Free A Gentleman Says "I Do" by Amelia Grey Page A

I suggested he wait for you in the drawing room. I had a fire lit to take away the chill, and gave him a book and a drink.”
    “Good,” Iverson said, taking off his gloves.
    “Should I pour a glass for you?”
    “No need. I’ll do it.”
    “I asked Cook to set a place at the table for him just in case you asked him to stay for dinner.”
    “I’m sure he’ll stay if he doesn’t have other plans.”
    Wallace reached for Iverson’s gloves. “May I do anything else for you, sir?”
    “No, that will be all for now,” Iverson said and turned toward the drawing room. “I’ll call if I need you.”
    Matson had tried to dissuade Iverson from looking for Sir Phillip yesterday, even though he knew it was a lost cause. Iverson had to go. It was a matter of honor.
    It was bad enough Sir Phillip’s parody implied that his mother betrayed his father, the story also made it seem as if the twins in the story were oblivious to the fact that they looked so much like a well-respected man in town, and of course they weren’t. Talking about it—or worse, writing about it—only kept the gossip alive. He was damn ready to put the matter to rest for good. Iverson had to stop Sir Phillip, or he feared others would follow suit. He had to find the man and let him know he meant business, and as much as he hated the thought of it, if need be, in the same way he’d let Lord Waldo know his family was not to be discussed.
    Their older brother, Brent, had prepped them well for what to expect when they arrived in London, even thinking they might be outcasts in Society. But that couldn’t have been further from what happened. From the moment they’d arrived in London, the ton had welcomed them with open arms. They were invited to and even celebrated at party after party over the autumn and winter, but that didn’t mean people weren’t gossiping about them. They were. It was human nature. But most members of the ton respected their privacy and didn’t bring it up to Iverson and Matson. Not to their faces anyway. And now that the Season was only weeks away, the invitations to parties, balls, and high-stakes card games had already started stacking up on Iverson’s desk.
    When Iverson walked into the drawing room, his brother was sitting in a chair by the fire, sipping what looked like a glass of port.
    Matson rose quickly when he saw Iverson and said, “Damnation, Iverson, what are you thinking?”
    “About what?” he said and strode over to the side table behind the settee to pour himself a glass of the port Wallace left out for him.
    “Don’t play innocent with me.”
    Iverson grunted a laugh and said, “In that case, I won’t.”
    “Tell me what happened.”
    “I thought we had grown past telling each other our secrets, Brother.”
    “It’s not a secret if all of London is talking about it, and I sure as hell don’t like being the last one to hear about it. Now, I can either talk some sense into you, or knock some sense into your head right now, if need be.”
    “You choose,” Iverson said, completely unconcerned about his brother’s ire.
    “What you are doing is not acceptable.”
    Iverson had had enough of their tit for tat. “Look, Matson, I’ve had a hellish afternoon, so just get on with it and tell me what you are talking about, because I really have no idea.” Making sure he showed no signs of his injury, he walked over to Matson and, without asking, added a splash or two of port into his brother’s glass.
    “I’m talking about your courting Miss Crisp.”
    That brought Iverson up short. He frowned. “What are you talking about? I’m not courting Miss Crisp.”
    “According to several men at the club this afternoon, you are. They all but have you already publishing the banns.”
    “What the devil?” He might get a hitch in his breath every time he thought about her, but he wasn’t planning on marrying her.
    “The word is that you two were out for a cozy stroll when she ran into the street to save a