Seven Years to Sin(26)
At least that was true until the Earl of Regmont caught his eye.
Seated in one of a half dozen wingbacks surrounding a low table, Regmont laughed at something said by Lord Westfield. Also in his circle were Lord Trenton, Lord Hammond, and Lord Spencer Faulkner. Since Michael was well acquainted with all but Regmont, he felt no qualms about taking the remaining open seat.
“Good evening, Tarley,” Ridgely drawled while signaling for a footman. “Seeking escape from all the debutantes eager for your new title?”
“I have an increased appreciation for the toll the Season can take on an unwed peer.” Michael ordered cognac from the waiting server, as did Regmont. The rest of the men at the table had half-full libations.
“Here, here,” Westfield concurred, lifting his glass in toast.
“Better you than me,” Lord Spencer said. As a second son, he enjoyed a less hunted existence; the other men at the table had wives.
Studying Regmont, Michael wondered why the man was out carousing with friends when he should be home making amends to Hester. It was difficult for Michael to restrain his tongue after witnessing her unhappiness. If she had been his, he would ensure nothing marred her existence.
The footman returned with two glasses of cognac. Regmont took an immediate drink, which brought Michael’s attention to the hand the earl wrapped around the bulbous glass. The knuckles were swollen and bruised.
“Engaged in fisticuffs lately, Regmont?” he asked, before taking a drink himself.
To his knowledge, the earl was a genial fellow who was well liked by one and all. Lauded by women for his golden good looks, easy smile, and ready charm, Regmont made it very difficult for Michael to like him. The man seemed too blithesome, to the point of lacking any real substance. But perhaps that was what made him suit Hester, who’d once been the merriest and most enchanting woman anywhere. She was still the latter and would always be to Michael’s mind.
“Pugilism,” Regmont replied. “An excellent sport.”
“Agreed. I enjoy it myself. Do you practice here at Remington’s?”
“Often. If you’re ever of a mind to practice together—”
“Absolutely,” Michael interjected, relishing the possibility of championing Hester, even if he was the only one who knew his motivation. From the sight of Regmont’s knuckles, the man preferred training sans mufflers, which suited Michael perfectly in this instance. “Name the time and date, and I will be there.”
“I shall require the betting book,” Lord Spencer called out, deliberately drawing attention.
Regmont grinned. “Spoiling for a fight, are you, Tarley? I’ve had such days. I would be happy to oblige you now.”
Michael sized the earl up. Regmont was shorter than he and lean, with sinewy musculature that lent well to the prevalent fashion of snug tailoring in breeches and coats. Michael had the advantage in height and arm reach. Settling more comfortably into the butter-soft leather, he said, “I would prefer an early-afternoon bout. We’ll enjoy ourselves more if we are both rested and free of drink.”
The betting book was brought to the table, which lured an audience.
An unusual appearance of somberness possessed Regmont’s features. “Excellent point. This day next week, then? Three o’clock?”
“Perfect.” An anticipatory smile curved Michael’s lips. He reached for the betting book and placed a wager on Alistair’s behalf with odds on himself.
It was just the sort of bet his friend would appreciate.
Chapter 8
Jessica awoke the next morning with what she likened to a megrim. The hard, insistent throbbing in her head and the horrid taste in her mouth made her ill. She fought nausea valiantly but lost. She was also highly aware of the tenderness between her legs. Memories from the day before made her blush, then cringe. How could she have been so undisciplined? And inflamed enough by Alistair’s skillful hands and mouth to make a crude suggestion that led him to leave her bed in anger?
She knew the answer—Alistair Caulfield had always had a unique effect on her. She was not herself with him; she was a woman she did not recognize. And it was difficult to determine whether or not the woman she became with him was one she wanted to be. How could it be appropriate when she felt so conflicted, embarrassed, and guilty?
Beth, as always, was a godsend. The abigail arranged for a pitcher of warmed water for washing and secured a plate of hard biscuits, which eased Jess’s stomach malaise considerably. By evening, she felt well enough to eat more substantial fare and to face Alistair. Too familiar with a man’s anger to seek him out alone, she chose to take the evening meal in the great cabin along with the other gentlemen. As the meal progressed and Alistair studiously avoided looking at or speaking to her whenever it was possible to do so, she felt she’d made the best decision. However, the rift between them pained her.
But, perhaps, it was for the best. If she’d soured his interest, she would be spared the turmoil that had plagued her since their reacquaintance. What he had asked of her—to be her lover—was so far outside the scope of her own acceptance of herself that she could hardly credit it. Yet clearly he was more than capable of piercing her defenses. The restraint she desired would have to originate with him. And although she regretted achieving the aim by wounding him, abstaining from further interaction was better for them both.