you the wrong impression. I have no particular woman in mind. You see, I have only recently come into my title.”

Declan had heard the man’s brother died unexpectedly not long ago. “I’m sorry for your loss.” That’s what people said, wasn’t it?

The other man waved away his condolence.

“Bloody shame it was, although there are more than a few in my family who think he was damned lucky to get out of it.” He burped. “’Scuse me. ’Course I planted the last bastard who said that a facer. Not good, not good. Not at a funeral.”

Dec was beginning to wish he’d poured himself a larger drink. He’d had no idea aristocrats did interesting things like engage in brawls at funerals.

“Aunts, cousins, nieces, sisters, and even a brother. Every last one needs it.”

“It?” Declan repeated.

He looked up and blinked, as if surprised to find he wasn’t alone. “Brass. I need brass.”

Ah, he was skint. Declan took a sip. “Well, I daresay the heiresses will be queuing up for a chance at being a countess.” Not to mention for a chance to marry a man who didn’t look like a bloated trout, which was what most of the aristos he’d met resembled.

His words seemed to depress the other man. “Ne—hic—never wanted to auction myself off like a side of pork.”

Declan laughed and the earl scowled at him. “Whasso amusing?”

He shrugged. “You, I guess.”

Avingdon flinched back as if he’d been slapped, and then he threw his head back and laughed—far louder and with more gusto than the small comment deserved.