be akin to staring into a bakery window with a quivering belly and empty pockets. Why torture himself needlessly?
Plopping into the chair before his cluttered desk, he pushed a few items aside to find the ignored stack of invitations. He typically only attended dinner parties—the better to enjoy the talents of someone else’s cook. But now, he would have to consider them all. The sooner he made the social rounds with Calliope on his arm, the sooner he could shove her into the arms of her would-be groom and move on to his next real conquest.
“You were up and about earlier than I expected today, sir.”
Nick glanced up from the open envelope in his hands to find his valet and servant of all work, Thorpe, entering with a silver tray. On it sat a glass containing a familiar-looking potion.
“Thorpe, you are a Godsend,” he muttered, accepting the man’s tried and true concoction for curing the headache and nausea caused by too much drink. “And, I assure you, if it weren’t entirely necessary, I would still be snoring into my pillow.”
He wrinkled his nose at the odor of Thorpe’s mysterious brew, but then forced it down in a few swallows.
“You received a message while you were out.”
Thorpe balanced the tray in one hand and reached into his coat, retrieving a folded slip of paper sealed with red wax. Nick recognized the crest of his father and suppressed a groan. Whatever the earl wanted, it couldn’t be good.
Nick wanted nothing more than to shed his clothes and fall into bed until he no longer felt as if the world tilted under his feet, but there was work to be done. He ignored his father’s missive in favor of the invitations—his own little form of spite, even if the man wasn’t here to see it.
The earl had written him off years ago—not that he’d ever been the most attentive or affectionate of fathers. Nick being so far down the line of succession made him a superfluous burden.
He retrieved a fresh sheet of parchment and made a list of the best events for he and Calliope to attend, certain that Martin Lewes had also been invited to most of them. The man was popular just like Nick, and was a desirable guest many hostesses clamored after.
That done, he scribbled a hasty note to Benedict, ensuring his friend that the meeting with Calliope had gone over well and that the contract had been signed.
Only after he had done all this did Nick open his father’s message, surprised to find welcome news. His uncle was in London and staying at the family’s Town residence. He was being summoned to attend dinner with his parents and siblings, which was a rare occurrence. His father limited contact with his youngest son to the most necessary of visits, and the arrival of Uncle Paul was one such occasion.
Nick was certain his uncle was the one who had insisted on his presence. The man had been more of a father to him than the earl had, and the two had been close since he’d been a young boy seeking the approval of a man—any man in any position of authority. Paul had indulged him where his father had denied him, and for that reason Nick would attend the dinner. It would be good to see his siblings, and nieces and nephews as well.
He penned a response affirming that he would attend, and promptly sealed it. After he sent the notes off in Thorpe’s hands, he rose from the desk feeling better than he had on his arrival. His pounding head had eased to a dull ache, and he no longer felt as if he’d lose the contents of his stomach. Still, he hadn’t slept much this morning and exhaustion weighed him down.
He stripped to the waist, pried off his boots, and closed the drapes, casting the room into darkness. Falling face-first onto his neatly-made bed, courtesy of Thorpe, he closed his eyes and surrendered to oblivion.
Later that evening, Nick arrived at the Burke family residence recovered from his headache. Now that Thorpe’s concoction had done its job, he was ravenous.
Even though he was on time, he was shown into the drawing room to find that he was the last to arrive. His father and uncle sat in matching armchairs with a gaggle of children of varying ages at their feet. The cacophony of young voices mingled with the piano music produced by his eldest niece, who was so engrossed with