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“I hadn’t planned to attend, no.” He shifted uncomfortably. “With the children settling into London life and my aunt’s interference—”
“Nonsense!” Drake interrupted. “You must come. It’s the event of the season.”
“The children—” Caldwell began again.
“You have help, don’t you?” St. Claire cut in. “A nanny, a governess, that exceptionally competent housekeeper of yours?”
“Well, yes,” Caldwell admitted reluctantly.
“Then what are you afraid of?” Drake pressed, leaning forward. “One evening of entertainment won’t bring the household to ruin.”
Caldwell hesitated. The truth was, he hadn’t attended a proper society event since… Well, since he was a young lad. The idea of rejoining the social whirl of London filled him with a vague sense of dread. And the masquerade… It was a scandalous event that no man trying to set a good example for his children should ever attend—not that they would ever find out.
“They’re right, Caldwell,” Tyrone said. “You’ve isolated yourself too long. The children need you, yes, but they also need a guardian who hasn’t forgotten how to live. Besides, what better way to make social connections than by attending social events? Half of London will be there, and so should you.”
“Come,” Drake said, clapping him on the back. “The rest of these fools are married and chained to their wives. I need a proper scoundrel at my side to hunt down masked vixens to entertain.”
“You?” Tyrone barked a laugh. “Entertain?”
“Absolutely,” Drake said with a wicked grin. “For hours.”
“Then what the devil do you need Caldwell for?” St. Clare asked.
“Entertaining will be done solo. Hunting is better done in packs. Come now, you’ve been a bachelor. And the worst scoundrel of the lot.”
St. Clare just shrugged.
“Not certain I’d be any help in that regard,” Caldwell said honestly. “I’ve never been particularly good at… hunting.”
“I shall teach you,” Drake said eagerly. “We’ll find you a lady to entertain in no time.”
Caldwell grimaced. “Not sure I know how to do that either.”
A brief silence fell over the room.
“Christ alive,” the Mad Duke said, eyebrows shooting up. “You’re serious.”
“Wait—” St. Clare leaned forward, a confused frown between his brows. “Entertaining is a polite way of saying… rutting, is it not?”
“Exactly,” Drake drawled.
“Are you telling us—? You’ve never—?”
“Naturally, I have,” Caldwell feigned affront.
Well… he had, in a manner of speaking.
He remembered it well enough, fresh out of Cambridge, at a gathering not unlike this one, after too many drinks, his friends had paid for him to spend an hour with a harlot.
He stifled a grimace. He hadn’t felt comfortable then, and he still felt strange about the encounter now, after all those years.
The woman, seeing his discomfort, had not pressed him. She’d kissed his neck, stroked him a bit, then took him into her mouth until he spilled like a fool. It had been… odd. Awkward.
Pleasant, but also embarrassing. Definitely not the glorious experience he had been promised.
The clumsy fumbling he’d shared years later with a barmaid had felt far more intimate, although it didn’t progress farther than kisses and touches. And that was it… That was the extent of his experience in entertaining ladies.
He certainly wasn’t about to tell any of that to the men before him.
