The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,27

do not do . . . what you are thinking to do.”

“Oh, no.” Charles shook his head. “Not ‘thinking to do.’”

The viscount’s shoulders sagged with a palpable sign of his relief.

Charles smiled again. “What I am going to do.”

“Will someone please enlighten me in exactly what you two are talking about?” Landon paused. “No pun intended.”

Waiting for the undivided attention of his audience of two, Charles spread his arms wide. “I shall also be offering a place for people to come together and discuss . . . matters.”

“Matters?” St. John repeated.

Frowning at that underwhelming response from his two closest friends in the world, Charles waved his fingers in an emphasizing circle. “We shall work out those details as we go. But it shall be important matters, pertaining to . . . politics and life and society and—”

St. John cut him off. “And which exact ‘we’ will make up your society?”

Charles gave him a pointed look.

The viscount didn’t blink for several moments.

Charles nodded slowly for the other man’s benefit.

Horror filled St. John’s wide eyes. With a groan, the recently wedded chap grabbed the bottle once more and splashed several fingerfuls into his empty glass. He paused, contemplated the glass for several moments, and added more of the spirits.

Charles and Landon watched as he downed his drink in a single long, painful-looking swallow.

“Ah.” Charles wagged a finger. “And I should point out, we are not a society. We are a club. ‘Societies’ suggest stodgy groups who’d exclude people from their ranks.”

St. John proceeded to dissolve into a fit, strangling on the last remnants of his brandy.

Leaning close, Landon slapped him hard on the back. “This is your idea to win back the lady?” he drawled while their other friend choked. “If so, it is a terrible idea.”

“The w-worst,” St. John managed to force out, and proceeded to refill his glass.

“I disagree,” Charles said for the pair of naysayers. “Why, having established a club of her own, she may even appreciate mine.”

His friends spoke in unison. “She won’t.”

Fair enough. She might not react favorably. Not at first, perhaps. After all, a gent could never truly be certain where a lady was concerned. “Well, at worst she’ll be indifferent.” As indifferent as she’d proven to be toward him these past months.

“That is not the worst,” St. John said with a shake of his head. “At. All.”

Landon stared at him incredulously.

“Nor, for that matter, is it entirely about winning back Emma.” There was a small element of rehabilitating his reputation, which might have just a bit to do with his mother’s last visit and . . . also winning Emma back. Charles reached for his drink.

Both men gave him a look.

“What? It isn’t,” Charles insisted, forgetting his snifter. Some of it had to do with proving—not just to her, but to all of society—that intellect was not reserved for a certain, select type of person, a person Charles had never been and would never be. Why should there be just the one group, and an exclusionary one at that?

“Well, let me spare you the ending. You’re wrong,” Landon said bluntly. “It is a rotted idea.”

“Oh, no. It’s not that at all. She doubts I’m capable of seriousness. I’m just as capable, if not more, of discussing and debating . . . things.”

Landon snorted. “Things?”

Charles slid another glare his friend’s way. “Laugh all you want . . .”

In the midst of drinking his brandy, St. John lifted a palm. When he finished, he held on tight to his glass. “Oh, I assure you, I am not laughing.”

Nay, in fairness, the viscount sounded one more idea from Charles away from dissolving into tears. Charles could understand that. His wife was the head of the only club for the improvement of thoughts. “With the exception of St. John here, they’ve barred gentlemen from entry. They’ve meticulously selected their membership. Only certain women, fitting certain criteria, are allowed. Well, we shall be the alternative. A place . . . for all!” He shot out an arm.

Alas, his friends sat stone-faced, and visibly unimpressed. So much for the support of a man’s best friends. Charles let his arm fall. “You think it’s a terrible idea because of my intent to win back Miss Gately.” He directed that at Landon. “And you . . .” He shifted focus to St. John. “Your real concern is how your wife will receive you joining an alternate club. You, who don’t even attend her meetings anymore, because they are hers.” When St. John’s eyebrows