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Lord Saintfort gawked. “You must do something with him, Miss Thompson.”
“Since the two of you have failed?” She shook her head and pointed her gaze at the ceiling. “Give me patience. He rarely gets this way but when he does, it’s a mess.” With disappointment in her expression, she joined him and removed the decanter from his hand, for the stopper had stymied him. “Talk sense into him,” she told Lord Randolph.
“We’ve tried. He’s even more stubborn when drunk.”
“I can usually catch him before he reaches this level.”
“He’s maudlin as well. Not a good combination.”
Look at them, talking about me as if I weren’t standing right here.
Nia shook her head. “It’s not attractive.” She set the decanter on a nearby table.
“Agreed.” Lord Randolph maneuvered in front of him. “This woman is your mistress, Laughton, not your fiancée.” His words were overly loud. And slow. Was the man having a stroke? “You cannot wed her.”
Percy’s thoughts grew more clouded. The urge to retch tickled the back of his throat. He frowned while peering at the woman standing next to him. Who was she again? Forgot. Damned head. “But she’s here. My mistress lives… elsewhere.” Didn’t she? Never brought her home. Not proper. “This is Lady Eleanor.”
What a funny sounding name. Eleanor. Did anyone else want to laugh?
The other man—forgot his name too—rubbed a hand along the side of his face. “You brought Miss Thompson here to play cards with us and drink instead of taking her home.”
“No. Distinctly don’t ‘member that.” Moving his head back and forth to look at them all made him dizzy. “She’s here. Never allow it. Corrupt my daughter. Eleanor wouldn’t though.” Why were they acting as if they hadn’t a brain between them? “’Sides, have the license.” He stumbled across the room, grabbed a piece of paper with a cry of victory and held it up. “See?”
Nia gasped while his friends groaned. “He’s mad.”
Lord Randolph nodded. He followed Percival over the floor and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “If you do this, if you wed Lavinia instead of Lady Eleanor, it will be societal suicide. You can’t beg off from contracts or jilt the lady. The duke will call for your head.”
“You’re jealous.” Percival frowned. Too much talking. He stared at the woman standing in the middle of the room. Flashes of memory surfaced from the murk of his brain. Silky skin. Soft sighs. Her lips around his shaft… “Wish she were naked. She’s a good fuck. Why shouldn’t I marry her?”
A sound of embarrassment issued from the woman while a pretty blush infused her pale cheeks. Couldn’t ‘member her name. Was it that funny one?
Lord Randolph gave him a shove that nearly toppled him to a low sofa. “It’s your hanging, Laughton. I wash my hands of this and will gladly watch the duke eviscerate you.” He shook his head. “Perhaps it’s exactly what you need to make you take responsibility for your life.”
“I hope to hell you can solve the riddle of your own arrogance.” The other man nodded. “At least it’ll add entertainment to the betting book at White’s.”
He had no idea what any of those words meant, but it was time for his wedding. “Don’t need you ‘cept to witness ceremony.” He quickly crossed the rug, tripping once, and then took the woman into his arms, kissing her soundly before she wrenched away. “Your father will be pleased. Take you to bed soon.”
She snorted, pushed out of his arms. “My father doesn’t give a fig if I’m alive or dead.”
“So silly.” He giggled, but that made his head feel exceedingly strange. Percy waved at the men, who looked upon him with pity. “See that the drawing room is set up. Lots of guests expected.”
“Well, this will be interesting, if nothing else,” Lord Randolph mentioned. “Good luck to you, Miss Thompson. I don’t envy you the morrow.”
Then they departed and left him alone with his bride-to-be. Before he had time to say anything, she raised her hand and slapped his cheek.
Fury lay stamped through her expression. “What the hell is wrong with you, Laughton?”
