“Please. Shovel that manure in someone else’s direction.”
Devon grinned and pushed back from the table, taking his cup to the sideboard for more coffee. “I thought last night went well,” he remarked over his shoulder. “You and Lady Clare appeared to hit it off.”
“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” West asked, trying his best to sound indifferent.
“For most of the dinner, you stared at her as if she were the dessert course.”
Making his face expressionless, West leaned back in his chair and regarded his empty cup. He could barely wedge one fingertip through the ornate loop. “Why are the handles on these teacups so small? Were they made for babies?”
“It’s French porcelain. Kathleen says we’re supposed to pinch the handle between the thumb and forefinger.”
“What’s wrong with adult-sized cups?”
Unfortunately, the diversionary tactic didn’t budge Devon from his original subject. “I wasn’t the only one to notice the attraction between you and Lady Clare.”
“At the moment,” West said, “I’d be attracted to any available woman under the age of ninety. The spring breeding season hasn’t yet finished, and every creature on this estate has been happily fornicating for weeks. Except me. Do you know how long I’ve been celibate? Every morning I wake up in a state of medical crisis.”
“I should think an attractive young widow would be able to help with that,” Devon said, resuming his seat.
“You must still be half crocked from all the wine last night. There’s no possibility a woman like Lady Clare would take a serious interest in me. Nor would I want her to.”
Devon gave him an astute glance. “You think her too far above you?”
Fiddling with the teacup handle, West accidentally caught a fingertip in it. “I don’t think it. She is too far above me—morally, financially, socially, and any other ‘ly’ you can think of. Besides, as I’ve said many times before, I’m not the marrying kind.”
“If you’re trying to hang on to your carefree bachelor’s existence,” Devon said, “it died approximately two years ago. You might as well accept that and settle down.”
“I would show you the appropriate finger,” West muttered, “if it weren’t stuck in this baby handle.” He tugged at his imprisoned middle digit, trying to free it without snapping the teacup’s porcelain loop.
“If a woman like Lady Clare has even the slightest interest in you, you don’t slink away. You fall to your knees in gratitude.”
“For the first half of our lives,” West retorted, “you and I were at everyone’s mercy. Pushed, pulled, and manipulated by relations who made our lives pure misery. We were puppets on strings. I won’t live like that again.”
He would never forget those years of being desperately poor and powerless. He and Devon had been outsiders at boarding school, where the other boys had all seemed to know each other. They had all been to the right places, and made jokes he hadn’t understood, and he’d envied their ease with themselves and each other. He’d hated feeling different, always out of place. Devon had quickly learned how to adjust to his circumstances. West, on the other hand, had been angry, awkward, and chubby. His only defense had been to turn into a crass, sneering bully.
In time, West’s resentment had eased, and he’d learned to mask his rough edges with humor. After he’d come of age, a small but tidy annuity from a trust left by his parents had enabled him, finally, to live well, dress well. But the sense of not quite belonging was never far from the surface. In a way, it had helped him learn to navigate between the worlds of aristocrats, poor tenant farmers, servants, tradesmen, bankers, cobblers, and herdsmen. As an outsider, he could see their problems and needs more clearly. Belonging nowhere was almost like belonging everywhere. It had its limitations, however, especially when it came to women like Phoebe, Lady Clare.
“Taking a rich wife . . . a duke’s daughter . . . there would be strings. Golden chains. It would all have to be her way. Her decision would always be the last.” West tugged irritably at his trapped finger. “I’ll be damned if I dance to her tune, or her father’s.”
“We all have to dance to someone’s tune. The best you can hope for is to like the music.”
West scowled. “You never sound like more of an idiot than when you try to say something wise and pithy.”
“I’m not the one with his finger stuck in a teacup,” Devon pointed out. “Is there any other reason you won’t pursue her, besides the money? Because that one rings hollow.”
It wasn’t just the money. But West was too tired and surly to try to make his brother understand. “Just because you’ve given up all masculine pride,” he muttered, “doesn’t mean I have to do the same.”
“Do you know what kind of men are able to keep their masculine pride?” Devon asked. “Celibate ones. The rest of us don’t mind doing a little begging and appeasing, if it means not having to sleep alone.”
“If you’re finished—” West began, with an irritated gesture of his hand.
At that moment, the teacup came unstuck, flung itself off his finger, and went soaring through an open window. Both brothers stared blankly after the path of its flight. A few seconds later, they heard a crash of porcelain on a graveled pathway.
In the silence, West shot a narrow-eyed glance at his brother, who was trying so hard not to laugh that his facial muscles were twitching.
Finally, Devon managed to regain control of himself. “So glad your right hand is free again,” he said in a conversational tone. “Especially since it seems that for the foreseeable future, you’ll be making frequent use of it.”