As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(46)

Today, though, had been the last straw.

An entire morning spent shopping on Bond Street. Good Lord. If he had to see one more display of shoes and parasols, he would go mad. He couldn’t even sneak away for ten minutes’ peace into the bookseller’s to study Peveril of the Peak, the new novel by Walter Scott, without his mother sending the footman to fetch him back to the milliner’s so he could give his opinion on several bonnets the two women couldn’t decide between on their own, only for them to reject outright every choice he made.

That was when he sent the message to Ross and dared to make his escape. And he hadn’t looked back.

“Cognac,” he called out to the attendant.

“Good God, you look awful.” Ross Carlisle, Earl of Spalding, sank into the chair opposite him. “Bring the whole bottle,” he ordered the attendant, with an amused gleam in his eyes at his cousin’s expense. “This could turn into a wake.”

“Very funny,” Robert muttered.

Kicking his long legs out in front of him, Ross sent him a slow grin.

“Mock me all you want, but I needed you to save my life.” He shot Ross a pointed look. “And you still owed me for saving yours that day in York.”

“You mean from the Scot?” His sandy-colored brow jutted into the air, his blue eyes sparkling. Although the Spalding side of the family had darker features than the Trent side, they all possessed the same blue eyes. And the same penchant for stirring up trouble. “I would have been just fine on my own.”

“He was coming after you with a claymore—”

“That had last been used at Culloden,” Ross interjected.

“That was still sharp enough to chop through your door—”

“That he could barely lift to swing—”

“Enough to have you backed against the wall and sending up a prayer.”

Ross grinned. That same charming smile that had broken a string of hearts across the continent, including those of two princesses, if rumors could be believed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have made that comment about kilts and sheep.”

Robert drawled wryly, “Perhaps you shouldn’t have bedded the man’s wife.”

His cousin gave a long and happy sigh at the memory. There was as little guilt on his face today as there had been that night in York. “I did a fine job of talking him out of killing me, you have to admit.”

“And a career diplomat was born,” Robert concluded ironically, taking his glass of brandy from the attendant.

“Scots with claymores, Americans with rifles, French with cannons…” Ross shrugged, accepting the bottle and setting it on the table beside his chair. “In the end, it’s all the same.”

Robert arched a dubious brow. “Angry non-English husbands who want to kill you?”

“Exactly,” Ross answered, deadpan.

But Robert knew the truth. For all that Ross had earned a rakish reputation that followed him into life as a diplomat, he was dedicated to England. Always had been, since the day he left university and took an officer’s commission in the army. Neither did he let inheriting the title keep him from continuing his work for his country, because he now served under the British ambassador to France. Even now, he was in London only for a short stay before heading back to Paris.

Robert shook his head and grumbled, “At least you’ve only got wars and armies to worry about.”

“And your foes are worse?” Ross hid a knowing grin behind the rim of his glass as he took a sip.

“Yes.” Robert closed his eyes against the headache pounding at the back of his skull. “The petticoat set.” He groaned with a pained shake of his head. When had his perfectly normal life spiraled out of control? “Good Lord, you have no idea the hell of it.”

And it was hell, but not just the socializing and shopping. There were also the implications behind it. He was forced to escort Mariah about the city to introduce her to all their family’s friends in order to spread the news that she was out for the season and thus also accepting suitors. Every marriage-minded mama they came across eyed her up and down…those with sons to decide if her family’s fortune might just be worth overlooking her reputation, and those with daughters to snub her once they saw for themselves how engaging she was. How attractive in her yellow muslin day dress and blue satin dinner gown. How light her laughter and bright her smile.

How truly enjoyable her company.

That grated Robert most of all, because when she wanted, the woman could be downright enchanting.

“Well,” Ross muttered with deadpan sarcasm, “I’ve heard that Wellington once considered sending misses and their mamas into battle, but the carnage from parasols alone would have been unfathomable.” The clink of glass and soft splash of liquid signaled a refilling of their drinks. “Not even the French deserved that.”

“Thank you,” he drawled, cracking open one eye to glare half-heartedly at his cousin.

With a grin at Robert’s expense, Ross pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the ivory inlaid cabinet in the corner to help himself to two of the cigars stored within. “And does your current state have anything to do with this petticoat of yours whom you’ve been—”

“She isn’t my anything.” He tossed back the brandy in a gasping swallow.