Page 83 of Lord Garson's Bride
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“You look like you wagered the family fortune on a three-legged horse.” Silas stood in the doorway of Anthony Townsend’s library and surveyed Garson with disapproval. “What the devil are you doing, skulking in here?”
Garson paused in pouring a brandy to shoot his old friend a glare of cordial dislike. “Go to hell, Silas.”
Instead of getting the message that Garson wanted to be alone, Silas stepped in and closed the door, muffling the sound of music and laughter from the ballroom. Lord and Lady Kenwick were hosting their annual ball, and the extravagant house was infested with every blue-blooded blockhead and hussy in London. The same crowd of nitwits Garson had seen each night for the last six weeks. Since the Oldhams’ ball, his wife had thrown herself into the London season with an élan that beggared Garson’s enthusiasm for company. He looked back on those days when he and Jane had stayed holed up in Rutherford House with a nostalgia so powerful, it verged on painful.
He wouldn’t mind as much, if he wasn’t convinced that Jane’s eagerness to dazzle society was firmly grounded in her wish to avoid time alone with her husband. Heaven forbid they should have a chance for a serious conversation where she might actually tell him why she’d changed toward him.
“You should be out there, fending off all the rakes and roués vying to capture Jane’s attention,” Silas said.
Garson stiffened all over like a hunting dog scenting a fox. “She doesn’t take any of that seriously.”
“Harslett is pursuing her with great purpose.”
Harslett was handsome, rich, and bloody charming. The bastard. “There’s nothing in it.”
“How do you know?” Silas tilted one tawny eyebrow in his direction. “By the way, can I have one of those?”
Reluctantly Garson poured Silas a brandy and passed it across. At least on this God-awful night, there was the small consolation that Anthony Townsend’s liquor was top notch. “Only if you drink it quickly and slouch back to where you came from.”
Ignoring the command, Silas walked round to flop into one of the leather chairs in front of the fire. “By God, you really are blue-deviled, old man. Tell Uncle Silas what troubles your noble heart.”
As he slumped into the chair opposite, Garson scowled at the tall man with the mass of untidy, light brown hair. “Shut up and go away, Silas.”
“It wouldn’t be British to leave you on your own, hunkered down like a bear in a cave.”
Garson hardly heard his friend’s good-natured jibe. “Is Harslett really pestering Jane?”
He didn’t ask the question that really worried him. Did Jane encourage the chase? The most obvious answer to why she’d withdrawn from him was that she was attracted to another man. He’d feared such an outcome since the night he’d taken her to dinner at Silas and Caro’s.
“You married a beautiful woman, Garson, old man. Other fellows trying to poach on your territory is an occupational hazard.” Silas frowned as Garson downed his brandy, and the facetiousness vanished. “Dash it, Hugh, you think I’m serious. Jane isn’t the sort to stray. If that’s what’s worrying you, you need to see for yourself. Sulking in here isn’t doing you any favors.”
“I’m not sulking,” Garson said, resenting the childish description, and resenting even more that his reply really did make him sound childish.
Silas studied him with the penetrating intelligence that made him one of the world’s greatest botanists. “What would you call it, then?”
With a bang, Garson set down his empty brandy glass. “Can’t a man seek a moment’s privacy, without every fool and his dog nagging at him?”
As usual, Silas proved remarkably difficult to offend. He leaned back in his chair and extended his long legs in their black trousers toward the fire. He looked completely at home, whereas Garson felt like a scientific specimen under Silas’s microscope.
“Not when he retreats to his burrow in the middle of one of the season’s most anticipated balls.” He still spoke in that deuced reasonable tone. “Not when he’s been slinking around like a sick cat for the last month or so.”
“Do you think anyone else has noticed?” he asked, although he’d had no intention of admitting that Silas was right.
Silas shrugged. “You know what the ton is like, always ready to sniff out trouble, even when there is none.”
Damn, damn, damn. He’d hoped his turmoil and confusion went unremarked. “There is no trouble,” he said, knowing he fought a losing battle.
“Glad to hear it,” Silas said peacefully, emptying his brandy glass.
“Really there’s no trouble.”
“What trouble could there be?” Silas’s lips twitched. If the sod laughed openly, he’d earn himself a punch on that beak of a nose.
“Exactly.”
To Garson’s relief, silence descended. Silas rose and filled both brandy glasses before returning to his seat. Garson didn’t touch his second drink, although he’d come in here, desperate for something to help him through the rest of this hellish evening.
