Everton kicked his blanket onto the floor and slid to a sitting position on his bed. He couldn’t go on living like this. He wasn’t even living. He gave a few women the chance to get what they wanted here and there, but other than that, he spent the rest of his waking hours trying to forget the past or figure out how to sleep.

He needed to talk to someone.

The fact that he had spent the last few years making certain no one would talk to him wouldn’t help. Everton had no close friends. Nelson was the closest thing he had to a confidante. Well, he and Mrs. Cuthbert, but Mrs. Cuthbert was more like a partner in crime than a friend. If he mentioned his reaction to Miss Barton last night, she would be scheming with the young lady herself to get him in front of a priest again. Mrs. Cuthbert acted as if she was sending him ladies to help them out, but he knew at least as strong a persuasion for her was to see a love match made for himself one day.

He needed to speak to someone who didn’t take life that seriously. A few of his past scandals came to mind. Lady Yolten wasn’t serious. She had been one of the more entertaining ladies he’d been involved with. But her husband, Lord Yolten—reasonable as he was—wouldn’t be happy to have him visit. He wouldn’t want word to get out that Lord Bryant had called on his wife.

So . . . no married ladies and no gentlemen. He didn’t make friends with men. Everything was always a competition with them, and frankly, he was simply too tired to deal with the crowing gentlemen of London.

There was really only one woman in London he might call a friend, and although she would certainly be surprised to see him, she would happily sit with him.

The Duchess of Harrington.

The Duchess of Harrington had visited his country estate with her husband—the duke—and their two children. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Rachel had been alive then, and he had hoped to impress his young wife with such noble friends. The duke and duchess had been a welcome respite at a time when Everton hardly dared to walk down corridors in his own house.

Once, two months into their marriage, he had come around a corner only to collide with Rachel. Her scream had echoed through the corridor and had brought a number of the staff rushing to them. She tried to laugh it off, but her hands were still shaking after explaining the matter to the housekeeper and maid. He was always careful to whistle or hum a tune when he walked in his home after that.

The Harringtons’ family visit was the one bright spot of his marriage, but when they left, Rachel sank deeper into herself, rarely emerging from her room, as if the task of entertaining had taken as much toll on her as an illness.