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P atrick rolled his eyes as Stephen mimicked Mr. Gibson’s lisping drawl into his ear as they entered the Coulter box.

“’Tith thorely a beatific day, my lordths.”

“’Tis a most unbecoming trait to find fault in others when your own are so vast,” Patrick said, searching the other boxes and fooling himself thinking he was looking for anyone but her. He instantly stopped and focused on his friend.

Is she here tonight?

“I’m not sure why my mother insists on a friendship with that man,” Stephen said. “Gibson is an idiot.”

“Just like her son,” Patrick said.

“Is there a reason you’re in an even fouler mood than normal?”

“I’m not in a foul mood,” Patrick lied.

Patrick liked facts. When making a decision, he collected them and then formed an opinion or direction—whatever was needed. The countess was a conundrum he couldn’t fathom. But one thing he did know was he wanted her badly. She was a fever in his blood.

“Gibson is a blithering idiot.” Stephen fell into the seat beside him, adjusting his necktie. “Did you see what he was wearing?”

“Yes, he is surely color-blind,” Patrick said absently, his mind still on the countess. Where the hell is she? He knew for certain she was to attend the theatre tonight. Lady Carstairs had told him.

“You’d think his friends or my mother would tell him that he is making a cake of himself.”

“Friends?” Patrick queried.

Stephen snorted. “True, Brownleigh and Dapples are complete fools, both struggling to form a single working brain between them.”

“Well,” Patrick drawled, still looking around the boxes, “I am not always honest with you.”

“What?”

Patrick hid his smile at Stephen’s question. It came as naturally as breathing to both men, this constant ribbing of each other, even if his mind was elsewhere.

“I have never dressed in anything other than sartorial elegance,” Stephen declared, looking down at his midnight jacket with matching midnight-and-burgundy waistcoat.

“As you say” was all Patrick said, but it was enough.

“At least I do not dress as though I am in a constant state of mourning.”

“I dress conservatively, Sumner. Unlike you, I have no driving need to be the focus of all attention.”

“Conservatively? Old Squire Pillsbury has more flair than you, and he’s eighty.”

Noting a flurry of activity to his left, Patrick said, “Your sisters are waving to you.”

Stephen groaned, slumping deeper into his seat. Patrick made a cluck like a chicken.

“Must they constantly make a spectacle of me and them?”

“If you had no family, you would have reason to moan,” Patrick added. “You are lucky to be so loved, considering how unlovable you actually are.”

“I know how lucky I am, Colt, but why do they have to mess me up so much?” he muttered, patting down his hair.

“Because they love you,” he added.

Stephen sighed as one of his sisters blew a kiss at him.

As the play started then, Patrick could focus on the stage and stop looking for Sophie.

“To the right,” Stephen said.

“What?”

“Look right, three boxes along.”

He did as Stephen said and saw her. Sophie was seated beside Mr. Tilton. She was smiling at something the man said.

“The countess is a beautiful woman, and Tilton has clearly noticed that. He’s a good man and has money too. He’d never hurt her. Overly enthusiastic sometimes but harmless.”

“I know,” Patrick said, dragging his eyes from Sophie. She was smiling, and he hated the sting of jealousy that she wasn’t smiling at him. “I have no problem with Tilton.”

He was in so much trouble.

“Good. Considering that little chat we had in your study about watching over her, I thought I’d reassure you she’s in safe hands.”

He didn’t want her in anyone’s hands but his.

“Just make sure you leave his thumb and forefinger unbroken. A nobleman must be able to sign his papers and drink his libations, Colt,” Stephen drawled. “If jealousy gets the better of you, I mean.”

“Be quiet or I will make you, Stephen.”

Thankfully, his friend did shut up, which left Patrick looking at the stage and the countess out the corner of his eye.