“That doesn’t bode well for you. Wycliffe was an ugly little man who used to scream about moral decency and the tender sensibilities of English womanhood in the House of Lords. Didn’t he try to introduce a bill to force the female aristocracy to take vows of chastity, order, and virtue?” He shuddered and grinned at Nicholas.
“Ugly men have ugly wives in my experience, and ugly daughters.” Wilton finished his drink and signaled for another. “Perhaps you’d better keep Angelique after all, if you can afford her.”
Now what would Wilton know about his financial affairs? Perhaps it was merely jealousy. It was well known that Wilton had banished his wife to the country, and spent his evenings in the lowest brothels in London.
Sebastian mistook his silence for an invitation to keep up Nicholas’s end of the conversation. “Not to worry, gentlemen. I know for a fact that Nicholas can bed anything, no matter how ugly. He once won a bet that he couldn’t keep it stiff long enough to—”
“St. James,” Nicholas murmured the warning. He’d come home from Spain to find dozens of such legends about him, none of them any truer than this one. He made it a policy to neither confirm nor deny what was said about him, but silence only seemed to make the rumors more prevalent, and infinitely wilder.
“Bedding an ugly wench once on a bet is one thing, but night after night until an heir is born?” Wilton grinned with delight. “You have my condolences.” He raised his brandy in salute and downed it at a gulp. His eyes narrowed when Nicholas didn’t join the toast. “But perhaps she’s not so bad. What is your bride like, Temberlay?”
Nicholas tightened his grip on his glass, let the cut crystal points dig into his flesh, but the anger remained. He did not want to be a duke, did not want to marry. He wondered if his grandmother had intentionally meant to make a fool of him in front of men like Howard and Wilton. “A woman like any other, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” Wilton prompted.
“All cats are black in the dark!” Sebastian chirped, and Nicholas sent him another quelling look, which Sebastian failed to heed. “It’s an arranged marriage, gentlemen. Nicholas’s grandmother wants a grandchild to dandle on her ancient knee before she turns her toes heavenward. Isn’t that so, Nick?”
Nicholas ignored him.
“Will she be attending Lady Melrose’s ball on Thursday?” Howard asked. “The entire ton will be there. It would be a good time to show her off, prove she isn’t hideous.”
“I won’t be going,” Nicholas replied.
Howard looked shocked. “You did receive an invitation, didn’t you? Surely your reputation is not so tarnished that—”
“It’s probably Miss Encore’s night off,” Sebastian said in a stage whisper that would have done Angelique proud.
Nicholas had had enough. He picked up his hat. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”
Sebastian was at his heels before he reached the curb. “You’re like a bear with a sore head! Are you unhappy with the match?”
“You know everyone in London. Who is she?” Nicholas asked.
“Who? Wycliffe’s daughter?” Sebastian frowned. “Never been seen in London as far as I know. They’ve been in mourning since the earl died last year.”
“They?”
Sebastian grinned. “I have two sisters, both notorious gossips. The earl has four daughters . . . or is it five?” He stroked his chin. “What was it Delphine said to Eleanor? They were laughing when they heard you were—” He winced. “Sorry, old man, but no one is talking of anything else.”