Page 58 of His Stolen Duchess

“How are you doing, old chap?” Thomas asked as Lysander approached. “A pleasure to see you out amongst the living.”

“I thought it was time I reminded society I still exist,” Lysander replied dryly. He extended his hand, and Thomas shook it with enthusiasm. “Are you hunting tonight? Or merely grazing?”

Thomas gave a careless shrug. “Why restrict oneself to a single bloom when the garden is so bountiful? The room is thick with eligible—and charmingly ineligible—women. I may sample a few of both.”

“I won’t come running when you land yourself in a scandal with the latter,” Lysander warned, lifting a glass of cognac to his lips.

“Pity. I always thought of us as a team.”

“You’ve always formed a team of one and hoped I’d come to the rescue.”

“And you always did,” Thomas said, grinning unrepentantly. “Admit it. You’ve missed me.”

Lysander said nothing and sipped his cognac, finding it to be a marked improvement over the champagne.

“You’re not alone these days,” Thomas went on. “You, your lady wife, and of course, that infernal bird. A proper trio.”

“The less said about the parrot, the better,” Lysander muttered. “Still, when he’s caged, he’s tolerable. And he now has two separate residences, one for each city.”

“Most gentlemen dream of two homes for a mistress, not a bird,” Thomas quipped. “But what of the Duchess? Is she as unruly as the bird?”

“She has the capacity to be,” Lysander said, glancing over at the room’s far edge, scanning the guests. “But she exercises restraint.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

“What?”

“That look. You were scanning the crowd for her just now. There was something in your expression. I daresay you’re fond of the woman.”

“You make a poor psychic, my friend. I was making sure she hadn’t wandered into mischief. That was all.”

“Of course,” Thomas said. “And when you were out there dancing with her? The way you looked at her?—”

“Do you have nothing better to do than watch me?” Lysander interrupted. “Weren’t you meant to be charming women? Surely I’m far less entertaining.”

Thomas smirked. “You’re dancing around the question as gracefully as you did around the ballroom. Why not admit it? You enjoy her company.”

“You’ve become extravagantly metaphorical,” Lysander said. “And poorly dressed.”

“Unkindandevasive. My heart wounds afresh.” Thomas clutched his chest theatrically, then dropped his hand. “But in all seriousness, is it so terrible to admit that your wife pleases you?”

“She serves her purpose,” Lysander said evenly.

Thomas tilted his head. “A purpose that makes you stare across a crowded room, searching for her face.”

“I said I wasn’t teasing anymore,” Thomas added with mock solemnity. “But I wasn’t the only one watching. Others have also taken notice. The whispers are already circulating.”

Lysander frowned. “Whispers?”

“About the suddenness of your courtship. About Lord Abbington.”

Lysander’s jaw tensed. “Why must people fabricate stories when they know nothing of the truth?”

“Because gossip is more diverting than facts,” Thomas said. “And because, unlike you, most people prefer to dissect other lives rather than reflect on their own. If they were half as self-aware as I am, they’d be much happier.”

Lysander didn’t answer. His gaze swept the ballroom once more, passing over Lady Isabella and Lady Beatrice deep in conversation with a pair of young men.

But Georgina was nowhere in sight.