you, Alex. Glad to know you don't hold what I've said against me, even if I do wish you had a bride hidden away somewhere," he answered gruffly, feeling genuine affection for the Marquis, who he looked upon almost as a son. "Ill be off then, and see you soon, I suspect. Dashed dull around here without your devilish tongue, Alex."
Lord Denet left the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairs until Lord Trevegne finally heard voices and the slamming of a door. He poured himself another brandy and stared morosely at the floral pattern on the Aubusson carpet beneath his feet His mouth was set in a grim line, his body as tense as a tightly-coiled spring. He would leave the following morning for the coast, and travel at his leisure. He was in no hurry—except maybe to leave London.
He had told George most of the truth. He was bored with London and the endless rounds of clubs and parties and balls, the same silly chatter and expressionless faces night after night. He felt the need to clear his mind of the fogginess caused by late nights of heavy drinking and gambling, to set himself free from the clinging, destructive tentacles of London society. He felt restless, as if something was missing from his life. He felt as if he were searching for something; but he wasn't quite sure what it was. Hell, all he really needed was to sort out his mind he was just drunk on the gay life here. What he needed was fresh, and clean spring water to wash away the bitterness.
He could achieve this out in the country where the unexpected could happen, challenging him to his fullest capabilities. He needed something to whet his appetite from the monotonous routine of town life.
Alex could feel his blood begin to surge as he thought of open country, the moors and jagged coastline of Cornwall, and Sheik, his big black Arabian stallion beneath him as they raced like the wind across the countryside.
"You're up shockingly early, old boy," a voice drawled from the doorway.
"I could say the same of you, Peter,” Lord Trevegne answered, casting a disapproving look over his young brother, who had quietly entered the room. "Where the blazes have you come from this early in the morning, looking like Hell itself?" Alex demanded as he watched his brother pour out a large brandy from his quickly depleting decanter.
Peter settled himself casually in an armchair, trying to appear calm, but failing to conceal his excitement from those golden eyes across the room.
"You might as well tell me, Peter, for I shall probably hear about it soon enough," he sighed in resignation.
"You'll never guess, Alex, but I beat Teddie's time by three minutes!" he exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement.
"Really," Alex drawled, "pray tell me at what? I'm no gypsy fortune teller."
"His time from Vauxhall Gardens to Regent's Park—and during the crush too! His blacks were no match for my bays. All he saw was my dust the whole distance. Never saw a madder look on a fellow's face. Of course he lost a bundle, I can tell you!" he stated smugly, smiling to himself as he took a large swig of his brandy, choking as it went down the wrong way, tears streaming from his eyes as he coughed.
Lord Trevegne slapped his brother hard on the back and smothered a grin as Peter straightened, wiping furtively at his eyes.
"There is no record to beat in finishing that brandy, my lad. And, it happens to be one of my finest, so do go easy on it, if not for your own sake, then for my injured senses as a gentleman, who deplores seeing his fine brandy tossed off like a tankard of ale."
"Your pardon, Alex, but I had a damnable thirst to quench and wasn't quite thinking." Peter said contritely, taking a small sip from the snifter as he tried to regain his composure. He stood up and walked over to the window and stared out at the park across the street. The sunlight filtering in played on his black hair, bringing out red highlights among the raven strands. He turned back and grinned
Lord Denet left the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairs until Lord Trevegne finally heard voices and the slamming of a door. He poured himself another brandy and stared morosely at the floral pattern on the Aubusson carpet beneath his feet His mouth was set in a grim line, his body as tense as a tightly-coiled spring. He would leave the following morning for the coast, and travel at his leisure. He was in no hurry—except maybe to leave London.
He had told George most of the truth. He was bored with London and the endless rounds of clubs and parties and balls, the same silly chatter and expressionless faces night after night. He felt the need to clear his mind of the fogginess caused by late nights of heavy drinking and gambling, to set himself free from the clinging, destructive tentacles of London society. He felt restless, as if something was missing from his life. He felt as if he were searching for something; but he wasn't quite sure what it was. Hell, all he really needed was to sort out his mind he was just drunk on the gay life here. What he needed was fresh, and clean spring water to wash away the bitterness.
He could achieve this out in the country where the unexpected could happen, challenging him to his fullest capabilities. He needed something to whet his appetite from the monotonous routine of town life.
Alex could feel his blood begin to surge as he thought of open country, the moors and jagged coastline of Cornwall, and Sheik, his big black Arabian stallion beneath him as they raced like the wind across the countryside.
"You're up shockingly early, old boy," a voice drawled from the doorway.
"I could say the same of you, Peter,” Lord Trevegne answered, casting a disapproving look over his young brother, who had quietly entered the room. "Where the blazes have you come from this early in the morning, looking like Hell itself?" Alex demanded as he watched his brother pour out a large brandy from his quickly depleting decanter.
Peter settled himself casually in an armchair, trying to appear calm, but failing to conceal his excitement from those golden eyes across the room.
"You might as well tell me, Peter, for I shall probably hear about it soon enough," he sighed in resignation.
"You'll never guess, Alex, but I beat Teddie's time by three minutes!" he exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement.
"Really," Alex drawled, "pray tell me at what? I'm no gypsy fortune teller."
"His time from Vauxhall Gardens to Regent's Park—and during the crush too! His blacks were no match for my bays. All he saw was my dust the whole distance. Never saw a madder look on a fellow's face. Of course he lost a bundle, I can tell you!" he stated smugly, smiling to himself as he took a large swig of his brandy, choking as it went down the wrong way, tears streaming from his eyes as he coughed.
Lord Trevegne slapped his brother hard on the back and smothered a grin as Peter straightened, wiping furtively at his eyes.
"There is no record to beat in finishing that brandy, my lad. And, it happens to be one of my finest, so do go easy on it, if not for your own sake, then for my injured senses as a gentleman, who deplores seeing his fine brandy tossed off like a tankard of ale."
"Your pardon, Alex, but I had a damnable thirst to quench and wasn't quite thinking." Peter said contritely, taking a small sip from the snifter as he tried to regain his composure. He stood up and walked over to the window and stared out at the park across the street. The sunlight filtering in played on his black hair, bringing out red highlights among the raven strands. He turned back and grinned
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