Gentlemen Prefer Spinsters (Spinsters Club #1)(8)

Harcourt gave him a look. Everyone knew he had no problems with women, and he’d enjoyed the company of many a fine lady these past years. But, again, the endless stream of women in his bed had grown tiresome. They were strong, independent women who needed nothing more from him than a quick tumble, but since he had turned thirty, his desire for such dalliances had declined. He’d rather argue with a woman under a tree than bed a practical stranger again.

Michael Griffin, heir to the Dukedom of Harington, wouldn’t understand one jot. If Harcourt was considered a rake, who knew what Griff was? But with his father alive and kicking, Griff hardly felt the need to settle down any time soon, and Harcourt could not see him ever being tamed, even once marriage was needed.

“You need a new conquest,” Griff declared. He drained his drink and slammed the glass down. “Come on, Easton, there’s a party at Lady Seville’s. Let us go there and find you some company. That shall stir you out of...” He waved a hand. “Whatever this is.”

Harcourt threw back his brandy and pictured the party. There would be dancing and drink. Lots of young ladies vying for a husband, and a few widows or older women looking for an experienced lover who could fulfill the needs that their husbands neglected.

He shook his head. “I think I shall head home.”

“Lady Bambridge will be there.”

Harcourt scowled, trying to recall the lady. Glossy black hair and voluptuous figure came to mind.

“She has implied she wishes to spend time in your company again,” Griff confided, his brows wagging.

Shaking his head, Harcourt stood. “I think my bed is calling.”

His friend blinked at him. “Do I need to call a doctor?”

Harcourt chuckled. “Because I have turned down one ball?”

“Because you have not been the same roguish Harcourt I know for some time now. But this...this is even worse. Going to bed alone? You must be ill indeed.” Griff paused and frowned. “You’re not dying, are you?”

Harcourt chuckled. “No, I am not dying. I simply wish for my bed. But you enjoy the rest of your night. If Lady Bambridge is that keen for a lover, I’m sure you will do admirably.” He grinned. “Though she may find you a little disappointing compared to me.”

Griff snorted. “Unlikely.”

“Enjoy your evening.”

Harcourt collected his hat and gloves and left the smoke and whisky fumes behind. Not that the streets of London smelled much better. It used to be that he could not wait to draw in the smoky smell of Town as opposed to the clear air of Lulworth. After his education at Oxford, he’d spent as much time in London as possible, taking every advantage afforded to him. For almost a decade, he’d gambled, drank, danced, and bedded his way through Town.

He approached a hansom cab and instructed the driver to take him home. Once he climbed into the carriage, he tugged out his pocket watch. Ten o’clock. Early indeed for a gentleman about town. He didn’t regret calling it an early night, though. The sooner he went to bed, the sooner he could rise and quit London. The thought of fresh smelling air and grass beneath his feet appealed far more than sweaty bodies in a ballroom and warm punch.

He snapped the watch shut and shoved it back into his pocket. Of course, it was Merry that was the real appeal. He shouldn’t have left her. He’d thought perhaps giving her space would help and he did need to meet with his accountant—though of course the accountant was paid quite enough to come to him. Leaving her had been a mistake, he realized that now.

Just as he had realized many other things recently. Namely that he was getting too old to be a rake. His mother had been pestering him to settle down ever since he’d inherited his earldom eight years ago, but he’d had little interest in doing so. He had now come to understand it was because he had not found the right woman yet. Or to be more accurate, he had not appreciated that the right woman was there—right in front of him. The girl he’d come to consider a fine friend had become a remarkable young woman—and he was no longer interested in being a rake.

The carriage rolled to a halt and he pressed a hand to the door to steady himself. After paying the driver, he raced up the steps to the townhouse and barged inside. His valet attended to him quickly with a raise of a brow.

“You’re early, my lord.”

“Yes.” Harcourt glanced round the quiet entranceway as he shrugged off his jacket. “Are any of the maids still around?”

Harlow nodded. “If you are hungry—-”

He shook his head. “No, I need my belongings packed at once. We are leaving. Tonight.”

A crease marred Harlow’s forehead. “Tonight, my lord? But it is far too late to travel.”

“I wasn’t making a suggestion.”

A knock at the door preventing the valet from protesting further. Harcourt yanked open the door to find Griff on the doorstep.

“What the devil are you doing here?” asked Harcourt.

Griff grinned. “Coming to see what all the fuss is about?”

“Fuss?” Harcourt scowled and stepped back to allow his friend to enter. “Harlow, rouse the maids. I wish to leave now.”

Harlow stomped off upstairs, muttering about how the maids would have his balls for this. Harcourt turned his attention back to Griff.

“Did you not have a party to attend to?”