The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,98
being the other man was generally wrong when it came to most matters.
But not a small reason also being the other man was outrageously obnoxious when he did find himself in the right.
And in this, there was no disputing it—Landon had been on the mark.
And what was even worse . . . the other man knew it.
Yes, there was no other explanation for Lord Landon’s sudden propensity for being correct—hell hath frozen over. Or mayhap it was really just that the marquess was more perceptive and an even better friend than he’d credited. Charles, however, still couldn’t bring himself to confide the absolute nightmare that had been last evening. While he wished only thoughts of her in his arms, in his bed, and under him were all he could think of, the fact remained it was what had come after that gripped him. For when she’d fled, there’d been a sense of finality to her leaving. She’d seen that stain, and that crimson mark had resurrected every barrier that he’d managed to break down.
Landon made a study of the table, periodically eyeing his next play too long, then taking his shot. While the other man made quick work of the balls, Charles applied chalk to his stick.
Landon’s next shot went wide, and he motioned for Charles to begin his turn.
Leaning over the table, Charles eyed the scattered balls, and squinted, focusing in on his target. The last thing he needed any more of was Landon’s ribbing. Or worse . . . probing. Charles’s cue stick slipped forward, scraped the table, and missed the target ball entirely.
He and Landon stared in silence at the scraped velvet table, and then Landon burst out laughing.
Charles stuck up two fingers. “Oh, go to hell,” he muttered, and his faithless friend only howled all the more with his hilarity.
Dashing tears of mirth from his cheeks, Landon bent over his cue stick. “Not distracted, my arse. You’ve the look to you. The same look you’ve worn for weeks.”
“I don’t have a look,” Charles repeated . . . unconvincingly to even himself.
“Like a lovesick pup,” Landon squeezed out past his still-noisy amusement.
He bristled. “I’m not a lovesick pup.” He’d not been a pup in years.
“But you are not denying you’re lovesick, though?” Landon chortled.
Charles lifted his palm and gave another two-fingered V.
“Who is in love?” a voice called into the high-ceilinged room, that question echoing.
Oh, bloody hell.
Landon immediately ceased laughing as he and Charles faced Charles’s mother. She swept forward, Charles’s brother, Derek, close behind.
The two men promptly lowered their cue sticks to their sides and greeted the marchioness at the same time.
“Mother.”
“Lady Rochester.”
“Phineas,” she greeted warmly and affectionately as she tucked a loose strand of longer-than-fashionable hair behind his ear. Alas, Charles’s mother had been the only one permitted by the other man the use of a name Landon despised. “Is it you?”
Ever the rogue, for debutantes to dowagers alike, Landon caught her fingertips with his spare hand, and bowed, promptly dislodging that curl, and undoing her efforts of righting him. “As your scoundrel of a husband stole you from me before I had a chance, my heart can belong to no other.” And grotesque as his friend flirting with his mother in fact was, it was a good deal more preferred than had Landon outed Charles’s feelings about Emma.
She snorted. “A rogue since the day you were born, Landon.” The marchioness softened that with a smile, and holding on to his hand still, she raised her spare one to affectionately pat the fingers covering hers. “And a charming one, at that.”
“You’ve always been so wonderful to me, Lady Rochester. But I still have never had that waltz I vowed to one day steal from you.” Releasing his hold upon her, Landon brought his arms into position.
Oh, right, that, however, was a line too far. Charles jabbed the other man in the back with the tip of his cue stick. “Enough already,” he said tightly. It was one thing to bear witness to the marquess going about charming every lady around London, and saving Charles from her probing. It was quite another when it was Charles’s own mother.
“Rest assured, dear, no one is going to seduce me away from your father.” She gave a little snap of her skirts. “I’m quite content in—”
Releasing his cue stick, Charles promptly slapped his hands over his ears. “Ahhhhhhhhh,” he said loudly in a bid to blot out those assurances he had no desire of hearing.