When Harcourt threw down his cards, Griff shot him a look.

Harcourt glowered at him. “What is it?”

“You’re not even trying.” Griff gathered up the cards and his winnings and slid them back into his pocket.

“I am having a run of bad luck.”

Griff shook his head and signaled to the waiter with an empty glass. Two fresh brandies arrived promptly. Harcourt eyed the liquid then the now empty table. Griff was right of course. He had little interest in cards. He’d come to Boodles out of habit and what a pointless habit it was. If Merry were here she’d tell him to do something constructive like write a letter or read a new book. As far as he was concerned, he’d leave the books to her, but spending night after night in gentlemen’s clubs was growing thin.

Smoke clouded the air of the grand building, mingling with the scent of leather and whisky. Once upon a time, he’d loved nothing more than sitting in these clubs with his friends, drinking the night away and besting them all at poker or whist.

“I am merely contemplating my return to Dorset,” he explained. “My business here is settled.”

Griff made a dismissive noise. “What the devil will you do in Dorset for the summer? You cannot beat London for fine clubs and even finer women.” He leaned in. “Do not tell me a woman has turned you down and you are running away with your tail between your legs?”

Harcourt gave him a look. Everyone knew he had no problems with women, and he’d enjoyed the company of many a fine lady these past years. But, again, the endless stream of women in his bed had grown tiresome. They were strong, independent women who needed nothing more from him than a quick tumble, but since he had turned thirty, his desire for such dalliances had declined. He’d rather argue with a woman under a tree than bed a practical stranger again.

Michael Griffin, heir to the Dukedom of Harington, wouldn’t understand one jot. If Harcourt was considered a rake, who knew what Griff was? But with his father alive and kicking, Griff hardly felt the need to settle down any time soon, and Harcourt could not see him ever being tamed, even once marriage was needed.

“You need a new conquest,” Griff declared. He drained his drink and slammed the glass down. “Come on, Easton, there’s a party at Lady Seville’s. Let us go there and find you some company. That shall stir you out of...” He waved a hand. “Whatever this is.”

Harcourt threw back his brandy and pictured the party. There would be dancing and drink. Lots of young ladies vying for a husband, and a few widows or older women looking for an experienced lover who could fulfill the needs that their husbands neglected.

He shook his head. “I think I shall head home.”

“Lady Bambridge will be there.”

Harcourt scowled, trying to recall the lady. Glossy black hair and voluptuous figure came to mind.

“She has implied she wishes to spend time in your company again,” Griff confided, his brows wagging.

Shaking his head, Harcourt stood. “I think my bed is calling.”

His friend blinked at him. “Do I need to call a doctor?”

Harcourt chuckled. “Because I have turned down one ball?”

“Because you have not been the same roguish Harcourt I know for some time now. But this...this is even worse. Going to bed alone? You must be ill indeed.” Griff paused and frowned. “You’re not dying, are you?”

Harcourt chuckled. “No, I am not dying. I simply wish for my bed. But you enjoy the rest of your night. If Lady Bambridge is that keen for a lover, I’m sure you will do admirably.” He grinned. “Though she may find you a little disappointing compared to me.”

Griff snorted. “Unlikely.”

“Enjoy your evening.”

Harcourt collected his hat and gloves and left the smoke and whisky fumes behind. Not that the streets of London smelled much better. It used to be that he could not wait to draw in the smoky smell of Town as opposed to the clear air of Lulworth. After his education at Oxford, he’d spent as much time in London as possible, taking every advantage afforded to him. For almost a decade, he’d gambled, drank, danced, and bedded his way through Town.

He approached a hansom cab and instructed the driver to take him home. Once he climbed into the carriage, he tugged out his pocket watch. Ten o’clock. Early indeed for a gentleman about town. He didn’t regret calling it an early night, though. The sooner he went to bed, the sooner he could rise and quit London. The thought of fresh smelling air and grass beneath his feet appealed far more than sweaty bodies in a ballroom and warm punch.

He snapped the watch shut and shoved it back into his pocket. Of course, it was Merry that was the real appeal. He shouldn’t have left her. He’d thought perhaps giving her space would help and he did need to meet with his accountant—though of course the accountant was paid quite enough to come to him. Leaving her had been a mistake, he realized that now.

