Page 102 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

Idly, Demon’s fingers traced the pattern on the arm of the sofa without him really seeing it. His other hand balanced a glass of whisky against his knee; he’d poured the thing an hour ago and hadn’t taken a sip. Nay, he’d been sitting here studying the meretricious upholstery.

He didn’t remember this sofa.

Didn’t remember any of this furniture.

Mrs. Kettel—or rather, Mary—had done a superb job in marshalling the staff to prepare Endymion house for inhabitation. Not his style of inhabitation, of course—he’d be perfectly fine with some bread, wine, meat, and his books—but just a general sort of acceptable inhabitation.

Hell, his mother had even been to visit. He hadn’t read of her disappointment in his interior decorating in the scandal sheets yet.

But where’d this furniture come from? Had Mother chosen it years ago? Father? Or had Mary or one of her hirelings picked it up more recently? Or had it just always been here, moldering in the Baron’s study for indefinite eons, waiting for his angry arse to peel back the white dust sheets and plant itself upon it?

Crockpuffins, he was getting maudlin.

Well, why not? It wasn’t as if he’d had any good news these last days. As the house bustled, fairly bursting at the seams from all the commotion that came from planning a ball, Demon had vacated the premises.

He’d spent the last days stalking old haunts, old contacts.

Returning to the park where they’d met Georgia’s friend Felicity on Hogmanay morning had proved fruitless; while he had to assume she lived nearby, the money he’d spread among the servants he’d met had proved fruitless.

The tripod—the one Felicity had been using to attempt to photograph squirrels—had been retrieved by the time he returned, but he’d continued to search, skulking through London, hoping for some hint about where he might find “Miss Felicity Montrose” and thus the woman he loved.

And while he’d searched, he’d heard rumors.

Once, the thought of showing his face in London had given him heartburn. He’d been afraid, dammit, and now he could admit that. Afraid of the ridicule, afraid of the stares. Georgia had taught him…

Nay, loving Georgia had taught Demon there were some things more important. He would face their stares, their pity, if it meant finding her.

His fingers tightened around the glass.

He had faced their stares, and he still hadn’t found her, damnation!

The rumors he’d heard hadn’t been about him, but about Georgia. Apparently the Earl’s riding companion Gigleigh, the original owner of the fine mare Demon now rode each morning, had delighted in spreading gossip about Bonkinbone’s claims.

Aye, they were truthful—Georgia had been ruined by a scarred monster—but one would think the arsehole would be more circumspect about it. Evidently Bonkinbone had washed his hands of her, and thought the best way to distance himself from Georgia was to ruin her reputation himself.

Nay, there were no excuses for the horrible things being whispered about Georgia.

Excretable turd-waffle! He needed to find her! Needed to make this better!

“Need to apologize,” he muttered at the upholstery. “Need to tell her I'm a fool.”

“Ye need to tell her ye love her.”

Years of instincts had Demon twisting before the first syllable was finished. By the time Thorne had stepped into the room, he was slumped against the sofa once more.

“Go away,” Demon muttered.

His once-friend, once-enemy, now-uncertain, smiled. “Nay.” Instead of going away, the bastard turned up the lamp, causing Demon to hiss at the light. “Good Lord, ye sound like a—I dinnae ken, some sort of creature of the night.” He reached for another lamp. “A bat? A vampire? An owl? Mrs. Kettel would ken. An opossum? Hunched here in the darkness, brooding.”

“Owls have excellent night vision. As do I.”

“Bullshite, ye’re an opossum.” Thorne declared cheerfully, reaching the hearth. “This is cold. Are ye no’ cold? Ye need to be upright and exercising, get yer blood flowing. No’ sitting here drinking and moping.”

“I’m no’ moping.” He absolutely was moping, so he scowled instead. “How’d ye get in here?”

“There’s a party.” His friend jerked his chin as he folded his arms and rested his shoulder against the mantel, giving every impression of sticking around. “Well, it’s being planned. People coming and going, hither and yon. I walked in the front door, and nae one said a word.”

“My mother’s ball.” Demon slid farther down, seriously considering finally drinking the whisky. “Found out after we arrived that she’d been planning on hosting it here, so my puir housekeeper is at her wits’ end.” He would owe Mary two boxes of chocolate when this was all over. Perhaps the whole shop. “Why the fook would she still think I want a ball?”

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