Whatcouldhe say?
“I have to go,” she said again, and slipped out of his arms. Hastily, she turned to hurry back inside, leaving Henry alone on the balcony with the taste of her still on his lips and the certainty that he very much wanted to do it again.
He very much wanted to kiss her again.
CHAPTER 16
“Ishould warn you, Marchwood, your glowering presence is frightening away half my potential card partners,” the Marquess of Southall remarked as he slid into the chair opposite Henry. “Though I daresay the other half appear determined to lose their quarterly allowances to me regardless.”
Henry barely glanced up from the untouched glass of whiskey before him. The gaming hell, one of London’s more exclusive establishments, where gentlemen of quality might indulge vices without fear of societal repercussion, buzzed with activity around them.
Cards shuffled, dice rolled, and fortunes changed hands with the casual indifference of men to whom money was merely another form of entertainment.
“I’ve no interest in their games,” Henry replied tersely, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the Marquess’s shoulder.
“So I’ve observed.” Everett signaled a passing server for a drink of his own before leaning forward. “Three invitations to join tables, two offers of private games, and yet here you sit, brooding like Hamlet contemplating Yorick’s skull.”
Henry tensed. “I’m merely engaged in thought.”
“Engaged?” Everett repeated as his lips quirked. “An interesting choice of words. I heard about last night’s dinner at Wexford’s.”
The Duke’s eyes snapped to his friend’s face but then he quickly resigned himself. “And what, precisely, did you hear?”
“Merely that you defended the honor of a certain bluestocking against Lady Wyndham’s particular brand of viciousness.” Everett remained deliberately casual, though his eyes missed nothing. “Quite gallantly, by all accounts.”
“How dull. I suppose I should not have expected the tongues of bored nobles to remain still for even a bit,” Henry drawled lazily despite the tension Everett could certainly see in the rigid lines of his shoulder.
So, Everett merely laughed. “Come now, Henry. I’ve known you for twenty years. Your face might be a perfect mask to the rest of society, but I can read you like a book.”
“There is nothing to read,” Henry insisted, though even to his own ears, the denial sounded hollow.
“Indeed?” Everett reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a small brass key, which he placed on the table between them with deliberate care. “Then you’ll have no need of this.”
Henry stared at the innocuous object, understanding its significance immediately. “A suite key?”
“Consider it a gift,” Everett replied, rising from his chair. “One of Madame Rousseau’s finest awaits upstairs. Perhaps she might succeed where whiskey has failed in dispelling whatevertensioncurrently afflicts you.”
His friend disappeared into the crowd before he could refuse it, leaving Henry alone with the key and his increasingly turbulent thoughts.
For several long moments, Henry contemplated the brass key glinting in the muted lamplight. And he decided that it might do him a bit of good to use it.
Perhaps there was wisdom in accepting the offer, if only to test the nature of his own feelings. If the French courtesan’s practiced charms could banish the persistent memory of Annabelle’s lips, then perhaps what he felt was merely physical desire. A basic male impulse that could be satisfied and dismissed.
Although even as he thought it, he knew that he was fooling himself.
“It does not hurt to be absolutely certain.”
He lifted the key and felt its weight surprisingly substantial against his palm. The Duke of Marchwood was not a man accustomed to indecision. He always approached each situation with calculated precision, weighing options and executing decisions with uncompromising efficiency.
Yet here he sat, paralyzed by uncertainty over a simple brass key and what it represented.
“Damn Southall and his meddling,” he muttered without genuine rancor.
However, he knew he could not dawdle all night.
So, with sudden resolution, he pocketed the key and drained his whiskey.
The corridor to the private suites was discreetly lit, and the thick carpeting muffled his footsteps as he approached the designated door. Each suite in Madame Rousseau’s establishment was individually themed, catering to various aristocratic tastes while maintaining the plausible deniability necessary for gentlemen who might encounter each other in these hallways.