Page 106

“That’s ridiculous. Ye’re ridiculous.” Despite this, Demon found himself turning reluctantly to his friend. Who admittedly, did know a thing or three about the fairer sex.

Thorne seemed to sense his surrender, if his grin was any indication. At least his goddamned jaw was bruised.

“Look, trust me, Demon. I ken a bit about women.”

“Georgia doesnae want a lion or a mountain.” She just wanted…

Demon’s eyes slowly widened.

She just wanted to belong. To be loved.

It was why she’d tried so hard to win her father’s approval. Why she’d sacrificed everything she was for her sister. Why she’d agreed to Demon’s horrible terms. Why she was willing to make her own bed and dust her own chambers.

And the fact she was afraid of not belonging, not being loved…

It was enough to make him want to break something. Preferably her father.

Blackrose had ceased to matter somewhere around the time he’d opened Georgia’s bedchamber to find her in so much pain. Now it was her. Only her.

Forever.

Thorne was watching him. “She loves ye, ye dumb bastard. Trust me on this. And if she loves ye, it’s because ye’re worthy of that love. Och, I cannae believe I'm sayin’ all this. Get that through yer thick head, aye?”

Demon swallowed.

She loves ye.

He hadn’t prayed in years, but suddenly found himself praying his friend was right. Praying Georgia hadn’t given up on what they’d shared.

Hadn’t given up on him.

“She told me she’d stand with me at that stupid ball,” Demon whispered.

It wasn’t until Thorne winced that he realized he’d said it out loud. “Ye’re a duke, Demon. Ye have to face the fookers sooner or later.”

Demon forced a wry grin—more of a grimace—and reached for the decanter. “I thought ye liked those fookers.”

“Society? I do. Some of them—”

Before Thorne could expound on exactly who he liked among the idiots who listened to men like Bonkinbone and Demon’s own mother, who should sweep into the room? The queen of Society herself.

“Darling, there you are! You’ve been hiding, you naughty boy!”

Demon concentrated on pouring the liquor. “Hello, Mother. I see ye’re still under the impression that feathers will be the next big fashion statement.”

She scowled and patted her turban. “They will be if I say they will be. How likely are you to agree to wear a few sewn across the shoulder seam of your jacket on Thursday evening? Something discreet in black, I’m thinking? Ostrich, if I can get them in time. Imagine how lovely and shiny they’d be—quite the statement at your introductory ball.”

Without looking up, Demon answered in the same tone. “I’d rather gouge out my own eyes. With a fork. So…slim to none.”

As Mother huffed in irritation, Thorne—who’d jumped to his feet, the clackdish—bowed over her hand. “Milady, I will have my tailor order a supply of feathers at once, for if ye say they’re to be the Next Big Thing, I’m certain they will.”

Simpering, Mother accepted his greeting and in turn kissed his cheek. “You’re a darling lad, Thorne, such a charmer. Still looking for widows for your bed?”

He winked. “Ye will be the first to hear when the position is available, milady.”

Imagining his mother engaging in an affair with one of his best friends, Demon threw up in his mouth a little bit.

“So, what are you two in here discuss—” She drew in a sharp breath. “Thorne, is that a bruise on your jaw? And your waistcoat is looking distinctly rumbled.” She turned on Demon. “Have you been beating up on my poor lad?”