Chapter Three #3
Pearce tossed back his drink and scoffed after the burn traveled from his throat to the pit of his stomach. “You are delusional, both of you. Clara is still a girl, and I am practically ancient compared to her.”
The other men took immediate offense, talking over one another in their attempt to denounce Pearce’s assertion.
“We are all well below four decades in age. I’ll have you know, there have been no issues and no complaints, thank you,” Hart sniffed indignantly.
“At least none that your wife has voiced to your face,” Swanleigh murmured, then coughed on his drink when Hart slugged his shoulder a little bit harder than was necessary.
“It’s not as if you are Lord Buffin,” Hart said, turning his attention back to Pearce as he referenced a doddering old baron who’d married a woman less than half his age. “If he can sire a child, then you should not take issue.”
Pearce remained silent about the fact that he had it on very good authority that that child actually belonged to one very attractive footman in Baron Buffin’s household. But that was neither here nor there in this situation.
Pearce was not worried about his ability to sire a child; that worry had never crossed his mind at all.
He was more concerned about his bride-to-be.
There had been decades of teasing and arguments between them—what was going to happen when they were stuck together forever with no real escape, forever tied by the bonds of matrimony?
And, no, despite what he said, Pearce wasn’t blind enough to truly see Clara as less than the adult she’d become—their kiss had confirmed as much for him as his glimpse of womanly curves had convinced him.
Old habits were simply difficult to alter.
He’d known Clara practically all her life.
When he’d first recognized that she was growing into a young beauty, Pearce had done the only thing he deemed rational: He’d pushed her away with incessant teasing.
He hadn’t wanted her to harbor any fantasies, as so many young girls did for their elder brother’s friends.
Then, after what had happened to him nearly a decade prior—when the Brinley curse finally convinced him of its validity—distancing himself from her became a necessity rather than simply a habit.
His dynamic with her had become as much a part of his relationship with Clara as her brother, and he’d had every intention of it remaining that way forever.
As if the thought had conjured him, the final male member of their group entered the study. “I see you’ve all found my spirits,” Kempton said, though his small smile did not reach his eyes.
“Technically,” Hart replied, admiring the rich hue of the drink in his hand, “this belongs to your stepson.” Amelia’s son, Archie, had inherited the title of Earl of Coylton after his father’s death a few years earlier, and his mother continued to work as his guardian and steward until he came of age to fully inherit his role and responsibilities.
“But we are more than happy to appreciate its fine quality until he is old enough to do so,” Swanleigh chimed in.
Pearce eyed the hefty pour Kempton had served himself before he dropped onto the sofa beside Swanleigh.
While they were all an inseparable group and had been for many years, Pearce and Kempton had known one another the longest and were the closest. As such, Pearce was the only one privy to Kempton’s decision to avoid overindulgence of the drink.
He only imbibed on rare occasions. When he could not avoid it—such as a social situation or business transaction—he was careful to sip only a little.
Kempton must be truly upset if he intended to partake in so much.
Pearce experienced a stab of guilt over creating so much turmoil in his friend’s life, but he knew he was a man grown and he made his own decisions.
Kempton all but melted back into the overstuffed cushions, stretching his legs out before him toward the hearth and crossing them at the ankles.
The conversation stalled.
“Do not sew your lips shut on my behalf,” Kempton said before taking a healthy sip of his drink.
“Very well,” said Swanleigh, ever the easy talker. “We were discussing the beauty and merits of Pearce’s new bride-to-be.”
Dorian leveled an icy stare at him, and Hart, ever the charmer, piped up, “Clara is quite the toast of the ton. She’s come a long way from the girl we first met. She is far better than Pearce could’ve ever hoped for.” He finished with what was meant to be a placating smile.
The drink must have sufficiently loosened his tongue because, before he knew it, Pearce was saying something he’d never before said aloud—not even to his closest friends. “Seeing as how I’d never planned to marry, I’d never before considered what I desired in a bride.”
Hart tried to brush off his admission. “Haven’t we all said that at one time or another?”
“If I recall, you tried your damnedest to convince me to run away the first time Amelia and I were to walk down the aisle,” Kempton commented, narrowing his eyes at his friend.
“Then,” Hart continued pointedly, “we eventually come to terms with the reality that we must do our duty and continue our titles and bloodlines—”