Page 3 of My Wicked Earl
A mischievous grin crossed Nick’s hard features. “I should bloody well start acting the part, don’t you think? You,” he pointed to the servant, “who are those two gentlemen? I think I’d like to make their acquaintance.”
The servant’s Adam apple bobbed as he swallowed anxiously. “The Baron of Taunton and Viscount Sistern,” his voice shook, “my lord.”
“Well, send them a bottle of your finest brandy, won’t you? Compliments of the Devil of Dunbar.”
“Yes – yes, my lord.” The servant’s eyes grew round as he looked at Nick.
“And stop acting as if I’m about to turn you into a frog,” Nick commanded. “Good Lord, you appear about to faint. Like a woman whose stays are too tight. I haven’t turned anyone into a frog in ages. Mr.Hartley finds it very off-putting.”
Colin nodded in agreement, the act of moving his head causing the room to spin a bit. “Very off-putting.”
The servant bowed and scurried off, pausing only to look over his shoulder at the Devil of Dunbar.
“Probably won’t come back.”
An amused smile crossed Nick’s lips, but he said nothing. The only sign of his agitation was the drumming of his fingers against his chair arm. An ancient pitted ring on his thumb glinted dully in the room’s mellow light.
Colin often thought that the history of Nick’s family would make for an excellent novel. His friend certainly looked the part of the Devil. He always appeared a bit menacing, as if he’d just come from a fight he’d won, and the bloodlust still ran through him. The eyes, of course, could be rather disturbing to those who first viewed them.
Just now those eyes, one blue and one brown, watched Mr. Pig and his friend with a bland look.
“Ah, there he goes.” Nick lifted his glass in the direction of the servant who was making his way to Lords Severn and Taunton who appeared a bit chagrined that they’d gained the notice of Viscount Lindley.
The servant, poor man, tentatively approached the pair, bowing slightly as he presented the brandy. He murmured something in a low voice and spared a glance at Nick.
Colin took another sip of his drink, gratified to see the flush that crept up the fat one’s neck. Dislike for Nick colored his face. And fear.
His companion, obviously the wiser of the pair, stood, bowing deeply to Nick before averting his eyes.
“Colin,” Nick continued in a half-whisper, “shall I go over and tap the fat one on the shoulder? Tell him Old Scratch has advised me that his time is up? That the brandy was just a beginning of the warmth he’ll soon feel?”
Colin giggled again. He really should stop now lest he spend tomorrow in bed with his head aching. Whiskey spilled down his sleeve and he frowned. “Now see what you’ve done, Nick. I’ve so few good shirts left and now I fear this one is ruined.”
“That’s no way to speak to the Devil,” Nick growled, loud enough so Lords Sistern and Taunton could hear. “I could make your blood curdle with a look.”
The servant stopped as he made his way back to Nick and Colin. He nodded in their direction before hurrying away through a small door set into the paneled wall.
“Probably heading off to pray somewhere,” Nick added sardonically, sitting back in his chair, a deep chuckle humming from his chest. “That was great fun.”
Colin could see that it was not.
A shadowed look hovered in Nick’s eyes, as if his friend were taking a moment of self-pity. All the money and power in the world wouldn’t make Nick acceptable to theton. Ever.
Wisely, Colin stayed silent.
“Now, where were we? Ah yes, discussing your lack of female companionship.”
“We weren’t,you were,” Colin replied a bit defensively. Bloody hell, why couldn’t Nick just leave it alone?
“You need a woman, Colin. It will do wonders for your ill humor. Perhaps even assist you with whatever little project you wish to discuss with Lord Wently.”
So, they were back to Lord Wently again. “I am not in ill humor.” Colin ignored his friend’s curiosity.
“Nonsense, of course you are. A good tumble will help ease your mind before you are welcomed into the bosom of your family. You are going to Runshaw Park, are you not?”
Colin thought of his mother’s hate-filled visage. It was doubtful the Mad Countess had ever clasped Colin to her meager breast in welcome.
“Possibly.” His brothers wished him to come home, had in fact been begging him since they learned of Uncle Gerald’s passing.
