Michael frowned, thinking back. He exhaled in a rush, understanding how deep and far reaching Alistair’s captivation with Jessica went. Perhaps as deep and far reaching as his affection for Hester. “Damnation.”
A knock came at the door.
Alistair’s head turned, and one brow rose in silent query.
The butler’s voice drifted over Alistair’s shoulder. “Forgive me, my lords,” the servant said. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Masterson, has come to call.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Alistair nodded. “Show her in.”
Gripping the arms of his chair, Michael moved to stand.
“Stay,” Alistair said.
“Beg your pardon?” Both of Michael’s brows rose.
“Please.”
Michael settled back into his seat, only to rise a moment later when Alistair’s mother entered. He smiled, pleased as all men were by the sight of a beautiful woman. Unlike his brothers, Alistair took after his mother to a marked degree. Both had inky black hair and piercing blue eyes. Both were elegant and innately sensual in build and carriage, with a rapier wit that charmed and sliced with equal measure.
“My Lord Tarley,” she greeted in a breathless, lilting voice. She held out her hand to him. “You look well and far too handsome for a woman’s well-being.”
He kissed the back of her ungloved hand. “Your Grace, always the most sublime of pleasures.”
“Will you be attending the Treadmore’s masquerade?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Excellent. Would you be so kind as to assist my son in finding his way there?”
Michael glanced aside at his friend, smiling when he found Alistair scowling with both palms flat on his littered desk.
“I do not have room in my schedule for such nonsense,” Alistair said.
“Make room,” she retorted smoothly. “People are beginning to talk.”
“Let them talk.”
“You have been absent for years. People want to see you.”
“Well, then,” he drawled, “a masquerade is the last place I should go.”
“Alistair Lucius Caulfield—”
“Dear God. When is this damned event?”
“Wednesday, which gives you five days to clear your schedule for one evening.”
“The first of many,” he muttered, “if you have your way.”
“I am proud of you. Is it a crime to want to show you off?”
Michael crossed his arms, grinning. It was a rare pleasure to see Alistair bending his will for another.
“I will go ”—Alistair held up one hand when she smiled triumphantly—“only if my betrothed attends. She will make it bearable.”
“Your betrothed …” The duchess sank slowly into the chair beside Michael’s. A look of wonder spread over her lovely features. “Oh, Alistair. Who is she?”
“Jessica Sinclair, Lady Tarley.”
“Tarley,” she repeated, glancing at Michael.
Michael’s hands curled around the end of his armrests. Anger began to simmer. “My sister-in-law.”
“Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat. “Isn’t she … older than you?”
“By the barest degree. Two years is hardly worth mentioning.”
“She was wed to Tarley for some time, was she not?”
“Several years. A pleasant union by all accounts.”
She nodded, but appeared dazed. And Michael’s fury grew. The duchess could not care less how pleasant or not the marriage had been, and Alistair damn well knew it.
“She’s a lovely girl.”
“The most beautiful woman in the world,” Alistair said, watching his mother with the predatory sharpness of a hawk. “I am eager for you two to become better acquainted, but Jessica holds back. She fears you will judge her on criteria having nothing to do with how happy she makes me. I assured her that was a misplaced concern.”
The duchess swallowed hard. “Of course.”
“Perhaps you could send a reassuring note to her? I am certain that would ease her mind considerably.”
Nodding, she stood. “I will endeavor to find something appropriate to say.”
Michael and Alistair stood. Michael helped himself to a glass of brandy as Alistair showed Her Grace out. That Michael was goaded to drink this early in the day aggravated him further. Alistair had always been dragging him into one crazed adventure after another in their youth, and it appeared his influence was still questionable.
When his friend returned, Michael rounded on him. “By God, you’re a heel, Baybury. A complete and total ass.”
“You must be spitting mad. You’re wielding my title like the weapon it is.” Alistair’s stride was leisurely and arrogant. “If you are surprised by the way I handled the situation, you’ve been blind to my faults for too many years.”
“There was no good reason to ask me to stay for that! It was awkward in the extreme, for both me and Her Grace.”
“There was a damned good reason.” Alistair went to the console and poured his own drink. “Your presence forced her to restrain any emotional reaction she might have had. Now, she will have the opportunity to think over the information before she says something we’ll both regret. One can pray that once she absorbs it all, she will indeed put my happiness before other considerations.”
“You have always been reckless, but this … this affects other people.”
Alistair tossed back his drink and leaned his hip against the console. “Are you telling me there is something you would not do to have Lady Regmont for your own?”
Michael froze, his hand clenching around his glass. Considering the murderous rage he felt toward Regmont, he couldn’t answer that question.
Mouth curving, Alistair set his glass down. “Right. I have some errands to see to. Would you like to join me?”
“Why not?” Michael groused, finishing his drink. “We could end the day in Bedlam or clapped in irons. There is never a dull moment with you, Baybury.”
“Ah … the title again. You must be ferociously angry.”
“And you had best become accustomed to that title you so despise. At the masquerade alone you’ll hear it a hundred times.”
Alistair tossed an arm over Michael’s shoulders and prodded him toward the door. “When I hear it paired with Jessica’s name, I shall love it. Until then, I will simply have to keep you in good humor.”
“God, I need another drink.”