Chapter 4
THEO
Dinner was an exceedingly lavish—and exceedingly dull—affair.
Hewitt’s footmen, all done up in matching livery, brought out vast quantities of food for the guests. Everything was of the very best quality and served on the finest porcelain and silverware.
Theo was seated midway down the long table, between a great-aunt of the bride-to-be’s, who didn’t contribute a word to the conversation but spent the whole dinner smiling beatifically at every word her neighbours said, and a garrulous young matron who twittered endlessly about the social events she had attended this season.
By the time the footmen were clearing away the last of the dessert course, hours had passed, but soon, hopefully, the ladies would rise for tea in the drawing room while the gentlemen took their port.
That was the point at which Theo intended to make his excuses and leave for somewhere considerably more entertaining.
Annoyingly, even as he dreamed of his imminent escape, his gaze kept wandering back to George Asquith who was seated at the top of the table beside Mr. Hewitt, a place of honour that Fletch’s mother should rightfully have had.
Theo glanced at Lady Fletcher who was sitting two places further down from George, her slightly receding chin held high, thin lips pressed together in a disapproving line.
She looked as though she didn’t know whether she should be more offended at being usurped or relieved at not having to make conversation all evening with a man she clearly considered her inferior.
For his part, Hewitt seemed happily oblivious to her displeasure.
He was in his element, monopolising George, who was, of course, listening politely as the man talked, and talked, and talked his ear off.
Poor George, Theo thought, biting back a rueful smile.
It seemed he was still as absurdly well-mannered as he'd been at school. In that respect, he hadn’t changed a bit, though he had certainly done so physically.
At school, he’d been tall and slender, but he’d filled out since then.
His frame was still lean, but his shoulders were broader now.
And his face, which had been all soft doe eyes and delicate features, was more masculine, with high cheekbones and a firm chin.
But there was still something about it that was a little uncertain, a little wary.
All in all, George struck as Theo as being even more reserved than he used to be, and he'd never been what one would call outgoing. Now, though, his expression was positively guarded, and his smile did not quite reach his eyes. Earlier in the evening, the talkative young matron beside Theo had confided that she’d been introduced to George before dinner and had found him “very stiff and proud-seeming”.
Theo had been surprised. It hadn’t sounded like the boy he remembered from their schooldays, but now, having watched him throughout dinner, he could see how some might interpret his careful, reserved expression as haughty.
And then there was the fact that, when their gazes had met earlier, George hadn’t even offered Theo so much as a nod.
Was it possible he had changed?
There were some things about him that were definitely unchanged. His eyes were still unfathomably dark and absurdly long-lashed. And his mouth was as soft and full as it had ever been. His mouth was… well, on another man, it might be considered wicked.
Realising he was staring, Theo hastily returned his gaze to his table companions.
The elderly lady was beaming and nodding at her other neighbour while the young matron waxed lyrical about some ball she’d attended a few evenings before.
Theo tried to feign interest in what she was saying, but it was only a minute or two before his gaze wandered back to George again.
Hewitt was still talking. Had he stopped even for a moment since they sat down?
Poor George was beginning to look a little worn around the edges, casting a glance around the dining room, as though searching for a way out.
His gaze paused on an oblivious Fletch for several long moments before he reluctantly returned his attention to Hewitt.
As though Fletch would be of any help, even if he had noticed George’s pleading look.
It was quite obvious George had been served up as a sacrificial lamb to the overbearing and ambitious Mr. Hewitt this evening.
There would be no rescue coming his way any time soon, not when Hewitt was so thoroughly enjoying himself.
Theo found it oddly irritating that George’s gaze had gone straight to Fletch, particularly when George didn’t even seem to have noticed that Theo was here.
Was it possible George hadn't recognised him, he wondered? Was that why he hadn’t returned Theo’s nod?
It seemed unlikely. Theo remembered the longing looks George used to send his way at school, and then there had been all those summers he’d spent dogging Theo’s heels around Dinsford Park.
