Page 21 of The Mistletoe Duke

When they saw him, they all crowed a greeting and lifted their glasses.

“There he is,” Mattingly said, pouring a glass for Jonathan as well.

“Where’ve you been?” Christian asked.

Jonathan took a sip of excellent brandy. “Tucking the girls into bed,” he said, nipping at his tongue to keep from babbling the other bit—the surprisingly scorching kiss with Meg.

Now that he was there, the others laid down their cues, and the four of them sat by the fire and got caught up. It hadn’t been long since he’d seen Mattingly and St. Clare in London, but they always seemed to have scintillating stories to tell. Indeed, they had Christian holding his sides in no time as they told a tale of a brawl in Whites last week between Peter Scofield and Reginald Busk over the debatable virtue of a known Cyprian. Love-triangles were always juicy fodder in the ton, and this one, apparently, was delighting gossips all over town. There had even been a threat of a duel.

Sadly, there had not been a duel. At least, not the pistols at dawn variety. But there had been a battle involving a half-full bottle of champagne and a napoleon—the cake, not the emperor.

“It was a damned waste of Chantilly cream, if you ask me,” Mattingly muttered, refilling his glass.

St. Clare nodded. “And champagne.”

Christian chuckled. “An appalling waste.”

“But you should have seen it,” Mattingly said. “Scofield dripping wet.”

“And Busk, sputtering, all covered with cream,” St. Clare added with a snort.

And then the two of them were off again, laughing so uproariously that Jonathan and Christian had to join in, even though they hadn’t seen it.

There were other stories, not as funny, though. The four of them talked and drank—and smoked the occasional cheroot—for several hours. It was quite grand. And a welcome prelude to the party to come, though the party to come would never be so pleasant. Jonathan resolved to savor this moment with his friends, and remember it when he wanted to tear his hair out in the ensuing days.

But then Mattingly went and said something that completely ruined his mood.

“So tell us about this girl.”

A simple question. Surely not one that should cause such an uprising of bile from his gut.

Jonathan sipped his brandy. It tasted bitter. “Girl?”

“You know.” St. Clare slapped him on the shoulder. “The one you mentioned in the invitation.”

Mattingly fixed him with a somber gaze. “We’re both dying to know more about her. Especially if she comes recommended by you.”

“Indeed,” St. Clare said. “I’ve been looking for a wife for months now, and cannot bear any of those flibberty-gibbets the mamas are proffering this season.”

Mattingly grunted. “Mindless twits. Tell me she’s not mindless.”

“No. No, she’s not mindless,” he said, but it was through tight lips.

“Good.” Both of his friends grinned.

“Is she pretty?” St. Clare asked hopefully.

Jonathan shrugged. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel like talking Meg up. Not to these two. “She’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” Christian blurted. “She’s gorgeous. Beautiful, intelligent eyes, lovely brown hair, and a face like a cameo—”

“Surely not like a cameo,” Jonathan muttered, but no one was listening to him. His friends had turned all their attention to Christian, who continued on, for far too long, singing the praises of Meg Chalmers. Over and over and over again until Jonathan wanted to scream at him to be quiet.

He couldn’t though. Couldn’t say anything.

And the damned irony of the situation was that he was the one who had welcomed these wolves to his door.

Judging from their expressions, they were going to eat Meg alive.