stand, aquiver in fear,” Brandon drawled as Tom made his shot.
He muttered a curse as his cue sailed into the rail without hitting either of his intended targets. “Damnation, man, you are distracting me intentionally, so you might win.”
Brandon had the temerity to chuckle. “You are bloody distracted enough on your own, Sidmouth. What has gotten you into such a state? I thought you needed quim, but now that you are drowning yourself in it, you are as glum as a lad who has had his favorite horse sold.”
Hell. Was that how Brandon viewed the fairer sex? As if they were of no greater import in a man’s life than his horse?
“Who said I am drowning myself in quim?” he demanded, his ears going hot.
Brandon took his time answering, first staging his shot. “All those viewing holes in St. John’s Wood.” His cue glided across the green baize, a perfect trajectory. “Forty-nine.”
Tom gripped the polished handle of his cue hard enough to snap the bloody thing in two. “By God, Brandon, if you have been spying upon me…”
His blighter of a friend laughed. “Oh, ho. Calm yourself, old chap. Can I be blamed if tormenting you is one of my sole joys in life these days?”
“It must be a sad life indeed, Brandon,” he quipped, taking aim without bothering to align his shot.
Such was his luck, he scored a point effortlessly.
“Sadder than you know,” Brandon told him, his countenance going strangely solemn as he made the retort. “But truly, old chap. Quim is what began this problem of yours, and now, I fear I have led you astray by directing you in its general direction once more.”
“Damn it, Brandon, I refuse to speak of ladies in such vulgar terms,” he snapped at his friend, nettled on behalf of both Nell and Hyacinth.
Nell had promised to marry him, led him by the nose for far too long, and jilted him. But for all that, he did not so disdain her as to think of her as nothing more than a vessel for his lust. Indeed, she never had been.
“Sheathe your sword, Sir Galahad,” Brandon taunted, bending to make his final shot. “It is an allusion. Nothing more.”
His cue struck the object balls with inestimable elegance, his lazy posture suggesting he had scarcely made an effort and yet had thoroughly trounced Tom just the same.
“It is an insulting one,” he griped. “Fifty. You have won. Shall you make your speech now?”
“Humorous fellow, ain’t you?” Brandon said, returning his cue stick to the rack mounted on the far wall. “I will hold my victory speech for later. For now, I think it best if I simply deliver a soliloquy on the virtues of not falling in love with everything in skirts that crosses your path.”
Tom gripped his cue stick harder. “Is that what you think? That I am in love with Hyacinth?”
“Who, pray tell, is Hyacinth?” Brandon asked, sounding bored. “Is she a new whore? If so, I applaud you.”
“She is Lady Southwick, you rotter,” Tom snapped, stalking toward his friend with an urge to thrash. Or at the very least, throttle. “And she is most certainly not a whore, new or otherwise, damn your black heart.”
“So protective, old chap.” Brandon made a clucking sound, not unlike a governess. “Have you not learned your lesson with one inconstant woman? You need a second go at having your heart slaughtered? Is that it? Mayhap you are one of those odd fellows who thrives upon defeat.”
His friend’s words gave Tom pause. Instead of using his cue stick as a mace, he hung it on the wall alongside Brandon’s. He took a moment to calm his ire, take a deep breath. To think.
“I do not thrive upon defeat,” he said.
“As you say.” Brandon shrugged indolently.
Tom wrestled once more with the urge to plant his friend a facer. “Do you suggest otherwise?”
“Yes.” Brandon quirked a dark brown, studying him, all the laziness gone from his posture and expression now, along with the teasing air. “You are a good man. Lady Needham never bloody well deserved you. Her jilting you was the best thing she could have ever done. But now you are falling into the same bloody trap with the widow.”
“You told me to bed her,” he countered. “You offered me the house. I was following your advice.”
Brandon winced. “Admittedly, my advice is not always golden. Look at me, Sidmouth. Do I look like a goddamn font of wisdom to you? Christ.”