Just as he had realized many other things recently. Namely that he was getting too old to be a rake. His mother had been pestering him to settle down ever since he’d inherited his earldom eight years ago, but he’d had little interest in doing so. He had now come to understand it was because he had not found the right woman yet. Or to be more accurate, he had not appreciated that the right woman was there—right in front of him. The girl he’d come to consider a fine friend had become a remarkable young woman—and he was no longer interested in being a rake.

The carriage rolled to a halt and he pressed a hand to the door to steady himself. After paying the driver, he raced up the steps to the townhouse and barged inside. His valet attended to him quickly with a raise of a brow.

“You’re early, my lord.”

“Yes.” Harcourt glanced round the quiet entranceway as he shrugged off his jacket. “Are any of the maids still around?”

Harlow nodded. “If you are hungry—-”

He shook his head. “No, I need my belongings packed at once. We are leaving. Tonight.”

A crease marred Harlow’s forehead. “Tonight, my lord? But it is far too late to travel.”

“I wasn’t making a suggestion.”

A knock at the door preventing the valet from protesting further. Harcourt yanked open the door to find Griff on the doorstep.

“What the devil are you doing here?” asked Harcourt.

Griff grinned. “Coming to see what all the fuss is about?”

“Fuss?” Harcourt scowled and stepped back to allow his friend to enter. “Harlow, rouse the maids. I wish to leave now.”

Harlow stomped off upstairs, muttering about how the maids would have his balls for this. Harcourt turned his attention back to Griff.

“Did you not have a party to attend to?”

Griff gave a shrug. “I could do with a change of scenery. And I have a hankering to see what it is that draws you home with such haste. Especially when it has been occupying your attention for quite some time of late.”

“Dorset will bore you to tears.”

Griff leaned against the doorframe with practiced insouciance. With black hair and a profile ruined—or perhaps not in the eyes of many women—by a broken nose from his early years, Griff’s every move was practiced, carefully honed to ensure he had full impact. Why the devil the man felt the need to use it on him, Harcourt did not know. He’d known Griff almost as long as he’d known Merry’s brother, and he was no simpering virgin just begging to be seduced by the infamous Lord Michael Griffin.

“I have nothing to do so why not take the country air?”

“Griff.” Harcourt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have enough to do on the estate without worrying about entertaining you.”

Griff’s smile widened, a flash of white in the darkened corridor of the house. “I can entertain myself, I am sure. A bonny country lass would make a pleasant change.”

Curling a hand at his side, Harcourt forced himself to take a breath. Griff would not go near Merry if he told his friend of how he felt, but he’d be damned if he was willing to admit as much yet. The man would revel in it and most certainly get in the way. If he was to win Merry, he’d have to do it alone.

And after that kiss, he had no doubt she felt the same. Whether the stubborn Merry would be willing to admit as much, he did not know. But he’d felt it down to his soul and seen it in her eyes.

Perhaps now was not the best time, and he’d intended to give her more space to grieve—really he had—but staying away from her was eating away inside of him. He felt empty and hollow.

Footsteps and a few muttered curse words echoed around upstairs. With any luck, Harlow would have him packed and ready to leave within the hour. He could reach Dorset by dawn and see how Merry was after breakfast.

He glanced at Griff who remained against the doorframe with clearly little intention to move. Harcourt sighed.

“Fine, but if you cause any scandal, I shall disavow all knowledge of our friendship.”

Griff straightened. “Excellent. You need someone to keep you on the right path. Something odd is going on with you, Easton. I just know it.”

“If the right path means following in your footsteps, I am not at all sure I want to remain on it.”

Griff shook his head sadly. “See? This is what I mean? Once upon a time, you’d have been next to me on that path. Hell, sometimes you were ahead of me. Whatever has caused this change has something to do with that little village of yours and I intend to find out what it is.”

“Nothing has caused this change, Griff. It’s simply called growing up. You might like to try it some time.”

“Pfft. Never. I shall remain the same always.”

Harcourt chuckled. “We shall see.”