Reckless - By Anne Stuart Page 0,64

choice but to invite us back.”

"As you say," Adrian murmured, having heard all this before.

"Anyway, your estate adjoins that of your impressive pere, my boy. I have a difficult time feeling comfortable in the wilds of Dorset."

"I wasn't aware that I had asked for your company," Adrian murmured, his light tone taking the sting from the insult.

Etienne smiled with just a trace of malice. "Ah, but I know I am welcome wherever you go. Otherwise you risk the chance of becoming sadly bored and I couldn't allow that to happen to my young

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protege."

The word startled Adrian. Did Etienne really see him as a protege? In what? Etienne's expertise was reserved for depravity and excess and Adrian considered he did well enough on his own in that

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area.

Then again, what was the Viscount Rohan known for? The same kind of libertine behavior as Etienne, though in truth his bad behavior tended to be overlooked, due to the fact that he was both titled and unmarried.

Etienne didn't live on quite such an exalted level, and if it hadn't been for Adrian's sponsorship he would have been persona non grata at any number of places. He wasn't well liked. The English distrust of the French, even those exiled by their current bloodthirsty mess, was enough to keep Etienne from joining the uppermost tiers of society, theories Adrian took for granted. Etienne would be welcome at gatherings of the Heavenly Host, or galas thrown by women of dubious reputation, such as the notorious Lady Whitmore. But he was barely tolerated in his parents' household, and he'd been given the cut direct more than once since he'd been in England.

"I wouldn't think of dragging you away from London during the season," Adrian said with a touch more grace. "I simply find myself in need of a bit of solitude. I expect I'll go mad with boredom and be back within the week."

Etienne surveyed him for a long moment. "Why would you be in need of solitude? I've known you all your life, and I don't remember a time when you weren't ready for a lark."

"I was fairly subdued when my brother died." The words came out before he could stop them.

"Ah, yes," said Etienne in a suitably somber voice. "The poor boy. I wish I could have done more for him. So young, so strong, and then just...gone. The fever swept through him so quickly. I think your father blames me for his death."

"Don't be absurd," Adrian said in a sharp voice. "It was scarcely your fault."

"Of course it wasn't. But I expect your father believes that English doctors might have been able to save him. That if he'd taken that fall when he'd been at home, the fever might not have been so virulent."

He hated this conversation. He hated talking about Charles Edward. His death at age nineteen had been devastating for all of them, but for a thirteen-year-old with a severe case of hero worship it had been unbearable.

He surveyed his cousin coolly. "You don't know my father very well. He's not the kind of man who spends time with words like if only. He took my brother's death hard, but the only one he blames is himself, for letting Charles Edward ride that horse in the first place.”

"The horse belonged to me," Etienne pointed

"So he did. And you warned Charles Edward many times. Unfortunately the more you warned him the more determined he became. Being willful and headstrong seems to run in our family."

"Indeed," Etienne said. "You realize that that was when I stopped practicing medicine for good. If I couldn't save my beloved cousin's oldest son then what good was any of it?"

Adrian turned to look at him, biting back his instinctive retort. Charles Edward would have hated the fuss—he'd been young, carefree, determined to live his life to the fullest, and he would have mocked any excessive mourning on their part. And like Adrian, he despised hypocrisy.

Francis Rohan, the Marquess of Haverstoke, was no more beloved than Adrian was a monk. The two cousins, Etienne and Francis, had genially despised each other. Etienne had always been convinced that Francis had stolen his birthright, simply by being born on the right side of the blanket. Bastard or not, Etienne de Giverney was French, and believed that he and he alone should be the comte de Giverney and hold in possession the family estates and the vast house in Paris.

Francis had given them to him. And the Reign of Terror had taken them