Page 13 of Anastasia and the Duke
He really did detest debutantes.
Luckily, White's was a bastion of masculine serenity, and as Oliver sat back into his seat--in the prized spot by the club's famed bow-window--he allowed himself to relax.
How good it was to be in the company of men, he thought with satisfaction, as he sipped upon his drink. Men instinctively knew when one of their own needed solitude and time to reflect upon their thoughts.
"Hawkfield, I thought that was you."
Oliver hid a frown as Lord Henry Guernsey, Marquess of Kitteridge--or Kit, to his friends--plonked himself down uninvited in the seat opposite his.
"Kit," Oliver inclined his head in greeting, hopeful that his cross mien might deter him from attempting conversation.
"If the wind changes, your face will get stuck like that, Hawkfield," Kit commented, as he waved for a footman to fetch him a glass.
"I was ruminating on important matters," Oliver huffed, aggrieved that his friend could not take a hint.
"Rumination is best kept for the water-closet," Kit grinned, "Your club is for socialising with your peers. Besides, you are hogging the best seat in the house."
"Well, I am the highest-ranking member present, so I am entitled to sit here," Oliver shot back, allowing himself a smile, "Also, I would hardly count you as a peer, Kit. You're one step below me on the ladder, I'm afraid."
His friend--for despite his grousing, KitwasOliver's oldest friend--clutched a hand against his chest as though his heart ached him. He quickly recovered, however, and reached for the glass of brandy the footman had poured for him, which he downed in one quick gulp.
"Thirsty?" Oliver raised an eyebrow, as he took a far more sedate sip upon his own drink.
"I'll say," Kit looked despondent, "Between a morning spent listening to the pontificating that goes on in Parliament and my evening being given over to death-by-debutante at my grandmother's hands, it's a miracle I'm not drinking straight from the bottle."
"Well do try and refrain, old friend," Oliver sniffed, "This is an exclusive club, not the East-India Docks."
"If it's so exclusive," Kit replied, as he spied a familiar figure across the room, "Then why do they let just anyone in? Hunter! Over here, old chap."
Lord Nathaniel Hunter, Earl of Marlborough, had the good grace to look sheepish at having been hailed so bawdily by his friend.
"Hawkfield was just expounding on how exclusive White's is, when I spotted you," Kit called cheerfully to their friend as he approached, "How lucky I am that you are here to prove him wrong."
"Charming," Hunter rolled his eyes as he slipped into the final vacant chair, "Though I suppose there's some charm to be found in proving Hawkfield wrong for once."
Oliver ignored his friends' gentle ribbing, in favour of taking another sip on his brandy. The only dignified response a duke could offer to such frivolity was disparaging silence.
"Oh-er," Kit grinned, as he spotted Oliver's martyred expression, "We've set him off."
"I didn't say anything," Oliver grumbled in return.
"You didn't need to," Kit sighed, "They say a picture paints a thousand words, but in your case it's your eyebrows."
Oliver smarted a little at the barb; he liked to believe that his thick, dark brows gave him a distinguished air, and should not be considered a point of mockery.
"Whenever you decide to clamber atop your high-horse, your brows follow," Kit explained, with a smile, "By the time they disappear completely into your hairline, I know we've gone too far. Now, let's change the subject. Does anyone have any news?"
"Lord Maxwell died," Hunter volunteered, "Poor old codger."
"I heard his heart gave way while he was visiting a doxy-house, and he died surrounded by half-a-dozen lightskirts," Kit added, with a note of awe to his words.
"Well, one usually says that the deceased has gone to a better place, but in this case I'm not so sure," Oliver commented, as he raised his glass to the late Lord Maxwell.
"Died doing what he loved," Kit nodded in agreement, "If only I should be as lucky; my grandmother is determined to see me married off this season. She fails to understand that a man of my ilk isn't suited to marrying one of the dull-as-ditch water lassies she keeps throwing my way. It would be a torture not only for me, but for the poor girl too; I couldn't inflict that on a woman."
"Perhaps you might find yourself a bride first, Kit," Hunter mused, "One so unsuitable that your grandmother might spend the rest of the season persuading younotto marry, rather than the other way around."
Kit's eyes lit up, and in order to distract him from that terrible idea, Oliver changed the subject.
