Page 43 of The Forsaken

In the end, Culross looked away first.

Kerr turned back to find the one responsible for Culross’s surrender and scowl.

A familiar, towering figure shrugged out of his great cloak and handed it to servant stationed at the entrance of White’s.

Kerr smiled.

His younger brother, Lord Greyhold had arrived.

Chapter 8

After Kerr’s father died, the viscountess remarried to the Marquess of Greyhold. From that, Kerr gained a brother in the marquess’s son. Where Kerr got his arse handed him for being a scraggy little fellow and a slow grower, Greyhold had been all legs, arms, and eventually muscle enough that by his entry to Eton, he went from tall, slender, sapling to thick mighty oak.

No one crossed Greyhold.

They wouldn’t dare.

The naval hero’s huge strides ate a swath so quick through the busy club, none of their trio had time to rise.

“Gentlemen,” Lord Greyhold greeted. He assessed the more than half-empty snifter and motioned to a server.

“Happy to have you,” Kerr took delight in saying and meaning it for a host of reasons.

“Speak for your bloody self,” Culross muttered.

“Ah, Culross. A pleasure. Tell me, how is the lovely Lady Culross?” Kerr’s brother timed his polite query with military-like precision.

The jealous husband surged forward just as a server arrived with a fresh glass, but Archdale’s heavy hand clamped over his volatile brother’s fist, forcing him to compose himself.

Greyhold grinned. In fairness, Greyhold was always smiling.

An unlikely feat for a man who’d served under Nelson at thirteen and went on to survive some of the bloodiest battles at sea. All that should have made Kerr’s younger brother the perfect stand-in for Culross’s quartermaster when Kerr’s injuries kept him from the sea. Greyhold stood in on the voyage that included the now Countess of Culross. Few could withstand Greyhold’s charm. On their shared voyage, Lady Culross had proven no exception.

“Control your brother,” Culross snapped after the servant left.

Kerr made no effort to hide his wide grin. “I can no more control this one than you can yours.”

The younger brothers tapped glasses.

“Laugh all you bloody want,” the earl warned, wagging his signet-wearing finger. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

They both knew that wasn’t true, since Kerr had no intention of marrying. Yet one of them, the sole starry-eyed husband among them, went soft and contradicted it in the very next breath: “Every bachelor swears off marriage.”

“Ah, but not every bachelor sports the scars I do.” For that very reason, he didn’t mind the marks he wore.

“Bah, the ladies love them,” his brother said. “Unfortunately, in my career, I wasn’t so generously compensated.”

Collectively, the three men booed and threw various gestures at a jovially laughing Greyhold.

Not every bachelor, however, heralded from a line of madness—nor were these the sort of thoughts he shared aloud. Friends, best friends, or brothers didn’t speak of such things. And so, he kept quiet, continuing the same guarded way he did with Culross, Archdale, and Greyhold.

Archdale thumped a fist on the table to quiet the rowdy group, wagged his eyebrows, and said, “Not all the ladies despise them—the wicked ones love them.”

He sipped his brandy and watched the younger brothers—who looked like university boys—bang the bottoms of their glasses on the table, failing to see Culross setting up a sudden, out-of-left-field checkmate until it was far too late.

“Well, that no longer holds. Not after the Dashing, Devilish Lord Kerr’s heroics.”

There it was.