Page 32 of The Ruin of a Rake
Medlock’s gaze stayed on Courtenay’s lapels, as if examining them for lint. “I used to tie my father’s when his hands shook from drinking and we didn’t have the money for a valet.”
Before Courtenay could picture Medlock as a child administering to a parent, or as a person who had experienced deprivation and shame, Medlock led him back out onto the terrace, which by now had filled with party guests.
It turned out that Standish had indeed come, and looked about as miserable as a man could be at a blasted garden party. Eleanor was at his side, wearing one of her staid Medlock-approved ensembles. She had on the sort of smile that might as well be a grimace.
“What a pair of idiots,” Courtenay said under his breath.
“Who?”
He gestured with his chin. “Your sister and Standish.”
“What did they do?” Medlock looked confused. Hewouldbe confused, because he was just as much an idiot as they were, if Courtenay had the right of it. And after nearly a week under the same roof as the Standishes, he was fairly sure he knew which way the wind blew.
“She’s fond of him. He thinks she isn’t,” Courtenay said patiently. “He’s fond of her. She thinks he isn’t. It would be the world’s easiest problem to solve if either of them had any sense.”
Medlock was still looking at him as if he were insane. “Of course they’re fond of one another. They were children together.” He hesitated, as if not sure the next bit of information really mattered. “They got married, for heaven’s sake.”
“They did indeed. And then they stayed away from one another for six years. I know you’re a stranger to the ways of the heart, but that’s not a typical mark of fondness, Medlock.”
“Surely now that they’re together, they’ll manage to work things out.” There was an unexpected tightness to Medlock’s voice. “If that’s what they want.”
Courtenay turned his head. Medlock looked uncertain, maybe even confused. He was usually so smugly arrogant, it was something of a shock to see him less than entirely confident. He was worried about his sister, which was natural. But there was something more there. A touch of guilt, perhaps. Courtenay understood that very well indeed. But why did Medlock feel responsible for Eleanor’s marriage?
“Why wouldn’t that be what they wanted?” Courtenay asked.
Medlock looked pained. “I had only hoped that this was what she chose. This life.” He gestured around him, encompassing the party and its guests. “Without Standish. And if it turns out that she wanted something different, then...” He sighed.
Was he saying that he would think less of Eleanor for wanting love? Courtenay felt a pang of disappointment at Medlock’s ignorance. He nearly pitied the man for not being able to understand why his sister—or Standish for that matter—might want something more than a marriage on paper, might want to go to bed with and wake up next to a person they loved.
But he also felt vaguely embarrassed, because to be disappointed in Medlock’s lack of interest in love meant that Courtenay must have harbored some slight hope of sharing such a thing with Medlock in the first place.
And he hadn’t, not really; he had never let himself hope for a future that included anyone wanting to wake up next to him day after day, straightening his cravat and sharing his breakfast buns, a series of days unfurling infinitely and impossibly. But to know that it wasn’t even a possibility—to know that Medlock hadn’t even imagined falling in love with him or with anyone—made him grieve something he never would have had anyway.
“Watch,” he said, suddenly wanting to prove his point to Medlock, without even knowing precisely what his point was. He sauntered over to Standish and Eleanor, affecting an ease he didn’t feel, and engaged them both in dull conversation, strictly confining himself to the Medlock-sanctioned topic of weather. After five minutes, he bowed and returned to Medlock. “Did you see?” he asked.
Medlock rolled his eyes. “What I saw were two well-bred people conversing with... you.”
“Exactly. Standish was terribly polite to me. He thinks I’m taking his wife to bed, but he was thoroughly affable.”
“Would you prefer that he call you out?”
“No, but your sister might.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Medlock scoffed. “Eleanor’s a sensible woman.”
“There’s nobody more sensible,” Courtenay agreed. “Which is why she can’t see that her husband is barely containing his jealousy and disappointment. I wonder if I ought to go back over and slap him with my glove or something, give him a chance to make a proper display of his affections.”
Medlock sighed. “Please don’t provoke my brother-in-law to a duel. You’re really a terrible shot.”
Courtenay snorted with laughter. “The duels I’ve had the honor of participating in don’t involve much aim,” he explained. “Both of us delope, shake hands, and call it a day.”
“That’s shockingly pointless.”
“I think shooting one another would be even more pointless, but reasonable minds may differ on that matter.”
“Hmmm,” Medlock said. “True. Then why the devil do you bother in the first place? I don’t much see why you’d want to fire a weapon at someone unless you want them dead.”
“It’s a way out of a situation,” Courtenay explained. “Let’s say you’ve wronged a man, say you’ve called him a liar or gone to bed with his wife. The fellow can’t just let that go, so you pretend you’re going to kill one another. Everyone wins.”
