Betina Krahn Read Online Free PDF

it was precisely that promise of license which had brought the well-heeled and controversial earl here this night. He was seeking a uniquely male preserve, a place where men could still exist in all their raw, uncomplicated splendor, a place where the wretched rules of duty, obligation, and above all,
domesticity
, held no sway.
    The brandy carried a splendid burn and filled his head with exquisite vapors, which slowly unwound the coil of tension in the middle of him. As he closed his eyes and paid proper respect to a second brandy, the rigid angle of his shoulders softened, and the muscles outlined in his jaw smoothed. The smells of smoke and hard liquor, the droneof male voices, and the familiar surroundings worked a subtle magic on his senses. He took a deep, liberating breath and felt his internal balance tilting back to equilibrium, unaware that he had collected the stares of a half-dozen men seated just behind him.
    “I say—Landon!”
    He looked up to find Carter Woolworth, eldest son of the old Duke of Eppingham, approaching with a drink-ruddy face and a hearty smile. Remington straightened and accepted his outstretched hand. “Woolworth. It’s been a while.”
    “Too long. But then, when a man goes into the marital harness, he usually finds himself pulling on a very different course from his old school chums,” Woolworth said. “Look who’s here: remember Albert Everstone and Henry Peckenpaugh … ahead of us at Harrow?” He gestured to a group in the corner. “And Richard Searle and Basil Trueblood, they were behind us. And Bertrand Howard there, somewhat younger still. Come join us, Landon. I believe you’ll find the company and the conversation most … intriguing.”
    Remington considered it as he glanced at the men who sat poised on the edge of their chairs watching him with undisguised expectation. Something in their urgent desire for his companionship did indeed intrigue him. When Carter Woolworth clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the group, he allowed himself to be drawn into their company.
    One of the group quickly gave up his seat to Remington and went in search of another. From the moment he eased into the leather-clad chair and saw them inching their seats closer, he knew that they wanted something from him. But he was not at all prepared for the subject of their entreaty.
    “Bertrand Howard here,” Woolworth announced, “is being married on the morrow.” He gave the groom a sympatheticclap on the back. “We’re here to give him a final send-off.”
    “Condolences.” Remington lifted his glass, wincing at the snared-rabbit look in the groom’s eyes.
    “Indeed. And all the more so because”—Woolworth leaned closer and the others followed suit—“
it was not his idea.
”
    “Well, I should hope not,” Remington said, his mouth curling up on one side as he scrutinized the poor wretch who was about to enter a life of matrimonial servitude. “He looks like a fellow with at least a modicum of common sense.” He also looked like a Newgate convict approaching the gallows.
    “His dismal fate was engineered by a contriving and unscrupulous woman, you see … one Lady Antonia Paxton of Piccadilly,” Richard Searle announced, watching him for a reaction. When there was none, he added: “The fire-breathing Dragon of Decency.”
    “The Medusa of Matrimony,” Albert Everstone put in bitterly. “So called because one glimpse of her face turns a man into a husband.”
    “Especially if that man happens to be sitting buck naked in a woman’s bed,” Henry Peckenpaugh put in, and the rest grumbled agreement.
    “She’s got a heathen and malicious mind, that woman,” Woolworth said, drawing Remington’s gaze back to him. “Sets her treacherous hooks for well-fixed men, baits them with curvy widows”—he made casting and reeling motions—“and then pulls in her hapless victims, smooth as silk.”
    “And there’s naught a bloke can do, once he’s caught in one