was not thinking when I arrived at your door, other than that my boots were quite soggy and there was the slight possibility I would be struck by lightning.”
“Good God,” Brandon muttered. “Imagine this. The Duke of Goddamn Brandon, the soul of reason. The entire world is going to the dogs.”
“That is what Grandmère assures me,” Tom offered.
Unhelpfully, he supposed.
He toweled off his shoulders next, wringing the excess water in the cotton onto the towels at his feet.
“Christ, Sid.” Brandon sighed. “You are still soaked to the bone. You will catch your death.”
“Also something Grandmère would say.” Tom grinned. “Why, Brandon. Your grandmotherly affection for me is quite comforting.”
“I am nothing like your dragon of a grandmother, you arse.” His friend scowled at him. “I want what is best for you, and she wants what is best for herself.”
Also true.
Terribly, awfully true.
“I cannot argue the point,” Tom said.
“Come and get settled in the salon. We cannot very well greet Lady Grenfell in the entry hall,” Brandon growled. “Of course, I suppose we could. But it would be dreadfully de trop.”
Since when had Brandon given a damn about what was de trop and what was not? Tom stared at his friend, newly bemused.
“Why are you looking at me as if I have just announced you must take up embroidery?” Brandon glowered at him. “To the salon with you, old chap.”
Dutifully, Tom obeyed. The mixture of the dousing he had received in the rain and his inebriation rendered him quite subdued. They had scarcely ensconced themselves in the salon when more footfalls intruded.
The butler had returned, bringing with him a beautiful, flame-haired woman. Recognition dawned. Tom knew her now—she was Hyacinth’s madcap friend.
“Lady Grenfell, Your Grace, Lord Sidmouth,” announced the butler.
“Thank you, Shilling,” Brandon said. “Just the tea, if you please.”
Tea, as if he were a maiden aunt. Tom could not quite contain his amusement.
A chortle escaped him, which he blamed upon the whisky. And his general malaise.
And Hyacinth, of course.
Speaking of whom…the lady who had just arrived stole all his attention. She was Hyacinth’s friend, after all. Mayhap she had word of her.
Lady Grenfell seated herself, and Tom and Brandon followed suit. Silence descended.
“To what do I owe the honor of your call, Lady Grenfell?” Brandon asked smoothly, ever the consummate host.
A slight flush crept over the lady’s cheeks. Her gaze settled upon Tom, her countenance stern. “I was searching for Lord Sidmouth. He was not at home when I called.”
“You were looking for me?” Tom was perplexed. Fear rose, swiftly, replacing the confusion, piercing the whisky fog. “Is it Hy—Lady Southwick? What is the matter?”
“It is indeed about Lady Southwick,” her friend admitted, casting a calculating glance in Brandon’s direction. “It is, however, a matter of a more personal nature. I must speak with you alone, Lord Sidmouth.”
“Alone?” Brandon interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “Whatever news you have to impart may be spoken before me. We are like brothers, are we not, Sid?”
“Yes,” Tom agreed, because it was the truth and because he was desperate to hear whatever it was Lady Grenfell would say. “Tell us, my lady.”
Lady Grenfell fidgeted with her skirts, looking uncertain. “Very well, my lord. You are going to be a father.”
Tom blinked, certain he had misheard. Mayhap there was water in his ears from walking in the rain. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”
But Lady Grenfell’s chin tipped upward. “Lady Southwick is carrying your child.”
The tea arrived in the next moment.
Chapter Seventeen
One sentence.
That was all that had been required to forever alter the path of Tom’s life.
One woman who had brought him to his knees when he had sworn no other could do so.
One day to make the necessary arrangements.
One more night alone, wishing he were back in St. John’s Wood with Hyacinth, when everything had been easy.
And now, everything was about to hinge upon one simple word.
Yes, there was an irony in it all, Tom thought as he crossed the pavements leading to Hyacinth’s townhome. He had dressed with painstaking care. He was in possession of a marriage license which had been deuced difficult to procure in such a short amount of time.
He also had a ring. Not the emerald-and-diamond affair he had gifted Nell, but something much different and, he thought, much more suited to the woman. Diamonds nestled in the shape of a flower, on an engraved golden band.
The ring, tucked in its small leather case in his pocket, seemed to burn as her sour-faced butler answered the door and declared Lady Southwick