Theo had been very aware of George’s hero worship back then.
He hadn’t encouraged it, but he hadn’t discouraged it either.
He’d mostly pretended not to notice, deciding that, if George Asquith was going to be sweet on someone, it may as well be him, since he wouldn’t get annoyed about it.
When George had first arrived at St. Dominic’s, he’d been a little older than new boys usually were.
Rather more sensitive too. He’d quickly found a friend in Fletch, but Fletch hadn’t done much to coax George out of his shell.
Instead, he’d monopolised George jealously.
And later, he hadn’t liked it when Theo encouraged George to make friends with the other boys.
Fletch hadn’t wanted to share George’s attention with anyone, and George had tended to give way to his wishes.
Except when his helpless gaze followed Theo.
As the years passed, Theo had begun to wonder whether George and Fletch were more to one another than merely friends.
And then, during that last summer at Dinsford Park, he’d come upon them behind the stables, kissing one another.
George with his back to the wall, and Ollie pressed up against him, greedy hands moving under George’s loosened shirt.
“What in God’s name?”
Theo grimaced inwardly at the memory of his own half-shouted words. When George and Fletch had broken apart, and George had jerked his head towards Theo, his soft brown gaze had been utterly horrified.
It was, unfortunately, the last time they’d seen one another.
That same day, Theo and Piers—both recently turned eighteen—had gone off to the local fair where they’d drunk far too much cider before heading off on a near-week-long adventure.
By the time they dragged themselves back to Dinsford Park, George had returned to his family estate in Wiltshire, and Fletch was recovering in his bedchamber.
No one had spoken of what had caused Sir Joseph to lose his temper so badly one day that he’d thrashed his own son like a dog.
But Theo had always suspected the man had found out what was going on between Fletch and George.
As for Piers, he’d been cheerfully oblivious, entirely caught up in thoughts of Bessie Brownlie, the buxom village girl who worked at the local inn.
“—and of course we’re always looking for more gentlemen, Mr. Caldwell. If you’d be interested?” The sound of his name jerked him out of his thoughts.
He blinked and focused his attention back on the young matron who was looking at him expectantly, frantically searching his mind for a form of words that would not betray the fact that he hadn’t been listening.
Fortunately, he was saved from the necessity of saying anything at all by the tinkling sound of a silver spoon tapping the side of a glass, a sign for the ladies to withdraw for tea while the gentlemen had their port.
Moments after the ladies departed, several footmen swept back in to set down crystal decanters of port.
Several of the gentlemen took the opportunity to stand and change their seats, while others struck up conversations with their neighbours.
This, finally, was Theo’s chance to make an early departure, but he found himself lingering, casting his gaze again up the table to where George Asquith sat, still being talked at by Mr. Hewitt.
While Theo was dithering, Piers appeared at his elbow and settled into the empty seat beside him. “Still awake, old man?” he teased. “The last time I looked your way, I thought you were going to fall asleep into your syllabub.”
“I’ve been bored to death for the last few hours,” Theo admitted. “I plan to leave now while I have the chance. Once we rejoin the ladies, there’ll be no escape for hours.”
Piers groaned. “Please don’t go. I’ll be stuck here all night. Apparently, they’ve cleared some huge reception room and plan to have some dancing later—can you believe the size of this house?”
Theo grimaced. “If that’s the plan, I’m definitely leaving.” He paused, adding casually, “I should take my leave of Hewitt, I suppose.”
Piers sighed. “I suppose you should,” he said. “But I’m not sure he’ll notice. He’s only got eyes for Gracie tonight.”
Theo scowled at Piers’s use of the stupid nickname George had been cursed with at school.
“You shouldn’t call him that,” he said. “You know he hated it.” Fletch was the one who’d come up with the name.
It was a nod to George’s status, of course—that one day he would be Your grace—but that wasn’t the thing that made the other boys laugh.
They’d laughed because the name was feminine and fussy, and George had been a little fussy too—a neat, soft, virtuous boy who always tried to do as Matron said and not get his clothes dirty when they played games.
