Page 53 of The Duke's Spinster

“And you would call it…?”

“Rather devastating, really.”

“Hmmm…” Chris hummed loudly enough for Wesley to be more than a little irked.

“What, pray tell, are you humming so obnoxiously about?”

“Just never heard you refer to something as devastating before. Might you be alluding to the state of your heart?”

At that Wesley’s head whipped up. Which, in hindsight, was a terrible miscalculation of his control on his balance. His head sloshed to one side, pulling him nearly off the chair, and then in an overcorrection, he swung it the opposite direction, nearly colliding with Chris’ chest.

“Wait, just a minute.” He held up a finger. Or two, he wasn’t sure. “I’m not drinking for…lost love.” He sputtered. “I’m drinking because I lost the bet.”

“Right.”

“I despise losing.”

“Right.”

“I’m a competitor.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

“And I’ll not rest until I win.”

“I completely agree.”

“Speaking of which, I’ve got to get home now and abed. Tomorrow I must continue my training. I still have a fencing tournament to win.”

“Of course you do,” Chris just nodded.

The cursed knave was at the height of his patronizing, but all Wesley could say in return was the startlingly eloquent, “I do.”

To which Chris reached the apex of his sarcasm, “Right.”

Was he going to sit there all night and listen to this scapegrace? Or was he going to do something about his situation? Wesley was not the kind to drink his sorrows away. What sorrows? He was not the kind to lament and wallow in anguish. He was a man of action. And just because one gorgeous blonde-haired-rapier-wielding intoxicating gel had…had…had gotten under his skin (a little), did not mean he would succumb to disheartenment.

What was he if he was not a worthy competitor? He still had a goal to reach. Forget Boudicca and her tempting lips and full breasts. She could have her secret gymnasium of glory. He had more important things to do. To be. To have. He had to win.

Wesley stood up. Slowly. “Now,”—he bowed, and in his most mockingest of tones, chirped—“be a dear and show me the way out, you lout.”

Wesley didn’t make it more than a few steps without Chris’ help. In fact, James ended up under one of his armpits, and Chris under the other. Samuel, of course, laughing behind them all the way home.

Once at his residence, they handed him over to the butler and some footmen with the profound parting words that no man heeded, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Of course, he was home, what stupid could he really do? He wasn’t about to make his way over to her house just before dawn, lift her brocade counterpane, and climb into her warm bed with her. He recalled her sounds. Her silky locks. The way his fingers wanted to get lost in them. He could smell her soft rose scent. How had he never named her scent until now? The fragrance was inebriating. He shouldn’t have had to drink a drop tonight.He could have just conjured her scent and lost his senses to her. And her in her bed.

No, that bed was for…

Ugh. He groaned.

He did not want to say the words. If it wasn’t him in her bed, eventually it would be another…man. He ground his teeth in frustration. His normally rigid spine was hunched over as the footmen aided his ascent up the stairs.

To his bedchambers. The dreaded den of dreams. Though not to his bed. He fell asleep on the settee.

Delaying the inevitable, he slowly shirked out of his clothing and then laid to rest with his most useless prayer to date.Please don’t let me dream of her.

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