Page 59 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“He invited himself, rather,” Tensford admitted. “But he was a friend of my father’s, so I indulged him. How did you know of it?”
“I ran into him in the village, and he mentioned it. He had a great many questions about where we would be shooting and about that spot near the river in particular.”
The conversation turned to the next day’s sport, but Sterne ignored it. “It’s an interesting idea, isn’t it?” he asked, leaning in. “Past lives?”
“Yes. Frightening, too.”
“Frightening?”
“Yes, when I imagine what a bounder I must have been, to deserve some of this life’s trials.”
Sterne looked as if he would like to debate the point, but someone called his name, and soon, he too was drawn into the debate over the best spot to shoot from.
It left Keswick alone with his drink again, wishing he’d gone into that tent, long ago.
The old gypsy woman might have given him some advice that could have him avoiding the current mess he found himself in. Or perhaps—she might have told him of the many sins he’d committed before—and he would know for certain that this quagmire was the punishment he deserved.
That Vernon girl. She was reproof in human form, if ever there was one. Who would have thought that she would get herself to Gloucestershire and find a way to insinuate herself into this house party? She was tenacious, he’d give her that, but it was too damned difficult to find any other qualities to admire in her.
Glory, on the other hand, possessed so many appealing qualities a man would need an abacus to number them—and yet she failed to see them for herself.
It was that vulnerability that had dropped the first stone into the calm and placid waters he’d finally achieved. The ripples had spread, however. Her lively humor and charming wit, the entirely familiar way she could care for others and still remain wary of them, the way she could stand toe to toe, challenging him with a smile, her inner strength, and outer loveliness, they were all great boulders she tossed at him, stirring up foam and swells and waves within him.
Stirring up feelings.
Bloody hell, but she’d defended him once more. Well, extricated him, rather. And heaven knew, he’d needed it. Appreciated it. Felt knocked quite askew by it—by her perception and her willingness to step in on his behalf.
On his behalf.
It made him wild. It made him want to weep a little.
He’d felt affection before. Want and need and longing. He’d experienced them all in familial and romantic directions. He’d spun adrift in their currents, and they had all led to loss. Pain. Grief.
A sharp bark of laughter made him look up.
“Still lost in Covent Garden, Keswick?” Lycett laughed loudly at his own joke. “Come back, man, and give us a lark.” The man shook his head. “I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been waiting. We heard all manner of things about your reputation when you first arrived. We’ve expecting a dust-up out of you, but you’ve disappointed us so far.”
At the head of the table, Tensford straightened in his chair and put aside his cigar. “On the contrary, Mr. Lycett, Keswick has been an exemplary guest in my house. If you are disappointed in any aspect of our party, you must lay the blame at my door.”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” Lycett threw up a hand. “No offense meant, sir, to either of you. It’s just we’d heard the stories, you must understand. We’d heard of women and gambling and drinking and racing and all the fun you get up to.” He looked around the table. “It’s just, we’ve been waiting to see a sign of it.”
Keswick stood. “You are right, sir.”
For the last several years he’d been all tumult and shambles on the outside, while remaining calm, ordered and untouched on the inside. Somehow, since coming to Greystone Park, he’d got turned inside out.
He gazed at Lycett. The man seemed very far away. They all seemed . . . distant.
“Are you going to get us up a lark, then?” Lycett asked eagerly.
“No, but I do thank you.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me of who I am.”
He was going to snag a bottle of brandy and walk down to the village. He was going to buy rounds of honeyed mead at the Crown and Cock. He might get in a fight and he rather thought he should take Betsy upstairs and give her the swiving she’d offered up his first evening there.
Turning, he stalked out the door.
