He had already forgotten the gentleman’s name. The man’s wife sat nearby on the sofa, her considerable frame rigid as a slat of wood. She wore an elaborate turban adorned in peacock feathers. She fanned herself impatiently with a colorful fan, fluttering the feathers.
Warrington’s wife had left her moments ago to see what was keeping the other ladies. The ladies being her sisters. Young, unattached females. The precise variety of female he avoided. Marriage-minded and inexperienced chits were vastly dull.
The turban-bedecked matron’s pinched lips proclaimed her unhappiness at being abandoned so early in the dinner party. She had clearly come here ready to socialize.
Kingston gave a slight shake of his head.
Not only had Warrington saddled himself with a wife, but he now found himself with two sisters-in-law and a brother-in-law away at school somewhere. All this he had gleaned upon his arrival. The newly minted Duchess of Warrington was quite forwarding with information.
It was difficult to imagine the once-hermit duke in such a domesticated situation. In addition to Warrington being burdened with a sudden family, he was now entertaining the local gentry—mind-numbingly tedious as they were.
It was hard to conceive. And yet Kingston’s eyes did not lie.
Warrington was here . . . sitting just across from him.
Kingston had been to his fair share of dinner parties—not all wonderful, of course, but his usual dinner parties did not consist of proper and decent and perfectly boring people such as those in attendance tonight.
He looked around the elegantly fashioned room with a suffering sigh.
There was indeed one thing worse than a dinner party of depraved and debauched individuals, and it was a dinner party full of good and proper members of Society. Quality people. Ugh. People like these. God save him.
Somehow his stepbrother had joined their ranks, as incredible and unlikely as that seemed. Somehow Warrington had become good and decent and . . . and boring.
He downed his drink, relishing the spicy, warm slide of bourbon, and then poured himself another.
He was in a bad place. He didn’t enjoy the company of his usual consorts and he didn’t enjoy the company of those fit for good society. Confusing, to say the least.
So where did that leave him?
The answer was glaring. Alone. It left him alone.
The idea had merit. Anything was better than this.
Clearly he needed to sequester himself away until he emerged from whatever tedium had seized him and he could return to his usual friends and his usual haunts and the usual him.
Him—Kingston, connoisseur of vices.
He fought back his internal cringe. This strange ennui that had taken over him was only temporary. He’d embrace his old ways in good time.
Except here he was, stuck now at this dinner party. Bored to the point of pain with no relief in sight. Bad decision on his part, to be certain. He would simply have to stomach it though.
The excessively purple gentleman stood in front of him drinking his fourth glass of whisky. He was listing sideways and looked as though he might topple over as he extolled his many connections in the Cotswalds. After having learned that Kingston had just come from there, the man was convinced that they must have mutual acquaintances.
“The Pringleys?” He stabbed a finger toward Kingston insistently. “Are you familiar with them? You must be for Mrs. Pringley is a cousin to Viscount Loughton.”
Kingston shook his head, eyeing the drawing room and all its occupants and wondering when they would finally go in to dinner. They had not even started supper and he was already desperate to escape—a fact that did not bode well for the remainder of the evening that stretched so very interminably.
“Now, Mrs. Pringley was quite taken with my wife.” He nodded across the drawing room, where his stern-faced wife sat. “Understandably so. Bettina has a way with people.”
Kingston glanced at her again. It was difficult to imagine that to be true. The woman wore a perpetual scowl quite at odds with her frivolous turban. She did not seem capable of smiling as she sat on the sofa, her mother, an elderly woman with nearly translucent skin who sat ensconced in a wooden wheelchair, parked beside her.
“People are drawn to Bettina,” Pembroke continued to boast. “They’ve great respect for her opinion on matters of housekeeping and gardening. She has impeccable taste and style, too. She gave Mrs. Pringley much sound advice on millinery, another subject she knows a great deal about . . . whilst we were on holiday there several years ago. They still correspond to this day.” He lifted his glass in the air and shook it for emphasis, whisky sloshing over the sides and dribbling down his fingers. “To. This. Day.”
Mrs. Pembroke was fussing with the cap upon her mother’s white hair as her husband extolled her virtues. The old woman stared vacantly ahead and Kingston couldn’t help but wonder if that was because her faculties were impaired or because she, like him, had gone mind dead.
“I can’t imagine what is keeping your betrothed,” Mr. Pembroke proclaimed loudly, looking at his son reproachfully, as though he were to blame for his betrothed’s tardiness.
Kingston had almost failed to notice the couple’s son.
Unlike his father, the young man was quiet, a wraithlike shadow where he sat in a corner, his slight hands gripping the arms of his chair.
“Where are the other ladies?” Mrs. Pembroke sniped as she finished fluffing her mother’s cap. “It’s quite, quite . . .” Her lips pressed tightly as though biting back an ugly descriptor. One of those ladies was the Duchess of Warrington, after all. It wouldn’t do to insult her hostess. She finally arrived at a suitable word. “It’s quite unusual of them to keep us waiting this long.”
Kingston’s lips twitched. It was almost amusing. The woman clearly wanted to call the duchess and her future daughter-in-law any number of less than flattering things for keeping her waiting, but she restrained herself.
“I’m certain they will be down soon,” Warrington replied, looking pained. Apparently he did not enjoy these people either. However, as one of his sisters-in-law was engaged to the Pembroke lad sitting mutely in the chair, the duke was stuck with their company.
Poor bastard. If Kingston actually liked his stepbrother he would feel sorry for him.
“Ah!” Warrington clapped his hands together in a gesture of resounding relief. “They’ve arrived.”
Everyone turned their attention to the doors to greet the ladies. Kingston fought down a heavy sigh, feeling none of Warrington’s relief as he prepared for the niceties of introductions.
He had no fondness for proper country misses, but he’d wear a smile and suffer through the evening. He might be a bastard, but he still found himself the target of matchmaking mamas. Hopefully the duchess’s sisters did not see him as a matrimonial candidate . . . and then he remembered.
At least one of them would not fawn over him.
She was already betrothed.
Chapter 3
Kingston had already met Warrington’s pretty wife upon his arrival, but this evening she truly looked the role of a noble duchess. With her golden tresses piled upon her head and attired in an evening gown of resplendent green, the duchess swept into the room even lovelier than when he had first clapped eyes on her.
He supposed if one had to marry, she was a fine choice—although Warrington was not a man who had to marry. It still made no sense to Kingston why he should have done so.