The earl, apparently, had not noticed the logistical inconsistencies of such a statement.
Sebastian thus found himself in an odd and precarious position. If the earl could find a wife and sire another son—and, the Lord knew, he was trying—then Sebastian was nothing but another of London’s fashionable yet untitled gentlemen. If, on the other hand, Newbury did not manage to reproduce, or worse, managed only daughters, then Sebastian would inherit four houses, heaps of money, and the eighth most ancient earldom in the land.
All of this meant that no one knew quite what to do with him. Was he the marriage mart’s grandest catch or just another fortune hunter? It was impossible to know.
It was all just too amusing. To Sebastian’s mind, at least.
No one wanted to take a chance that he mightnot become the earl, and so he was invited everywhere, always an excellent circumstance for a man who liked good food, good music, and good conversation. The debutantes flittered and fluttered around him, providing endless entertainment. And as for the more mature ladies—the ones who were free to take their pleasure where they chose…
Well, more often than not, they chosehim . That he was beautiful was a boon. That he was an excellent lover was delicious. That he might eventually become the Earl of Newbury…
That made him irresistible.
At present, however, with his aching head and queasy stomach, Sebastian was feeling exceedingly resistible. Or if not that, then resistant. Aphrodite herself could descend from the ceiling, floating on a bloody clamshell, naked but for a few well-placed flowers, and he’d likely puke at her feet.
No, no, she ought to be completely naked. If he was going to prove the existence of a goddess, right here in this room, she was damned well going to be naked.
He’d still puke on her feet, though.
He yawned, shifting his weight a little more onto his left hip. He wondered if he might fall asleep. He had not slept well the night before (champagne) or the night before that (nothing in particular), and his cousin’s sofa was as good a spot as any. The room wasn’t so bright as long as he kept his eyes closed, and the only sound was Edward’s chewing.
The chewing.
It was remarkable how loud it sounded, now that he’d stopped to think on it.
Not to mention the stench. Meat pie. Who ate meat pie in front of someone in his condition?
Sebastian let out a groan.
“Sorry?” Edward said.
“Your food,” Seb grunted.
“Do you want some?”
“God no.”
Sebastian kept his eyes closed, but he could practically hear his cousin give a shrug. There would be no tender mercies tossed in his direction this morning.
So Newbury was panting after another broodmare. Sebastian supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Hell, hewasn’t surprised. It was just that—
It was just that—
Well, hell. He didn’t know what it was. But it wasn’t nothing.
“Who is it this time?” he asked, because it wasn’t as if he wascompletely uninterested.
There was a pause, presumably so that Edward could swallow his food, and then: “Vickers’s granddaughter.”
Sebastian considered that. Lord Vickers had several granddaughters. Which made sense, as he and Lady Vickers had had something approaching fifteen children of their own. “Well, good for her,” he grunted.
“Have you seen her?” Edward asked.
“Have you?” Seb countered. He’d arrived in town late for the season. If the girl was new this year, he wouldn’t know her.
“Country-bred, I’m told, and so fertile that birds sing when she draws near.”
Nowthat deserved an open eye. Two, as a matter of fact. “Birds,” Sebastian repeated in a flat voice. “Really.”
“I thought it was a clever turn of phrase,” Edward said, a touch defensively.
With a small groan, Sebastian heaved himself up into a sitting position. Well, something closer to a sitting position than he’d been in before. “And how, if the young lady is the snow-white virgin I’m sure Newbury insists upon, might one gauge her fecundity?”
Edward shrugged. “You can just tell. Her hips …” His hands made some sort of odd motion in the air, and his eyes began to acquire a glazed expression. “And herbreasts …” At this he practically shuddered, and Sebastian wouldn’t have been surprised if the poor boy started to drool.
“Control yourself, Edward,” Sebastian said. “You are reclining on Olivia’s newly upholstered sofa, if you recall.”
Edward shot him a peevish look and went back to the food on his plate. They were sitting in the drawing room of Sir Harry and Lady Olivia Valentine, where the two men could frequently be found. Edward was Harry’s brother, and thus lived there. Sebastian had come over for breakfast. Harry’s cook had recently changed her recipe for coddled eggs, with delicious results. (More butter, Sebastian suspected; everything tasted better with more butter.) He hadn’t missed a breakfast at La Casa de Valentine for a week.
Besides, he liked the company.
Harry and Olivia—who, incidentally, were not Spanish; Sebastian simply enjoyed saying “La Casa de Valentine”—were off in the country for a fortnight, presumably in an attempt to escape Sebastian and Edward. The two men had immediately degenerated into their bachelor ways, sleeping past noon, bringing luncheon into the drawing room, and hanging a dartboard on the back of the door to the second guest bedroom.
Sebastian was currently ahead, fourteen games to three.
Sixteen games to one, actually. He’d felt sorry for Edward halfway through the tournament. And ithad made things more interesting. It was harder to lose realistically than it was to win. But he’d managed. Edward hadn’t suspected a thing.
Game eighteen was to be held that evening. Sebastian would be there, of course. Really, he’d all but moved in. He told himself it was because someone had to keep an eye on young Edward, but the truth was…
Seb gave his head a mental shake. That was truth enough.
He yawned. Lord, he was tired. He didn’t know why he’d had so much to drink the night before. It had been ages since he’d done so. But he had gone to bed early, and then he couldn’t sleep, and then he got up, but he couldn’t write because—
No because. That had been damned irritating. He just couldn’t write. The words hadn’t been there even though he’d left his poor heroine hiding under a bed. With the heroin the bed. It was to be his most risque scene yet. One would think it’d be easy, just from the novelty of it.
But no. Miss Spencer was still under the bed and her Scotsman was still on it, and Sebastian was no closer to the end of chapter twelve than he’d been last week.
After two hours of sitting at his desk staring at a blank sheet of paper, he’d finally given up. He couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t write, and so more out of spite than anything else he’d got back up, dressed, and headed out to his club.
There had been champagne. Someone had been celebrating something, and it would have been rude not to join in. There had been several very pretty girls, too, although why they had been at the club, Sebastian wasn’t quite sure.
Or maybe they hadn’t been at the club. Had he gone somewhere else afterward?