Page 66 of Rules for Heiresses
Sommers grinned. “It can be quite useful, I find. People have an absurd fear of that tome. I find it enlightening.”
It spoke to the levels of Sommers’s depravity that he would use people’s faith against them or use the teachings of the Bible to justify his own actions. The man was twisted, there was no doubting that. There was a special place in hell for man who condoned abusing humans for his own gain. Courtland’s skin crawled with distaste that he was even insinuating there was any similarity between them. As ruthless as he was, he was nothing like this disgusting swine. He couldn’t wait to get rid of the man, but he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
“Cheaters and thieves must pay the piper his due.”
“You’re the piper?” Sommers asked.
“When I have to be.”
The man leveled an unruffled stare at him, but didn’t reply. Instead, his eyes darted around the room, taking measure of the gentlemen crowding in, some clustered in groups and some now arriving. It was the hour for luncheon after all. Courtland frowned as he recognized one of the men entering through the massive doors. What was his brother doing here? Apparently, he had the same question because his brows snapped together and Stinson crossed the distance from the foyer to their table in a few swift steps.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Stinson spat out.
Courtland’s brow lifted. “Having a meeting, not that it’s any of your business.”
“This is my club.”
“Is it?” he said softly. “I rather think it’s the club of the Marquess of Borne, now the Duke of Ashvale, neither of whom are you.”
“You are—” Stinson’s voice spluttered and broke off.
“Generous that I’ve ensured my esteemed brother is also a member or you would not have been granted entry? Quite so.” He smiled. “I assume that is what you’d been about to say, is it not? Or perhaps even, thank you, brother dear. I’m not deserving of your charity.”
Stinson turned a dark shade of puce, his eyes spitting his hatred. He didn’t bother to take notice of Sommers, who was intent upon the charged exchange, and turned on his heel to dash away.
“You two don’t get along?” Sommers asked.
Courtland gave a small nod. “Our relationship is strained for reasons I’d rather not go into. That reminds me, how are you acquainted with each other? I noticed you at Lady Borne’s coming-out ball for Bronwyn.”
“That’s your sister? She’s a pretty little thing.”
“Set your interests elsewhere, Sommers,” Courtland said, the threat in his voice clear.
The odious man just smiled. “Maybe I should find myself a demure little English lady and marry into some blue blood. Make myself a spiffy lord like the rest of you nobs.”
“That won’t make you a lord. Titles are hereditary.”
“Is that why your brother is in such a tiff?” Sommers asked. “Because you inherited the title and he didn’t?”
“Something like that.” That was the least of it. His brother despised him. It was a hatred that ran bone-deep, no doubt indoctrinated and nurtured by his mother over a lifetime. Still, he could not change a man’s nature. At the end of it, Stinson was a weak man who wanted the easy way of things. Briefly, Courtland wondered if things might have been different had their father not died. Would Stinson have accepted him then? He clenched his jaw. That didn’t matter.
“Aren’t you worried that he’s going to make a scene with the rest of his friends? Seems to me he was the kingpin here until you arrived and stole all his thunder.”
“It won’t matter because I’m not staying. He can have all the thunder he wants.”
Courtland watched his brother standing across the room with a small frown. He wasn’t worried about what Stinson would do—the man was all bluster and no brains—but he felt an odd twinge in his chest nonetheless. He should have felt nothing when Stinson had been the one to strip everything from him, but he felt only pity. His sometimes sweet wife might be rubbing off on him.
Though she wasn’t remotely sweet at the moment. No, she was exceedingly so, to the point that his teeth ached as if he chewed on a mouthful of sugar. Earlier this morning, she’d acted the part of the demure, biddable wife, bringing him his slippers and fussing over his every need before he’d taken a step out of his bedchamber. Even Peabody had made himself scarce, a suspicious frown marring his normally impassive features. The curtsy worthy of Victoria’s ballroom should have been a warning of the performance that was to come at breakfast.
Was the ducal bacon crispy enough?
Did his eminence have enough coffee?
Were the newssheets pleasing to His Grace?
She’d looked lovely, too, dressed in a stunning rose-colored muslin day gown with white stripes and dainty ribbons. If it weren’t for the occasional sparks of lightning he saw in her copper eyes when she wasn’t pandering to his every demand, he would have fallen for the act.
Because his darling, biddable wife was absolutely furious.
