Page 88 of Lord of Temptation
Tristan strode into the office in time to see Rafe fill two glasses with whiskey and shove one across the desk until it came to rest on the far side near a chair that faced him. Rafe took his seat, snatched up his glass, and lifted it in a silent salute before downing its contents.
Tristan supposed all that counted as an invitation.
“Why do you collect the damned globes?” he asked.
Rafe’s jaw clenched before he poured himself more whiskey. “Why are you acting as though someone took your favorite toy?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Tristan asked as he stepped farther into the room. “When we were boys. You were the one who stole my wooden horse.” His father had bought it for him at a fair. It was beautifully made, painted black, with a small decorated leather saddle. Tristan had carried it in his pocket everywhere he went. He’d even slept with the silly thing until he was eight.
“Of course it was,” Rafe replied laconically with no indication of remorse.
“Bastard. Do you still have it?” Since leaving Pembrook, he’d never longed for anything from there. He didn’t know why he suddenly wanted the blasted horse, but he did dammit.
“No. Sorry, old boy, but it got left behind with my childhood dreams.” Rafe grimaced and downed his whiskey.
Tristan realized he’d revealed more than he’d intended. The brothers had shared little of their paths since that awful night, as though they didn’t wish to burden the others. He still loved his brothers, wished them well, but he hardly knew them. But then they barely knew him. He wanted it that way. It made him feel ... safer. Not that they would wish him harm, but he didn’t like feeling vulnerable. Talk of the past always made him feel as though he were fourteen again and facing demons. He could hardly countenance that he’d revealed as much as he had to Anne.
Damn but he missed her. She’d been right, of course. He couldn’t continue climbing in through her window when she wanted the sort of life that she did so badly. Being at Fayrehaven’s garden party had shown him that.
He took the offered seat, lifted the glass, studied the amber liquid, and turned his attention back to his brother. “It was hard on you when we left.”
“I see no point in discussing what is too late to change.”
“Sebastian’s face is half gone. My back was torn asunder more than once. What scars do you bear?”
“None that concern you, but I won’t tolerate you causing trouble in my establishment.”
Not tolerate? Tristan wondered how Rafe thought he was going to bloody well stop him from doing any damned thing he wanted. “I was rolling dice.”
“You were looking for a fight.”
“Going to give me one?”
“If you like. I have a boxing room.”
Tristan tossed back the whiskey, relished the burning, and studied his brother. He’d never noticed how broad-shouldered Rafe was or how large and capable his hands seemed. He usually saw him going through ledgers like a bookworm. Although he recalled that Rafe—gravely injured—had fought off some ruffians when the brothers had first made themselves known in London.
Tristan grinned. “I’d just beat you, easily no doubt, and then you’d have another reason to despise me.”
Rafe shrugged, poured more whiskey into both their glasses. “So who is the woman who’s causing you trouble tonight?”
Tristan couldn’t help the look of surprise he directed his brother’s way. “What makes you think it’s a woman?”
“Because if it was a man, you’d take your fists to him and be done with it. But a woman must be handled a bit more delicately.”
Tristan couldn’t argue with that. “The lady is none of your business.”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t cause trouble in my place.” Rafe opened a ledger and began to study the entries.
Tristan sipped his whiskey. He didn’t need to discuss his personal life. He didn’t need anyone to help him sort it out.
“Lady Anne Hayworth,” he heard himself blurt out, then wished he could take a cat-o-nine to his tongue.
Rafe looked up. “The Earl of Blackwood’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Did she not pay for the passage on your ship?”
