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Deciding to face the two men head on, he said, “Coffee. Now my beverage of choice.”
They both waved at the footman to bring them brandy and laughed so hard they were doubled over, pushing at each other like youths barely out of university. Apparently, they had already begun their evening of carousing.
Brennan took a glass from the tray the footman held and poured brandy into it. “Here, you don’t want coffee to rot your stomach.” His smiled faded when Edwin didn’t take the glass and shook his head. “No. Thank you anyway.”
Manchester and Brennan looked at each other with a combination of surprise and anger. “What are you about, Sterling?”
Edwin shrugged. “Nothing. Since I was forced to forego my brandy while in the infirmary, I find I feel much better without it.”
“It’s that sour doctor, isn’t it?” Brennan said and gulped his drink.
His initial annoyance at the men turned to irritation at the slur to Rayne. “She is far from sour. She is a lovely woman dedicated to helping people.”
Again, the two idiots collapsed in laughter. “Next thing I know you will be telling us you’re giving up cards and women.” Manchester’s comment did not come across as amusing as Edwin assumed he wanted it to be. In fact, it appeared his friends felt threatened.
“Is that why you had that butler turn us away when we came twice before?” Brennan slammed his glass down on the table. “Are you feeling righteous? Too good for us?”
The men’s jump from hilarity to anger was surprising. Why hadn’t he noticed before that drinking and carousing was the only basis of their so-called friendship?
“I am merely taking my life in a different direction. I am not condemning you but find it’s time for me to look for other activities.”
“Ah. I get it. You’re tupping the good doctor and want to stay in her favor.” Manchester raised his glass. “Well done. She might be sour, but in the dark one doesn’t have to look at her face.”
Edwin leaned forward, wishing his leg was not still held in a splint so he could jump across the table and take Manchester to the floor with a few good blows to his sneering face. “I am not ‘tupping’ the doctor, and your insults to her will end or despite my broken leg, I will beat you to a pulp.”
“Well, blasted hell, Sterling. You love the woman,” Brennan said.
“I do not.” That was definitely not a place Edwin wished to visit. He might care for her, and before he discovered she was betrothed, wondered if they could ever have a future together, but love? No. Love hurt too much when it was taken away. Although he certainly hadn’t loved his sister the way a man loves a woman he wants to mate with, her death had ripped his heart apart.
“Yes. You do,” they both said in unison.
“Because I respect Dr. Stevens and am grateful for what she did to patch me up doesn’t mean I am in love with her. But now, I find myself bored with the conversation, and I certainly do not want to deprive you of your evening’s entertainment.”
Manchester turned to Brennan. “He just dismissed us.”
“So it seems.” They both stared at him as if he’d just grown another head. “You might say you’re not in love with her, but I suggest you take a second look at yourself.” Manchester downed the rest of his drink and looked over at Brennan. “Let’s leave his lordship’s exalted presence. It’s starting to smell in here.”
Love.
At one time that word directed toward him would scare the breeches off him. Now, it didn’t seem so frightening.
As he watched his two friends leave the club, pushing and shoving each other like two green youths, he recalled the time Carter Westbrooke visited with him after Edwin had insulted Lottie Danvers and the subject of love came up.
“Time to rise, Sterling.” Carter pulled back the drapes, allowing the bright sunlight to flood Edwin’s bedroom.
Westbrooke gripped Edwin’s hair and pulled back so he could see his face. “Time to get up, Sterling.”
Edwin’s eyes opened and he groaned. “You must be a bad dream.”
“No. I am your worst nightmare.” Carter let go and walked to the dresser across the room. He picked up the half-full pitcher of water and dumped it on Edwin’s head.
“What the blasted hell!” He jumped up and shook his head, water splattering in every direction. “Is that you, Westbrooke? What the hell are you doing in my bedchamber? Were you a guest last night? I don’t remember.” He groaned and held his head.
“Yes. It is I, Mr. Carter Westbrooke. I have come to deliver a message to you that I expect will take some repeating before it enters your soused brain.”
“Is this about that whore?”
Carter’s fist flew, connecting with Edwin’s jaw. He went down like a sack of flour.
