Sebastian Sinclair, Viscount of Allendale, was a man of many talents and a wild reputation, though at this precise moment, his greatest skill appeared to be whining.
He sprawled in his favorite armchair by the fire in his townhouse, one long leg draped over the other, his shirt untucked and cravat discarded, a sign of defeat. The fire crackled dutifully in the hearth, but its warmth did little to thaw the sourness settling in his stomach. The marriage mart was attempting to bring him to his knees.
"I'm telling you, Oliver," he grumbled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "They're like vultures. Vultures dressed in silk and lace, with marriage settlements clutched in their talons."
Across from him, Oliver Hastings, the second son of a duke and perpetual thorn in Sebastian's side, smirked over his own drink. "What a tragic existence you lead, my friend. Handsome, wealthy, and relentlessly pursued by the eligible daughters of the ton. However do you bear it?"
Sebastian shot him a dark look, but Oliver only laughed, leaning back in his chair with an air of lazy amusement. "Come now, Allendale. Surely you've had worse problems than too many pretty young ladies angling for your hand."
"You don't understand," Sebastian said, his tone edging dangerously close to a whine. "It isn't just the daughters. It's their mothers. They circle me at every ball, every soiree, every damned walk in the park. Do you know, Lady Fitzwilliam actually slipped a list of her daughter's accomplishments into my pocket last night?"
Oliver's laughter rang out. "What did it say? Needlework? Watercolors? The ability to faint on command?"
"I didn't read it," Sebastian muttered, draining his glass in one long swallow. "But I'm certain it would have included an estimation of her dowry. What she lacks in beauty and charm is being made up by her father's pockets."
"Well, that does seem practical," Oliver said cheerfully. "A man should know what he's getting into, after all. And if she is without something, it can all be fixed at the right price."
Sebastian groaned, leaning his head back against the chair. "And if that weren't enough, Diana has begun behaving as though she's a wife. The whole point of a mistress is to not be a wife, but she's turned into a nagging, dull creature. She's taken to rearranging the flowers in my . My , Oliver. A mistress shouldn't be in a . They should stay in the bedroom!"
Oliver raised a brow. "The flowers? Scandalous. Clearly, you have no choice but to flee the city at once."
Sebastian's scowl deepened. "Don't mock me. I'm serious. London is a battlefield, and I am but a weary soldier. I need…" He gestured vaguely, as if the answer were floating just beyond the reach of his fingertips. "An escape. An adventure. Something to remind me that I am more than a title and a fortune."
Oliver tilted his head, considering him with a smirk. "You could always stop galloping through Hyde Park like a madman or wagering enough at cards to draw notice. Or… and I'm just guessing here… stop making yourself into a replica of your father."
Sebastian's lips twitched. "My own mother already thinks I'm my father reincarnate. The rakehell reputation saves her the trouble of pretending otherwise."
Oliver shook his head. "But why take it so far? Surely the mamas of the ton have noticed your tendencies? Or do they imagine you'll reform the moment you're shackled to their darling daughters?"
"That," Sebastian said with a humorless laugh, "is the very problem. They don't care. I could gamble away the family fortune or break my neck jumping hedges, and they would still shove their daughters at me. The title, Oliver. That's all they see."
"Ah, yes. The mighty Viscount Allendale, irresistible to mothers and daughters alike. What a cross to bear," Oliver teased. "And yet, you've brought this on yourself. Surely you're not surprised they're willing to overlook your antics. They think they can tame you."
Sebastian threw a cushion at him, which Oliver dodged with practiced ease. "I'm not a beast to be tamed. Laugh all you want, but I mean it. I'm done with London. I'll leave before the week is out."
"Leave?" Oliver's skepticism was palpable. "And where would you go? A trek through the Scottish Highlands? A jaunt to Italy? Or perhaps you'll sail to the Americas and become a fur trader."
Sebastian scowled. "Anywhere but here."
"You wouldn't last a fortnight without your townhouse and your tailor," Oliver said with a grin. "You don't need to leave London. You just need a new mistress. One that doesn't touch your flowers."
Sebastian gave him a long look before muttering, "The flowers are not what she's supposed to be touching. But watch me Oliver." Even as he said it, he felt the weight of his own doubt. Would he really leave?
The fire crackled in the silence that followed, the warmth of the room doing little to ease the tension in Sebastian's shoulders. Finally, Oliver rose, clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder as he passed. "I look forward to your grand adventure, Allendale. Do send word if you find yourself in need of rescue."
Sebastian scowled but didn't reply, his gaze fixed on the fire. As Oliver's footsteps faded down the hall, Sebastian's mind turned over the possibilities. An escape, an adventure, it sounded tempting, but the reality of leaving was far more complicated. He had responsibilities to his fledgling charities, not that anyone knew about them. Maybe he was doomed to remain exactly where he was, a reluctant prize in the ton's relentless game of matchmaking.
He tipped his glass to his lips, the question burning as hot as the whiskey in his throat.