Page 12 of One Scandal Too Many
“They take their deportment seriously,” Jaclyn said, then rolled her eyes. “That icy exterior has to be what everyone sees. Otherwise, we might know that people have actual emotions inside of them.”
Charlotte hated a lot of the dictates that society demanded of her. She did not want to be proper all the time. Why couldn’t she have more choices? She hated that her father had so much control over her too. When he had decided to send her to Havenwood, she’d hated him for it, but now she was glad. The school was preferable to her own home. At least at Havenwood she was accepted and given the support she had always needed. Her father, and even her brother, had never bothered to tell her she was wanted or loved. She hated them both sometimes.
“She’s right,” Charlotte told Georgina. “They’re just as culpable as we are, and under the right circumstances, they would fall prey to those emotions they try to hide.” She shrugged. “I’m all right with being imperfect. A little bit of a flaw never hurt anyone.”
And maybe one day she might believe that. She was going to have to accept that she could make mistakes. There was not much that she could do to change her past. All Charlotte could do was keep moving forward and hope that her future had nothing but good things in store for her. That was a dream, of course, but why not hope for the best?
“All right,” Jaclyn said. “Let’s go to the garden. That was a wonderful suggestion.” She practically beamed with excitement. “I cannot wait to begin. This will be so much fun.”
Charlotte shook her head. That was Jaclyn. Her cheerful nature was one of the things she adored about her friend. It was going to be a pleasant afternoon. And for a few moments, she had managed not to think about the marquess. Of course, that had been short-lived. He was always there lingering in her mind. As if he’d been branded there and she had to live with him forever. God help her, that actually appealed to her.
*
Declan lounged ona chair in his game room and stared at his two friends. Foxmoore and Amberwood were embroiled in a grueling game of billiards. They were both inebriated, so it made it all the more interesting, both for him as a spectator of the farce, and for the two players.
They were playing by candlelight, which meant usually a shorter game and a smaller amount scored to win. Except neither one could manage to meet the lofty goal of six points to be declared the victor. Declan sipped on his brandy and stared at the billiards table. Amberwood leaned over the table with his cue stick primed to strike his gleaming white ball. He currently had two points. If he could pot the red ball without sinking his white ball, he’d gain three points. He wouldn’t win, but he’d be close. So far, he hadn’t been successful, and when he was, he would lose points as easily as he gained them.
Foxmoore wasn’t faring any better. It wasn’t his turn to shoot, but he only had three points. He was at least closer to perhaps winning, but he’d been hitting losing hazards equally as much as Amberwood had.
“Be careful ol’ chap,” Foxmoore said. “Would hate for you to strike your cue ball with the red ball, and then smack into my ball. Would be a shame for your ball to pot into that corner pocket. You would be at negative one point then.” He grinned. Mischievousness gleamed in his eyes as he spoke. “By all means, help me win.”
“Bugger off,” Amberwood said as he lined up his cue stick. He slid it across the table with ease considering his drunken state. The cue ball slid across the table and hit the red ball. Luckily for Amberwood, it did not slide into Foxmoore’s cue ball and then fall into a pocket. Instead, the red ball rolled into the pocket, leaving his cue ball on the table.
“Nicely done,” Declan said. He tipped his glass of brandy in Amberwood’s direction. “Now to not lose any of those points you gained on your next turn.”
The duke glared at him. “I don’t need any comments from the spectator. I’d like to see you do better.”
Declan grinned. “I’m not nearly as foxed as you are. I might have already won if I were playing.”
Amberwood rolled his eyes. “A likely story if I’ve ever heard one. A fairy tale at the very least.” He nodded toward Foxmoore. “It is your turn. See if you can win this game or give me a chance to boast my prowess.”
“You’re delusional,” Foxmoore said. “You’re living in that fairy tale world, not Easton.”
The only reason Declan had started drinking was to erase thoughts of Lady Charlotte Beckett from his mind. That and his mother’s continued harping about having a house party. He shuddered at the thought. He hated the idea of having a myriad of guests traipsing around his home. Just having his mother there was one person too many. Foxmoore and Amberwood were welcome to stay as long as they wished. They didn’t annoy him by walking into a room.
“We will see about that,” Amberwood told the earl. “After you take this shot.”
Foxmoore lined up his cue stick to strike his ball. The red ball was back on its starting point on the table. He needed three points to win. If he only struck Amberwood’s cue ball and the red ball, he’d gain two points. That would not gain him the win. He needed a winning hazard, which meant not repeating what Amberwood had earlier. If he only gained two points, Amberwood would have another shot at winning.
“Watch and learn,” Foxmoore said. He struck the cue ball. It slid across the table but veered in the wrong direction. It hit the red ball like he’d intended, but not with enough force to sink it. Instead, it rolled around the table and spun for several seconds.
“I’m waiting,” Amberwood drawled. “But I’ve learned nothing I should take note of.” His grin was smug as hell, and Declan was surprised Foxmoore did not give in to the urge to strike it off his face in protest. “It looks like you have gained zero points this round. My turn. Let me show you how to handle this.”
Amberwood stared at the table as if he was ascertaining the best way to hit the ball to gain the points he needed. He already had five. Why overthink it? A two-point shot would win it for him and finally end this seemingly never-ending billiard game. He had many choices, but the easiest was to take a lower point winning hazard. All he would have to do was pot Foxmoore’s cue ball without sinking his own.
Amberwood lifted his cue stick and slid it across the table. He leaned over and studied the angle, then took aim. With ease that belied his inebriated state, he guided the stick over the table and struck his cue ball. It raced across the table and collided with Foxmoore’s ball. It jockeyed across the table and fell into a pocket. Amberwood’s cue ball rolled along the side and then slowed just before it would have potted in a nearby pocket.
“And that, my friend,” Amberwood said smugly, “is how it is done.”
“And it only took until the candles nearly turned to nubs in the candelabra,” Declan drawled. “We might need to replace them if we wish to remain in the game room much longer.” To be fair, they hadn’t been new candles to begin with. But still, he grinned. Times with his friends were what made days like this worth living. Declan couldn’t imagine anything better.
Foxmoore lifted a brow. “I doubt you would have fared better.”
Declan mock saluted him. “Never claimed I would.” Though he might have; there was no way of knowing with any certainty. “However, that does not make my observation incorrect, either.”
Amberwood lifted a brow. “Has your mother calmed any since her arrival, or is she still being her usual pleasant self?”
“If by pleasant you mean a constant nag who fails to listen to me,” Declan began, “then yes. She is that.”
