Pleasure for Pleasure

“It’s like those old games where there are two doors and one leads to a lion,” Berwick commented.

“I don’t see that,” Wisley said languidly. “My wife is no lion, and the Convent, while a perfectly respectable pub, is growing a bit monotonous.”

Darlington eyed Wisley. Unless he missed his guess, Wisley’s wife was drawing him away from the group. He knew perfectly well that she didn’t like him. Every time she saw him, her face took on a closed, calm look that spoke of deep hatred.

He should probably let Wisley go free, off to a life of mind-numbing domesticity.

“Well, I would never give up the Convent for a wife,” Thurman announced.

“Your wife, should you ever have one, will likely be paying a subsidy to the place to keep you occupied,” Berwick said acidly.

“My wife will madly adore me,” Thurman said, sounding truly huffy for the first time.

The worst was that Darlington could see that he believed it. What was he doing with a pack of fools like this?

Berwick shrugged. “’Tis a tedious subject, but I would warn you, Thurman, that in my experience the only women who engage in mad adoration—other than of themselves, of course—are invariably plain.”

“I could make any woman adore me!” Thurman said shrilly. “It’s all a matter of how you treat her.”

“But women are so monstrously attracted to beauty,” Berwick said.

Darlington thought he really ought to intervene. His carefully hewed little circle was disintegrating around him.

“Wicked women are,” Thurman said. “But good women, the ones one has to marry, those women are interested in commercial transactions.”

Darlington recognized that as something he’d said, once upon a time. “I prefer the wicked kind,” he said now. “They’re so much more interesting to talk to.”

“But you can’t marry someone who’s interesting to talk to,” Thurman pointed out, absolutely correctly. “And Darlington, you need to marry.”

Darlington sighed. It was wearisomely true. If only to stop his father’s imminent apoplexy.

Thurman never knew when to shut his mouth, and so he kept going. “I really thought you wouldn’t be invited tonight, and you know, if the Essex sisters shut you out, you’d have a demmed hard time finding your way back into society. Those women left Scotland, descended on England like a swarm of locusts and married every title on the market.”

Berwick frowned at him. “Keep your voice down. You’re at a wedding ball for one of them, you ass.”

“No one’s listening,” Thurman said, looking around. The ballroom at the Duke of Holbrook’s town house had ceilings so high that even the chatter of hundreds of overexcited members of the ton just floated upward and resulted in a pleasant buzz. The orchestra at one end sounded like the dim hum of caged bees.

“I suppose I should find a wife,” Darlington said, feeling ineffably depressed.

“I certainly mean to,” Thurman said. “I require beauty, a sufficient dowry, and a docile disposition. Oh, and an impeccable reputation. After all, I bring the same to her.”

“What a fortunate woman she will be,” Berwick said. “And you, Darlington? What will you require?”

“A sensible view of life,” Darlington said flatly. “That, and a great deal of money. I am very expensive.”

“Shall we meet in an hour or so and exchange notes?” Berwick said, something of a genuine smile lighting his eyes. “I must say that I am thoroughly amused.”

“Will you be looking for a wife as well?” Thurman demanded.

“I believe not,” Berwick replied. “I was on the edge of that decision, but luckily I have been delivered from penury in the nick of time. And everyone knows that penury is the final step before marriage.”

“So you got some money from somewhere, did you?” Thurman said. “Is that why you’ve been out of a town for a fortnight? Did your father die? Can’t say I heard that. And you’re not in black.”

“Tsk tsk,” Berwick said. “I do have a black armband, albeit edged in a charming shade of purple. My adored and loathsome Aunt Augusta succumbed to some sort of malady while in Bath. Naturally, she left all her money to her beloved nephew.”

Darlington felt even more depressed, but exerted himself to suitably compliment Berwick on the pleasures of financial stability. Unfortunately, there were no aunts, loathsome or adored, in his family tree. And even if there had been, he was the least likely to be chosen as an heir; his brothers were all eminently respectable in comparison.

Thurman’s little blue eyes were shining as he taxed Berwick about his income. Then Darlington noticed that at some point Wisley had slipped away without a good-bye, likely to his wife’s side. He wouldn’t come to the Convent that night, or ever again. Darlington knew that.

The days of the little circle of friends from Rugby were over. Wisley was gone. Berwick was rich, and Darlington couldn’t bear the idea of Berwick picking up a tavern bill. Thurman was a fool, but Berwick was not.

If he didn’t change his ways, he’d be left with Thurman to spout his own witticisms back at him, and reflect his bad temper.

Darlington shuddered faintly. “The search is on, gentlemen,” he said. “Wives.”

Thurman and Berwick stopped talking about canal stocks in mid-sentence. Berwick raised an eyebrow. “The season just grew far more interesting,” he said softly.

“I expect I’ll choose the right wife by the end of the evening,” Thurman said.

“It may take me slightly longer,” Darlington said. “I have such trouble choosing cravats some evenings. If I dread making mistakes in the selection of a pink versus yellow cravat, who knows how difficult it will be to choose a wife?”

“Wives are like cravats in that you must simply determine market value, and make your decision accordingly,” Berwick said. “There are only a handful who can support you in the manner to which you will rapidly become accustomed.”

“Damned if you aren’t going to be a magnate by the time you’re thirty if you keep being this intelligent, Berwick,” Thurman said.

Berwick smiled.

“You are a magnate!” Thurman gasped.

“Dear, dear Aunt Augusta,” Berwick said, his usual thin smile somewhat more vivid. “Apparently no one had any idea just how interested she was in all those northern industries. Why, she funded an entire coal mine. Said she liked the shiny black color of it.”

“My God, once that news leaks, you’re going to be the talk of the ton. Every mama’s dream,” Thurman said.

Darlington did what had to be done, what had to be done by any man whose friend has been suddenly elevated into the highest reaches of society, or at least as high as one can go without discovering nobility in the family tree. He slapped Berwick on the back, swallowed his rage. And then: “I have been thinking for some time that we have outgrown our little gatherings at the Convent.”

Thurman gaped at him and Berwick’s eyebrow shot into the air.

“The whole business of the Scottish Sausage is growing tedious. I’m having thoughts of morality, which just goes to show that I’m growing stupid in my old age.”