His Wicked Heart by Darcy Burke

jaws dropped, the murmur grew to a
buzz. Curiously, Jasper found he enjoyed doing the unexpected.
There was something freeing about indulging a bit of
recklessness.
    While Sevrin wove toward their table,
Penreith and Black leaned in.
    “What the devil are you doing?” Penreith
hissed, although why he tried to keep his voice low, Jasper
couldn’t countenance. As if Sevrin wasn’t wholly aware of his
reputation and the reaction Jasper’s invitation incited.
    “Sevrin’s a good sort.” Jasper stood as
Sevrin arrived.
    Black and Penreith leaned back in their
chairs.
    “Saxton,” Sevrin drawled.
    “Sit with us. Have a brandy.” Jasper gestured
to one of two empty chairs at the table.
    Sevrin and Jasper sat. A footman deposited
another glass. As the brandy was still closest to Black, Jasper
waited for him to pour. When he didn’t, Jasper snatched the bottle
up and took care of the service himself. He made a point of leaving
the brandy next to Sevrin’s glass.
    Sevrin held up his libation. “To
cordiality.”
    Jasper answered the toast, raising his
brandy. Penreith downed the contents of his glass without pause.
Black stared resolutely at the wall behind Jasper’s head, refusing
to acknowledge a toast had even been made.
    Jasper frowned against the rim of his glass.
His friends were behaving quite rudely. He drank and then replaced
his glass on the table. He wanted to knock their heads
together.
    “That a new mount I saw you on the other day
in the park, Black?” Sevrin asked, his joviality surprising in the
face of the other men’s contempt.
    “Indeed.”
    Normally, Black would have waxed poetic about
his newest horse. Jasper considered kicking him under the table.
Instead, he threw him a scathing look.
    “Don’t see you at White’s much, Sevrin,”
Penreith said.
    Sevrin shook his head, his mouth set into an
amused half-smile. “Usually too boring.”
    “For your ilk, I imagine so.”
    “What does that mean, his ‘ilk’?” Jasper
asked, purposely provoking Penreith. He and Black begrudged Sevrin
his membership rights because of the rumor that had tainted his
reputation. If not for Holborn’s interference ten years ago, Jasper
would’ve endured the same ignominy. It hardly seemed just.
    “You know, Saxton,” said Sevrin. “I typically
prefer livelier entertainment.” Though he was a noted libertine and
rakehell, Jasper had never seen him with a woman. Nor was he aware
of Sevrin participating in any orgies or other salacious
activities. In fact, outside of the fighting club, Jasper wasn’t at
all certain what Sevrin did with his time.
    Both Penreith and Black sat a bit straighter
in their chairs. Black lost his dark expression. Penreith gestured
to the brandy bottle with a questioning look. Sevrin answered by
pouring into Penreith’s glass.
    “Er, what sort of entertainment?” Black
asked.
    Jasper bit back a laugh. Their prurient
curiosity had gotten the best of them. Scoundrels. They were no
better than him or Sevrin.
    Sevrin arched a brow. “Parties and
establishments no one in Polite Society would dare frequent.”
    “Is it true…” Penreith licked his lips. “That
is, do you really have your own suite at the Red Door?”
    Sevrin lifted his glass, his lips twitching.
“I’ll never tell.”
    Suddenly, the air at the table seemed to
loosen. Or perhaps it was simply the sticks falling out of
Penreith’s and Black’s arses.
    Another hush descended upon the room. A hasty
beat of silence that heralded the arrival of a Terribly Important
Person. Jasper’s neck prickled. The duke.
    Holborn’s icy gaze surveyed the room quickly.
He located Jasper, taking in his tablemates—or rather, just one
tablemate in particular—and his mouth pulled down into a severe
frown. He made his way toward them with the elegant grace of a cat
on the prowl, instead of the aging gait of a man of four and fifty.
Though his blond hair was liberally shot with silver and his frame
wasn’t as powerful as in his