“What’s wrong with it?” Piers demanded, seeming genuinely bewildered. “It’s just a nickname. Dukes are allowed to have nicknames, you know.”
Theo didn’t bother to answer that. He wasn’t in the mood. Throwing back his port, he stood. “I’m off,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the church.”
He left Piers, still grumbling, and strode to the top of the table, where Mr. Hewitt and George were sitting.
George was the first to look up when Theo reached them and his expression was unmistakably cool. Politely unfriendly.
What on earth?
Hewitt gestured to the empty chair on his other side, “Ah, Mr. Caldwell, do join us.”
Theo forced a polite smile. “Thank you, but I’ve actually come to say my farewells.”
“So soon?” Hewitt said, raising his brows. “I’m sure the ladies will be very disappointed to be deprived of the opportunity of dancing with you.”
“If that is true—and I’m sure it is not—I am doing them a great favour as their tender feet will be spared from being trod upon.” He offered a rueful smile. “I’m afraid I am no dancer.”
Hewitt laughed. “In truth, you are a man after my own heart, Caldwell,” he said.
“I detest dancing. Of course, if my other daughters were old enough to attend this evening, I would probably insist you stay to dance with them, but since they are little maids still, and far too young to be thinking of dancing with gentlemen, I will let you off.” He winked then, a roguish look in his eye.
“I must ask, though, are you leaving because you have”—he raised a suggestive brow—“another lady to visit this evening?”
Theo forced himself to grin. “It would not be gentlemanly to say,” he said, but he winked, and Hewitt laughed uproariously.
George did not. He still wore that cool, reserved expression.
“Good evening, Sherrington,” Theo said. “It’s been a long while since last I saw you. You look to be in good health, I must say.”
“It has been a while,” George agreed, politely. “Near enough ten years—I haven’t seen you since you left St. Dominic’s, and I don’t think we’ve ever encountered one another in town?” He paused, then added diffidently, “Not that I come to London so very often.”
“Probably more often than I do,” Theo replied, offering a rueful grin. “I am not one for society events.”
George’s expression did not warm. “You prefer the country?”
“I prefer adventure,” Theo replied. “I only recently returned from the Continent."
“That doesn’t surprise me,” George admitted. “You always wanted to go exploring when we were at Dinsford Park.” He was not smiling, and Theo wondered why he was being so cold. Was the young matron right about George after all? Had he changed so much since his schooldays?
Theo glanced at Hewitt who was watching their interaction with unabashed curiosity. “I take it you two are acquainted?”
George cleared his throat. “We were at the same school—myself, Mr. Caldwell, and Oliver and Piers Fletcher. Caldwell and I often visited Dinsford Park at the same time over the summer.”
Hewitt gave a genial chuckle. “I’m sure you got up to all sorts of mischief when you were there. I expect you had Sir Joseph tearing his hair out from time to time.”
George gave a small, tight smile in response, neither confirming nor denying Hewitt’s speculation.
“Well, Mr. Hewitt,” Theo said, in a tone that he hoped indicated a change of subject. “I really must be going. Thank you for your hospitality this evening. I think you must have the best cook in England.”
Hewitt looked gratified by the compliment. “Given the outrageous salary I’m paying Monsieur Fournier, I should hope so.”
Turning back to George, Theo added, “I’m sorry we’ve not had a chance to speak this evening. Hopefully we can do so tomorrow?”
“Indeed,” George replied, not quite meeting Theo’s gaze. Theo had to fight the urge to scowl. Had he offended George with his easy manner? Or was this something else? Lingering mortification over their last encounter?
Annoyed now, he returned his attention to Hewitt, who was lifting his glass in salute.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Caldwell," the man said, grinning. “And remember, once you are wed, there will be no more pleasures of the sort you’re about to indulge in, so make the most of it while you may.”
“And that, Mr. Hewitt,” Theo replied, “is exactly why I plan never to marry.”