Edward and Peter waited with him, but Martin had closed himself up in the library with another bottle of brandy, and Brett hoped he would stay there. As Feathers had so succinctly put it, “You shouldn’t have to speak to a cheater, but you can’t ignore the damned fellow when you’re his guest.” “I can and most certainly shall,” Edward had declared quite positively, but Brett was inclined to agree with Feathers, and he began to tap his foot impatiently, wanting to be gone. “Could you still your foot?” Edward complained with more than usual sharpness. “My much-abused head transforms each dulcet tone into a clap of thunder which threatens to deprive me of sight.” Brett complied with ill grace. His own head throbbed painfully, and his determination to leave at first light meant he would spend the greater part of the day in a swaying coach rather than a comfortable bed. He found himself trying not to blame Kate for his discomfort, not his usual response to a beautiful girl, but the contemplation of the pleasure her body could afford caused the blood to pound in his achingly sensitive temples and increase his agony twofold.
