Chapter Four

"Bless me, if it isn't Whitcombe!" a voice cried. "Do join us."

Monty handed his greatcoat to a footman, then approached his friends—Sawbridge, Thorpe, and a recently married Marlow, who extended his hand. Monty took it, and Marlow shook it up and down.

"Good to see you, old chap! How are you?"

"You speak as if we've not seen each other for months," Monty said. "It must be a fortnight, at most." He gestured toward a passing footman. "My usual, please."

The footman bowed, scuttled off, then returned with a brandy almost before Monty had settled into an armchair.

"Marlow's a changed man," Sawbridge said. "That's what marriage does. He's been rattling on about the management of his household, don't you know!"

"All households must be managed," Monty said.

"By women, yes," Sawbridge replied. "I was about to ask him whether he'd lost his balls when you came in. What say you, Marlow—fancy dropping your breeches so we can ascertain the degree of your emasculation?"

"I doubt the other members of White's would approve," Monty said, glancing about the clubroom.

"You shouldn't be so critical of the marriage state, Sawbridge, until you've tried it," Thorpe said. "What say you, Whitcombe?"

"I've no intention of being shackled yet," Monty replied.

"It's a poor man who cannot find a life partner to make him happy," Marlow said. "I can't speak for Lady Thorpe, of course, but my wife, rather than weighing me down with leg irons, enjoys much more—ahem—stimulating pursuits, if you get my drift."

"You mean in the bedroom?" Sawbridge asked.

Marlow lowered his voice. "Not just the bedroom. We indulge in maneuvers in every location imaginable."

"Battles, more like," Sawbridge said before draining his glass.

"Perhaps," Marlow replied. "But you know what they say—the more intense the battle, the sweeter the surrender."

"All women surrender in the end," Monty said, then took a mouthful of brandy.

"But there's immense pleasure in the man surrendering."

The liquid burst into flames in Monty's throat, and he leaned forward, choking.

Thorpe slapped him between the shoulder blades. "I believe you've shocked our friend, Marlow!" he said, laughing. "Perhaps he's yet to experience the pleasure of yielding to a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to take it. I think we should place an entry in the club's bet book. Who'll surrender first—Whitcombe or Sawbridge?"

"I won't indulge in puerile wagers," Monty growled.

"You needn't place a bet," Thorpe replied. "But I can. What say you, Marlow—ten guineas says Whitcombe falls first."

"No self-respecting gentleman would stoop to such a wager," Monty said.

"I don't know," Marlow replied. "Westbury placed a bet over a woman—he ended up marrying her."

"Westbury's wife was the subject of a wager?" Thorpe asked. "But they're one of the happiest couples in England—they have six children!"

"Westbury's a milksop," Sawbridge said. "He's served his balls on a platter for his wife to fricassee." He raised his glass and tapped the rim, and a footman scuttled over, decanter in hand. "Watch your balls, Whitcombe."

"My balls are quite safe, I assure you," Monty said.

To his credit, the footman remained stoic, displaying only a slight slip of the hand, which shook a little more brandy than intended into Sawbridge's glass. Monty waited until the poor man retreated before proceeding, though doubtless he'd heard far worse in an establishment where discussion of the fairer sex was uninhibited by the need to observe social niceties.

"Men are like rocks," Monty said. "Impenetrable and firm."

"But women are like water," Thorpe said. "Water can erode a rock over the years—little by little, going unnoticed until it's too late." He leaned back and gave a self-satisfied smile. "Not that I mind. My Henrietta is particularly skilled at wearing down—"

"Spare me!" Monty said. "I'll never be ruled by a woman."

Sawbridge snorted, and the other two exchanged a smile.

"Care to share something, gentlemen?" Monty asked.

"The cleverest of women can erode a man without his noticing it," Thorpe said. "And your mother is nothing if not a clever woman. She's determined to see you provide her with an heir."

"She'll have a long wait before I submit myself to incarceration," Monty replied.

"What about Lady Arabella Ponsford?" Sawbridge asked. "You've danced with her a few times."

