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Now Lucas knew he was being deliberately goaded. “Do I have to count you among my rivals, as well?”
“Rival? Me? As if she’d even consider me.”
“She seemed to like you well enough. You certainly spent a long while talking at the picnic.”
“I did indeed, thanks to your desire to chase after Harrow. I must assume your charm had the desired effect, as you’re to be there Tuesday?”
He ignored the mild gibe, knowing it was warranted. “What did you tell her about me?”
“Oho! So that’s your aim, is it? Nothing.”
“Oh, come now, Westing. She knows we’re close friends. Surely my name had to come up in conversation.”
Westing’s expression grew smug. “The only thing she said concerning you was to ask me to warn you that she’s not an easy conquest. What was it? Ah, yes. She’s had both paupers and peers try to convince her to abandon Harrow, but the man who succeeds will offer her something he cannot.”
“But Harrow is not the one I have to persuade her to abandon,” Lucas grumbled. Frowning, he took another sip of brandy. “I know nothing of her true lover,” he lied. “How am I to compete with an unknown quantity?”
“I suppose you’ll have to trick her into revealing what’s lacking between them and then try to provide it.”
It sounded so simple; however, he knew it was anything but. “She truly did not ask anything at all about me?”
Westing cast him a knowing smirk. “Contrary to your perception of your own importance, there are many other subjects on which to expound besides you. But if it’s any comfort, you can rest assured I’m not her sort. She thinks me too wholesome.”
A chuckle burst from Lucas’s throat. “Did she actually say so?” The withering glance he in turn received told him she had indeed. “I’d happily correct her terrible error in judgment, but I suspect it works in my favor. Well, at least I don’t have to worry she’ll fall for the wrong man. Best have an eye on Harrow, though,” he teased. “He appeared to take quite a liking to you.”
A flush rose up from beneath Westing’s collar, and he muttered, “I’ll thank you not to encourage him in that direction.”
“Perhaps you ought not to have accepted his invitation, then?”
“Perhaps not, but I accepted it under no false pretenses,” said Westing, coloring further. “All speculation aside, he’s a wealthy marquess, and I currently cannot afford to appear rude to my betters. I merely looked to befriend the man. It is my right.”
“Of course, as long as you remember who was your friend first.” He hadn’t meant it to come out so sharp, but there it was. Shame filled him at the crestfallen look on his oldest friend’s face. “Forgive me, Westie. I’ve not been myself of late,” he confessed.
Westing’s speculative gaze settled on him. “I’ve noticed,” he said drily. “Bloody hell, you really are the jealous sort. And I’m flattered, by the bye.”
Good humor restored, Lucas smiled into his brandy, taking a sip. “You should be,” he quipped. “It’s not every day I’m caught being so sentimental.”
“Save it for Harrow,” laughed Westing, holding up a hand. “He’s the one you must impress.”
When it arrived, Tuesday’s game night was accompanied by inclement weather. Lucas half expected Westing to show up at his house early so they might go together, but he didn’t. Part of him almost hoped he’d chosen to bow out. Thus it was a surprise when he was shown into the salon to find his best friend already seated before the hearth, sipping mulled wine, and chatting amiably with Lady Diana.
Again, jealousy boiled up within him at how at ease they appeared with one another. But that had been the plan; Westing was to keep her occupied while he mainly concentrated on Harrow. They could trade company later, after he’d convinced Diana he’d taken her advice to heart.
Harrow was as affable as ever, though Lucas could have sworn the man was watching him more closely now. He dismissed it as nerves. He’d never tried to flirt with a man and didn’t quite know what to do, so he fell back on what was comfortable. Talk centered on the usual topics discussed between gentlemen, and he slowly began to relax.
He liked Harrow well enough that the idea of being friends with him was agreeable. But every time he thought about deliberately attempting to make the man think he was interested in more, his palms began to sweat, and his cravat seemed to constrict around his throat.
The longer he sat there, the more he worried he’d be unable to do it. Worse, he grew concerned Harrow would sense his unease. The mulled wine helped, but too much would be a bad thing, so he practiced the art of balancing on the knife’s edge between alcohol’s comforting embrace and sobriety’s unloving grip.
Chapter Ten
Diana watched as Blackthorn took the seat opposite Harrow at the card table. His distracted, fidgety demeanor had her caught somewhere between laughter and pity. How Harrow was maintaining such a calm exterior was beyond her. When she’d told him what had transpired between them at the picnic, he’d laughed so hard he’d cried.
On several occasions, she marked Westing’s nervous glances in their direction. Within twenty minutes of Blackthorn’s arrival, she knew the two were in each other’s confidences. It was only fair. After all, she and Harrow were a team, too.
Playing cards seemed to have a strangely calming effect on Blackthorn. She attributed it
to distraction at first, but then realized it was more than that. He was a skilled player. They all were, but his focus seemed a bit too intent for a friendly match. Several games in, she realized his was the manner of a professional gambler, and another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
