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“Never.”
“Neither have I. It’s just a courtesy title. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Means the difference between getting the best table in a restaurant and one by the kitchen door.”
“I don’t mind sitting by the kitchen door as long as the food is edible.”
“And Sandhurst?” she said. “Really?”
“Every Godwick heir has served in the British Army. Even my father in his early twenties.”
“Charlie said your father tried to talk you out of it.”
“Obviously he didn’t succeed.”
“Your father’s much more a lover than a fighter, if the rumors are true.”
“They are, but I’m not much of a fighter either. I’m planning to be a medical support officer, not a warlord.”
“Intriguing choice.”
“I love my parents but they’re…frivolous. They buy art, they sell art, they throw parties—”
“And orgies.”
“Yes, thank you for reminding me. Even my older sister is frivolous. All she cares about is Greek mythology and swanning around the Mediterranean with her husband. None of us are good for anything, really. I mean, art is lovely and all that, but no one with cancer was ever cured by a trip to a gallery. No drowning victim was ever resuscitated by a hand job—”
“Perhaps if it were a vigorous-enough hand job,” she said.
“Anyway, I want to do some good for the world. That’s all.”
She gave him a strange look, as if she saw someone or something else than she’d expected to see when she looked at him. It was there, he’d seen it, then it was gone again just as fast. Now she was looking at him as if he were a disappointment, which seemed to be her default facial expression.
“You’re a very unusual young man,” she said. “Not still a virgin, I hope?”
“No.”
“What age?”
“Eighteen.”
“Late bloomer. For a Godwick.”
“I take after my mother’s side.”
“Oh, hardly. You’re the spitting image of Lord Malcolm. Black hair. Dark eyes. Impossibly handsome. I heard he was quite well-endowed. Just how much do you take after him?”
“I would prefer not to talk about or think about the genitals of my great-grandparents, if you don’t mind.” Bad enough he had to know about his living relatives’ perversions. Did he have to think about the dead ones, too?
She sipped her whisky again. “So, how many conquests have you made? Tell me when to stop.” She held up one finger. Then two. Then—
“Stop.”
“Only two? Who was number one?”
“Wendy, my first girlfriend.”
“And the other?”