"Lady Arabella's a harpy," Monty said. "She finds fault in everything. When she marries, she'll spend the entirety of her wedding night criticizing the groom's performance."

"There's Juliette Howard. She's uncommonly pretty."

"The one Colonel Reid's been following around with his tongue hanging out?" Thorpe asked. "My Henrietta says she has a worse temper than Lady Arabella."

"Your wife's a gossip," Sawbridge said. "Is this what I can look forward to when I marry—a woman plaguing me with tattle morning, noon, and night?"

Thorpe smiled, satisfaction twinkling in his eyes. He didn't look like a henpecked husband. In fact, he looked replete, as if he indulged on the finest delicacies on a nightly basis.

Lucky bastard.

Monty gave a start. From where had that notion come?

"She has an older sister," Marlow said.

"Who?" Monty asked.

"Juliette Howard. Her sister Eleanor is two years older."

"I know of no sister," Monty said. "They were at the Fairchilds' ball last week—Sir Leonard, Lady Howard…" He pictured the exquisitely beautiful Juliette gliding across the dance floor on the arm of the unfortunate Colonel Reid, the purple-clad Lady Howard on the arm of the even more unfortunate Sir Leonard. And…

The dowdy-looking creature who spent the evening sitting in a corner…

"What does the sister look like?" Monty asked.

"She's as plain as Juliette is beautiful," Sawbridge said.

"She's not plain," Marlow said. "But she rarely wears bright colors. She prefers to blend into the background."

"A girl has no right attending a ball if she's not going to look her best," Sawbridge said. "Sir Leonard's known for procuring the finest silks. His daughter must be soft in the head if she won't wear them."

"Eleanor Howard is merely reserved," Marlow said, an edge to his voice.

"There's no place in Society for a reserved woman," Monty said. "Who wants a dullard who says nothing?"

"I recall Lady Fairchild saying the same about you, Whitcombe," Marlow replied. "My Lavinia heard her complaining that you sat next to her at dinner and said barely two words throughout the meal."

"I had nothing in particular to say to her."

"Perhaps Miss Howard has nothing in particular to say to anyone either," Marlow said. "She's disinclined to exchange the usual inane comments one's subjected to at social events, but I like her all the more for it. And she's my wife's particular friend."

"But I doubt she'll find a husband," Sawbridge replied. "No dowry would be enough to tempt a man to bore himself to death." He turned his gaze on Monty, a sly smile on his lips. "Perhaps she'll do for you, Whitcombe. By the time you get around to taking a wife, Miss Howard will still be in want of a husband—and a desperate woman would be willing to accommodate your every whim."

Monty let out a laugh "Heavens no! My wife must be presentable at least. I've no wish to be pitied."

Sawbridge let out a chuckle, but Marlow frowned. "You should stick to your doxies, Whitcombe, if you merely want an ornament for your arm and a willing body to rut—for a price, of course."

Monty flinched at the anger in his friend's tone. Marlow pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open the lid. "It's time I returned to my wife."

"Back to your gaol?" Sawbridge laughed.

"Not at all," Marlow replied. "I merely find myself in want of congenial company."

Thorpe set his glass aside. "It's time I left also."

The two men rose and inclined their heads in a bow. Then they exited the clubroom.

"Something we said?" Sawbridge asked.

Monty glanced after his friends. "Perhaps they're in love."

"I hope I never succumb," Sawbridge said as a footman appeared and tipped another measure of brandy into his glass. "Fill it to the brim this time," he added. "And don't forget my friend here."

"Not for me," Monty said, placing his hand over his glass. "Liquor—and love—are man's greatest enemies. I intend to be ruled by neither."

Sawbridge grunted and drained his glass—which was Monty's cue to leave. He had no wish to spend his afternoon with a drunkard. He'd rather be with Thorpe and Marlow—who looked decidedly content with their lives.

No, not content—fulfilled.

Perhaps there was some advantage to being in love, if it was with the right woman.

But the right woman for him? He was yet to encounter one who could even remotely satisfy him for more than a few minutes at a time.