Page 63 of Enticing Odds
Matthew halted mid-sip, then swallowed the liquor with some effort.
“Dipsomania often appears hand in hand with problem gambling,” he said mildly, setting his drink on an end table.
He prayed his friends would not make the same connection he had, but the two men knew Matthew better than anyone. That is, to the extent he would allow. It was difficult, sometimes, to shed the habit of disappearing into the woodwork.
Rickard took his shot in the ensuing silence, the clacking of the balls the only sound in the room. Then he returned to his perch, leaning upon the arm of a leather couch.
“And what of you, Collier?
“What of me?”
“You’ve been scarce,” Rickard grumbled, staring straight ahead at the table. “As of late.”
“That’s true,” Hartley agreed, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table as he thought. “Evelyn keeps asking after you, when you’ll come for a visit. Although, a word of caution, I believe she’s keen to set her sister upon you.” Hartley smiled fondly. “She thinks I’ve not noticed, but, naturally, I have.”
“Sister?” Rickard asked.
“Well, sister-in-law. Her brother’s widow,” Hartley clarified.
Matthew’s chest tightened. He had nothing against widows. Just… he preferred a different widow. He must have done a poor job schooling his features, though, for his two friends shared a knowing look before glancing back to him.
“Say no more—I shall disabuse her of the idea immediately,” Hartley rushed out.
“She’s quite lovely, if I recall,” Matthew said, fiddling with his spectacles. He’d met the lady in question once, but she did notstand out in his mind as anything but aloof and pretty. Of course, she had been grieving at the time.
Still, he desired someone decidedly not aloof. Someone lively and passionate. His heart thudded.
“Say no more,” Hartley repeated with a wave of his hand. “I’ve already forgotten it. And so shall Evelyn, in time.”
Matthew nodded, his throat thick.
He felt uncomfortable, withholding from his two friends. Why, he’d known Rickard from the Crimean War—Matthew had patched him up after a bullet had nearly done him in. Later they’d spent many an evening at cards as Rickard convalesced. Then there had been a period of ten or so years in between in which, as Matthew understood it, Rickard had been abroad, making money hand over fist in the opium trade. But he’d returned to England, leaving that dubious occupation behind him, and he now headed his wife’s family business. Shoe polish. And Hartley, the man’s relation by marriage, had become a close confidant and companion in recent years. All three of them were professional men who made their way by strength of mind, unlike the soft and idle aristocratic class.
If he’d a mind to share his troubles, to let all the sorry, pathetic details of his recent mishaps with Charles Sharples and the raided spieler spill forth, they would come to his aid, without a doubt. Hartley, member of Parliament and solicitor, would no doubt know what to do to stay above board. And Rickard, a man who walked about as though he’d like nothing more than an excuse to plant a facer on the next person who crossed his path, would have his own… alternative solutions.
But Matthew couldn’t. He wouldn’t ask his friends to stick their necks out for him. Dr. Matthew Collier was many things, but what he dreaded being, more than anything, was an imposition.
An uneasiness hung in the air, thickened by Matthew’s silence. Across the room, the dog sneezed.
“Nothing troubling you, is there?” Rickard asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Not at all,” Matthew genially replied.
Chapter Seventeen
The season came toa long, sighing stop; a locomotive wearied by a hot, decadent journey, happy to allow its spoiled, listless passengers to disembark and scatter for their country seats and shooting parties.
Yet Cressida lingered in town. How could she leave?
She and Dr. Collier had only just embarked upon their liaison. He was a virile, enthusiastic lover, whom Cressida yearned to meet with more often, to slake her lust and find that blessed release under his large hands, atop his lovely cock. How could she remove herself from his city when there was so much more fun to be had?
At least, that was what she told herself. For aside from the bedsport, there was the tiniest part of herself—the faintest ember from a weak flame—that longed for the feel of Dr. Collier’s arms encircling her waist, of his heartbeat matching hers. Wishing for his safety, his warmth.
But surely that was a mere passing fancy. An inevitable, yet temporary result when one engaged in carnal pleasures with another. So she assured herself.
She’d been making her excuses to her aristocratic acquaintances, spinning tales about her plants in the conservatory and the extra attention they were requiring, seeding conversations with lamentations of slow growth and faulty soil. It would earn her a month’s delay, at least.
Dr. Collier aside, though, she was happy to put off the date of her departure. Words could not express how much she loathed Birchover Abbey, her husband’s familial home, though she did her utmost each time someone asked her opinion. If she enjoyed chilblains and medieval plumbing, then perhaps she’d be more amenable. But nothing ever grew there, the gardens forever doomed to be nothing more than bare sticks against a gloomy gray sky.
