Page 27 of Her Sort of Scoundrel
“Yes.”
“Can the impediment be overcome?”
Impediment was a fine word. It sounded heavy, immovable. Dash could feel the weight of it blocking his path.
“Apparently not.” Whitmore answered his own question. “Otherwise, you would be with her rather than here drinking away your misery.”
“Correct,” Dash admitted. “I can see no way past this impediment.”
“Mmm,” Whitmore murmured sagely, then crossed one leg over the other and settled back, his hands folded across his middle. “I have been told I have a strategic sort of mind. If you wish to tell me more about the problem, perhaps I could offer—”
“She does not wish to marry, and I must,” Dash rushed the words out rather than let them whirl around his mind over and over. He realized he’d interrupted his friend. “I’m sorry for my dark mood.”
Whitmore waved his apology away. “Never apologize for such a thing. They cannot be helped, and for some of us, it’s when we need companionship the most.”
For a while, they sat in companionable silence, both fixing their gazes on the dancing flames of the nearby fireplace.
“Can she not be persuaded?” Whitmore finally asked in a quiet tone.
“I wouldn’t wish to persuade her.” Dash noted his friend’s frown of confusion out of the corner of his eye and turned to him. “She’s stubborn, and she knows exactly what she wants from her future. How could I urge her to change when I adore her as she is?”
“A confirmed bluestocking spinster, is she?”
“A vibrant, bold widow who never wants to wear the marriage shackles again.”
Whitmore let out a low whistle. “I think you may be speaking of Lady Fiona Prescott.”
“Excellent detection skills, my friend.”
“You mentioned that she’s assisting your ward, and you haven’t been quite the same since.”
Dash suspected he never would be after that kiss. How many years had he wanted to touch her, taste her? How many times had he loathed himself for refusing what she’d offered two years ago?
“Men like Foxworthy would say that one should indulge if only to get a lady out of his system.”
Damian Foxworthy was a mutual friend, and far more of a scoundrel than Dash or Whitmore had ever wished to be.
“I don’t subscribe to that philosophy,” Dash told his friend. Look what one taste had done to him?
“May I offer one bit of advice?”
“Of course.” Dash had no hope that there was some magical solution. He’d turned it all over in his head enough to know there wasn’t, but Whitmore often sought his advice, and he’d at least hear the man out.
“You must tell her. If you feel this deeply for the woman, then she at least deserves to know.”
Dash finished the final drams of his drink and set the glass aside. Leaning forward, he stretched his neck and considered how best to reply.
“I appreciate the advice, my friend. But Lady Fiona already knows precisely how I feel about her, and I have some sense of her feelings too.” There’d been nothing held back in her reaction to him today. The memory of her luscious mouth on his made his body thrum with need.
“Well, I’m sorry, Dash. If it’s truly impossible, can you set these feelings aside?” Whitmore’s face had drawn into a frown of genuine distress.
“That seems the wisest course.” Dash stood and Whitmore followed suit. “Thank you.”
“Fencing next time?” Whitmore looked hopeful.
Dash patted his friend on his shoulder. “I’ll even consider letting you win.”
He was pleased to leave Whitmore smiling, even if he couldn’t manage a smile himself. The whiskey had done nothing to cool the fire in his brain and hadn’t fully eased the tension in his body.
