“You’re looking in the wrong spot, old friend. Allow me to direct you away from the virgins. The widows and bored wives are kept on the other side of the room.”

Rosse ignored the gentle ribbing and continued his perusal. “If you hadn’t told me yourself you intended to wed again, I wouldn’t have believed it. I suppose you’re doing it for Nick’s sake?”

Weston took two glasses of whiskey off the tray of a passing footman and handed one to his friend. “My son is part of the reason, my nursery another. It’s time I fill it.”

“Damned shame you didn’t marry Nick’s mother.”

The gray in Weston’s eyes turned to icy silver, but Rosse wasn’t daunted by the waves of almost palpable hostility that emanated from the man next to him; they’d been through too much together not to speak their minds in private.

“If you recall,” Weston said softly as he directed his gaze back toward the Amazon, “I was already married at the time.”

“Ah, yes. The lovely Elizabeth.”

Weston’s gut tightened, as it did every time her name was mentioned, his lips thinning into a cruel parody of a smile as he fought down waves of bitterness and deep pain. It never failed to surprise him that he could feel such pain; for the last five years it had been the only emotion that breached the icy numbness that was his constant companion. The lovely Elizabeth. By God, he would make sure his second wife was nothing like that cold, heartless bitch.

He surprised himself by putting his thoughts into words. “My next wife will be a quiet, unassuming, biddable woman who will not draw attention to herself or cause scandal. She will be pleased to stay in the country, take care of my son, and provide me with heirs.”

Harry smiled. “In other words, this paragon of virtue will be everything your first wife was not.”

Weston’s answering smile, icy as a fjord in February, matched the coldness he felt within. “Exactly.” Unbidden, his eyes wandered back to where the tall redheaded woman towered above the handful of dandies dancing attendance on her blond companion.

“Rosse, good to see you.” A deep voice rumbled behind the two men. Rosse and Weston turned to greet the Duke of Sunderland, but the greetings froze on their lips when the duke continued with a frosty, “I can’t say as much for your companion. Bad company you’re keeping, Rosse, bad company.”

Rosse stared after the retreating figure with an unhappy frown. “That was a direct cut, Noble.”

Weston tossed back his whiskey and nodded, rubbing his hands to warm then.

“It was indeed,” he answered, turning back to gaze across the ballroom.

“But damn it, man, it’s unfair! He’s your cousin! If you’d just let me speak about what happened that night—”

Weston made an abrupt movement. “It’s not important, Harry. Sunderland is a fool. I don’t particularly care what he thinks.”

“But—Noble, this is getting worse. You’ve been in town only a fortnight and already you’re being given the cut on the street, in your clubs, and now here! If you don’t take steps soon, you won’t be recognized in polite society.”