“I came prepared.”
“You usually do.”
“I learned long ago that if I intend to spend an evening with you, alcohol is a necessity.”
Hector snorted. “I hardly drink.”
“No.” Ambrose poured them each another measure. “You simply stare into one glass for an hour while pretending you’re solving Britain’s problems.”
“I’ve never pretended any such thing.”
“You don’t have to pretend.” Ambrose slid the fresh glass toward him. “You wear responsibility like an old military coat.”
Hector accepted the drink with a resigned sigh.
They drank in companionable silence for a minute, the crackling fire filling the pauses without making them uncomfortable. It had always been that way between them. They hadmet as boys at Cambridge, when Ambrose had decided the perpetually serious Hector Lockwood needed rescuing from his own solitude. Somehow, despite Hector’s repeated attempts to discourage him, Ambrose had remained.
He had never left.
“Are we going to talk about Lady Jane?” Ambrose asked.
Hector’s eyes remained on the fire. “I expected that subject to arise eventually.”
“I nearly brought it up before the soup.”
“You displayed remarkable restraint.”
“I was distracted by the pheasant.”
Hector huffed a quiet laugh. “You truly are hopeless.”
“I prefer optimistic.”
Ambrose leaned back comfortably. “So…”
“So what?”
“Lady Jane.”
Hector pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew you wouldn’t let the matter go.”
“We’ve barely begun.” Ambrose had a wicked gleam of delight in his eyes.
“There is nothing to discuss,” Hector insisted.
“There rarely is, until there suddenly is.”
Hector took another swallow of whiskey. His thoughts drifted to his lessons with her, the way she listened to everything he said, and adapted his teachings to fit what she could do.
It should have pleased him that she was doing so well.
“You have that look on your face. Do you disapprove of her for some reason?”
Hector looked up. “I never said that.”
“You are frowning as if you cannot stand the thought of her.”
“I am doing no such thing.”