“Why should I? Yes, I’ll have to marry a woman sooner or later. The title demands it, but I’m not giving up my playthings. Already, I’ve made one of them a footman, to have him close.”
“I’m not like that. There should be some affection, some fidelity in a union, shouldn’t there?” At least that’s what he had with his wife. Never once in their marriage had he taken a lover.
“Yes, but this case is different,” Lord Randolph inserted with a concerned glance at Saintfort. The man’s midnight hair gleamed almost blue in the candlelight. “You don’t love Lady Eleanor and neither does she have the same affection for you.” He shrugged. “That’s fair game for affairs on both sides. Besides, once you put a baby in her belly, you’ll have a bit more freedom.”
“Argh!” A shudder went down Percival’s spine. He wasn’t opposed to children; he had a six-year-old daughter from his marriage. However, he didn’t know if he wanted children with Lady Eleanor. If the woman couldn’t bring herself to enjoy his kisses, why the devil would he want to bed her enough to see her pregnant? The more he thought about the predicament, the more maudlin he grew. After taking another drink, he sighed and glanced at his fellows, rather bleary-eyed. “Rather bad luck, this wedding on the morrow.”
Both his fellows hooted with laughter.
Ire rose in his chest. “Don’t want to marry, but I have to. Strengthen the lines, fill the coffers and all that rot.” He took another drink. “Can’t give the chit my heart though. Don’t love her. It’s mine for the duration. Don’t want it shattered.” He eyed his friends when they sobered and frowned. “Love’s not worth that. Not again.”
“Perhaps you’ll grow to love her with time.”
“No.” Percival was adamant about that. He’d loved his wife too long and too deeply.
It was Saintfort who answered. “Then you’ll just exist? To what purpose? Game and drink and fuck your mistress?”
“Sounds like a decent proposition to me,” Lord Randolph joked as he lifted his bottle in salute. “However, we both know you, Percy. You’re a man who needs more, and there’s a hell of a lot more to life than that. Put away your grief and get on with the business of living again.”
Saintfort nodded. “Three years is long enough to mourn.”
Could there ever be enough time to have grief for a woman he’d loved to distraction? “Ah, God.” Another wave of maudlin emotion swept over him. “I miss her, miss having a woman’s touch about the place. I’ve no idea if Lady Eleanor even enjoys decorating.” Despite him not wishing to change anything his wife had done, Lavinia had put her own distinct but subtle stamp on his townhouse during her tenure. He rather liked that too.
Lord Randolph rubbed a hand over his face. “Women smell nice.”
“I’ll admit, I don’t like them in my bed, but some are good to talk with,” their third friend said. His expression was as glum as theirs.
Percival nodded. “Nia is a great conversationalist.” Too damn bad she wasn’t of good ton. Silence brewed between them, and he sank further down in his chair. The brandy bottle at his feet was forgotten; the glass in his hand equally so. What the devil will she do for a few years when I’m obliged to put my nursery in order? “I refuse to let someone else have Nia or her favors.”
She was his. He needed her.
“Then continue to keep her under your protection.” Lord Randolph shrugged as if he’d exhausted all his caring on the subject. “As soon as Lady Eleanor is increasing, return to Lavinia. You’ll have the better part of a year with her while your wife nests.”
That brightened his spirits a bit. Percival sat up straighter in his chair. The glass fell from his fingers, but bounced on the rug, unbroken. “Did you know Nia is capable of talking intelligently on a multitude of topics?” Many evenings they would discuss current events from around the world. Sometimes they’d debate politics until desire took over. A few times they held discourses on books and poets.
“Oh, la.” Lord Saintfort waved a hand in dismissal. “Who has time for talking when one can employ her mouth in so many other delicious ways?”
A round of ribald laughter went through the room.
“Here’s to Percy getting off his rocks on more than just his innocent wife!” Lord Randolph lifted his bottle, while the other two scrambled for bottles of their own. After the toast, his friend shook his head. “Best watch yourself, Laughton, lest you fall in love with a light skirt.”
“Nia would never let that happen.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger. “She’s clever, that one.” And if he were honest with himself, she was one of his best friends, but she was vastly unsuitable for falling in love.
By the time the longcase clock struck the midnight hour, Percival was more than a little foxed. Wouldn’t do at all to show up at the church with bloodshot eyes and a raging hangover, but it couldn’t be helped. He stirred, kicked his second empty brandy bottle beneath the table. “Why should I wait until the morrow to wed?”
Lord Saintfort snorted. “You mean later today, old chap.”
“Do shut up.” His ability to form coherent words was rapidly becoming a challenge. “Should do it now and have it over with.”
Both men protested. Loudly.
“She’s upstairs.” Percival lunged to his feet and promptly swayed from the sudden movement. “Might as well, right?”
“By Jove, he’s in a drunken stupor.” Lord Randolph struggled into a standing position. His cravat was loose and his collar missing. “You’re deep in your cups, man. It’s your mistress who is upstairs—not your fiancée.”
“Lies. You want Lady Eleanor for yourself.” Really, he needed better friends instead of these bounders who kept trying to steal women.
“Think about it.” Randolph dropped a heavy hand on Percy’s shoulder. “You can’t wed your mistress.”