Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders

Chapter 1

I’LL TAKE THAT BET

Westerley Crossings, England

February 1828

* * *

Afternoon sunlight slanted across the elegantly furnished room humming with newly arrived guests. It was one of those odd sort of days where if one didn’t step outside, a person wouldn’t be able to guess that it was winter. Deceptive, really. A meteorological betrayal.

Jules sighed and leaned against the window frame, the sun warming his back.

Who threw a house party in February? He flicked his gaze around the room until it landed on his mother. Why, the Countess of Westerley did, that was who.

As Earl of Westerley, and host of this winter retreat, Jules had no choice but to be present to greet their guests.

He viewed his mother over the top of his glass, sipping the spicy liquor as he watched her move from guest to guest—an introduction here, an inquiry after that one’s health, a sympathetic head tilt.

She would be certain their guests lacked for nothing.

Ladies and gentlemen mingled, some feigning ennui while others participated in animated conversation. Although there were a few he didn’t recognize, most of the faces were almost too familiar.

A burst of laughter drew his attention to three young ladies wearing pastel gowns with elaborate coiffures seated on the long settee near the hearth. Two of them sent flirtatious glances in his direction, and the third, whom he knew to be married, ignored him.

It was possible the two coquettish glances were meant for one of the gentlemen languishing near him—gentlemen he’d personally invited. They were young, titled, and along with himself, considered to be quite possibly the most eligible bachelors in all of England. Even if the lot of them chose to hide behind the drapes, the ladies would sniff them out.

And if they did not, their mothers most certainly would.

With a quick glance at his timepiece, Jules tapped his foot impatiently. The last of the guests would be arriving soon, and then his mother could leave her position in the foyer to join them here so Jules and the other gents would be free to pursue more masculine entertainments. He’d be sure to pounce upon such opportunities whenever they arose, knowing his mother would no doubt expect him to mingle and be sociable more often than not over the coming fortnight.

One would think that upon reaching the age of thirty, a man could defy his mother’s wishes.

One would think wrongly.

Jules bent a knuckle until it cracked. There was a time for duty and a time for leisure and he would undertake both with, if not equal enthusiasm, then equal effort.

He had already spent leisurely time in the company of six of his old school chums, who had arrived two days prior, before half of London descended upon his estate. Jules glanced behind him, feeling rather grateful.

Greys, Chase, Mantis, Blackheart, and even Stone’s younger brother Peter—who had promised to perform along with a handful of other musicians at his mother’s request—had journeyed early to Westerley Crossings in order to lend emotional support while his mother fretted over a multitude of inconsequential details.

The six of them had participated in a hunt, played multiple games of billiards, consumed more liquor than ought to have been possible and of course, as always, wagered with one another over damn near everything. If only they could spend the next fortnight or two doing more of the same, life would be perfect. But Jules would not shirk his duty.

Perfection was an elusive state indeed. Jules cracked a second knuckle.

Even if he wasn’t the host of this house party, single gentlemen had a duty to be all that was affable in such circumstances.

In order to at least appear to fulfill these expectations, the six of them had already bowed over a few hands and shaken a few others. Then they’d arranged themselves in the most inconspicuous position available, choosing a long window seat at the far end of the drawing room just behind the pianoforte.

Jules jerked his head so that his neck produced a satisfying cracking sound.

“Must you?” Greys sent him a pained look from where he lounged comfortably on one of the cushioned window seats. Growing up as the Marquess of Greystone, Greys had quite mastered the art of indifference—most of the time. As the tallest of their crew, with hawkish features, silver eyes, and meticulously attired, such arrogance hadn’t been much of a stretch. Jules pinched back a grin.

He rather enjoyed those moments when he could rile this particular codpiece.

“A hundred pounds says Lady Starling consumes no less than three glasses of

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