Page 13 of Oddity of the Ton
“You speak as if we’ve not seen each other for months,” Monty said. “It must be a fortnight, at most.” He gestured toward a passing footman. “My usual, please.”
The footman bowed, scuttled off, then returned with a brandy almost before Monty had settled into an armchair.
“Marlow’s a changed man,” Sawbridge said. “That’s what marriage does. He’s been rattling on about the management of hishousehold, don’t you know!”
“All households must be managed,” Monty said.
“Bywomen, yes,” Sawbridge replied. “I was about to ask him whether he’d lost his balls when you came in. What say you, Marlow—fancy dropping your breeches so we can ascertain the degree of your emasculation?”
“I doubt the other members of White’s would approve,” Monty said, glancing about the clubroom.
“You shouldn’t be so critical of the marriage state, Sawbridge, until you’ve tried it,” Thorpe said. “What say you, Whitcombe?”
“I’ve no intention of being shackled yet,” Monty replied.
“It’s a poor man who cannot find a life partner to make him happy,” Marlow said. “I can’t speak for Lady Thorpe, of course, butmywife, rather than weighing me down with leg irons, enjoys much more—ahem—stimulatingpursuits, if you get my drift.”
“You mean in the bedroom?” Sawbridge asked.
Marlow lowered his voice. “Not just the bedroom. We indulge in maneuvers in every location imaginable.”
“Battles, more like,” Sawbridge said before draining his glass.
“Perhaps,” Marlow replied. “But you know what they say—the more intense the battle, the sweeter the surrender.”
“All women surrender in the end,” Monty said, then took a mouthful of brandy.
“But there’s immense pleasure in themansurrendering.”
The liquid burst into flames in Monty’s throat, and he leaned forward, choking.
Thorpe slapped him between the shoulder blades. “I believe you’ve shocked our friend, Marlow!” he said, laughing. “Perhaps he’s yet to experience the pleasure of yielding to a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to take it. I think we should place an entry in the club’s bet book. Who’ll surrender first—Whitcombe or Sawbridge?”
“I won’t indulge in puerile wagers,” Monty growled.
“Youneedn’t place a bet,” Thorpe replied. “But I can. What say you, Marlow—ten guineas says Whitcombe falls first.”
“No self-respecting gentleman would stoop to such a wager,” Monty said.
“I don’t know,” Marlow replied. “Westbury placed a bet over a woman—he ended up marrying her.”
“Westbury’s wife was the subject of a wager?” Thorpe asked. “But they’re one of the happiest couples in England—they have six children!”
“Westbury’s a milksop,” Sawbridge said. “He’s served his balls on a platter for his wife to fricassee.” He raised his glass and tapped the rim, and a footman scuttled over, decanter in hand. “Watch your balls, Whitcombe.”
“My balls are quite safe, I assure you,” Monty said.
To his credit, the footman remained stoic, displaying only a slight slip of the hand, which shook a little more brandy than intended into Sawbridge’s glass. Monty waited until the poor man retreated before proceeding, though doubtless he’d heard far worse in an establishment where discussion of the fairer sex was uninhibited by the need to observe social niceties.
“Men are like rocks,” Monty said. “Impenetrable and firm.”
“Butwomenare like water,” Thorpe said. “Water can erode a rock over the years—little by little, going unnoticed until it’s too late.” He leaned back and gave a self-satisfied smile. “Not that I mind. My Henrietta is particularly skilled at wearing down—”
“Spare me!” Monty said. “I’llneverbe ruled by a woman.”
Sawbridge snorted, and the other two exchanged a smile.
“Care to share something, gentlemen?” Monty asked.
