The Sugared Game - K.J. Charles Page 0,2
sore point he had no desire at all to discuss, so he added, “I’m not sure if he ever uses the title. It’s not compulsory, is it, if it’s one of those whatsits?”
“Courtesy titles.”
“I don’t follow how those work.”
“Well,” Maisie said, taking the bait. “If you’re a duke or a marquess, your oldest son borrows one of your titles, like Kim’s brother is Viscount Chingford. Then your other children are called Lord or Lady with their Christian name, Lord Arthur and Lady Jane. The younger ones don’t get any extra names, it’s just a politeness to show who their father is.”
“So if my old man was the Duke of Northants, I’d be Lord William Darling?”
“No, because you’re an only child, aren’t you? So you’d use a spare title he had lying around. Where is it you’re from again?”
“Bugbrooke.”
“You’d be Viscount Bugbrooke, imagine. I wish you were a lord.” She switched to a terrifyingly upper-class accent. “‘Oh, how mahvellous, Bugbrooke, old chap!’ Except you’d probably say it Booray or some such if you were posh. Do you know how Phoebe’s father’s house is spelled and pronounced? You wouldn’t guess it in a million years.”
“You’re Welsh,” Will pointed out. “You’ve got no room to talk about spelling.”
“Nothing wrong with Welsh spelling, thank you,” Maisie said, with an edge on her accent.
“Come off it. You put two ‘l’s in everything and don’t say any of them.”
She stuck out her tongue. “You’ll be sorry when my da is Marquess of Cardiff. Pronounced Caff.”
“What would that make you? Lady Jones?”
“Lady Maisie Jones, but you can call me Lady Maisie.” She sighed wistfully. “If only he’d gone into aristocracy instead of down the docks.”
They laughed over that as the champagne arrived. The waiter made a production of opening it and pouring Maisie a foaming glassful, and by then her original question was entirely forgotten, which was a relief. Maisie was his best friend, but she was still a nice girl from Cardiff and there were some things Will couldn’t talk to her about, no matter how much he’d have liked to.
He would have liked to very much. He wanted to tell her the truth, to have someone who’d give him good, sensible, measured advice, while also being entirely on his side. He couldn’t risk it. That had felt increasingly like lying for a while now, but he simply didn’t know how she’d react if she knew he was—well, not queer exactly, since he liked women very well. Open-minded? Whatever you called it, it wasn’t a topic he could throw into the conversation and expect things to end well.
Anyway, they scarcely needed to discuss it since he hadn’t so much as seen Kim in close on two months, so it hardly bloody mattered.
He forced that train of thought to a jarring halt. He was a blasted lucky man, and out with a girl who deserved a good time. That was a lot more important than an unreliable aristocrat who’d dropped him like a hot potato when he was no longer entertaining.
The waiter finished faffing about with the champagne. Will raised his glass and clinked it to Maisie’s. “Here’s to you. Best dressed woman in the room.”
She gave a little shimmy that made the dress move intriguingly. “Do you really like it?”
Will began to give an ‘of course’ sort of reply, but managed to stop. Maisie knew he was an ignoramus when it came to clothes, so she didn’t want a meaningless endorsement; she wanted moral support. “Can I have another look?”
Maisie checked she wouldn’t bump into anyone, then stood and stepped back from the table. Will took her in, impressed. The frock was so stylish that he’d have thought she’d borrowed it from Phoebe, except Phoebe was the sort of tall, slim build that modern times were made for. She was very fine indeed, and he noticed a couple of admiring glances from their fellow customers, which might be for the dress, the curves it flattered, or the leg it revealed.
Any man would like it, he thought, or at least any man who liked ample bosoms. The fashion demanded women should be shaped like boys, skinny ones at that, and dresses went straight up and down accordingly, which didn’t usually do much for curvier bodies. Maisie wasn’t straight up and down from any angle, and her dress emphasised that in a way he could only appreciate.
“It’s marvellous,” he said. “You look top notch. Divine, darling.” He imitated Phoebe, which made Maisie giggle. “What I like is, it’s