Ian felt yet another cold slither of misgiving in his vitals. “Than Mary Fran
The baby let out a tiny, peaceful sigh, making Ian and his wife momentarily pause to behold their son. For no reason at all, Ian kissed his wife’s cheek.
“Fiona is a child,” Ian said. “All she knows is her mother was always preoccupied with household matters at Balfour, then Mary Fran became enthralled with Matthew. Of course Fee appreciates an adult spending time with her.”
Augusta busied herself cuddling the baby close. “And now her mama and step-papa are off on an extended honeymoon, and Hester has come to the Highlands to mend a broken heart. She and Fee are thick as thieves, Husband. This cannot end well, not for Hester, and not for Fiona.”
Ian wanted to argue; he wanted to soothe and reason and offer the comfort of superior male wisdom, though he was nearly certain Augusta had the right of things. He also wanted to beat Spathfoy within an inch of the damned English border.
He settled for tucking his wife closer and drawing the blankets a little more securely around their son.
Hale Flynn, ninth Marquess of Quinworth, took his brandy to the balcony of his private sitting room. In the west, the sun was taking its damned time to sink below the surrounding green hills, but to the east, the comfort of night was making an approach.
He sank into a chair, set his brandy aside, and withdrew the letter from his pocket.
Nights were no better really, though when the sun rose, he could ride out over the vast Quinworth acreage and at least find a few hours’ enjoyment at the start of his day.
He didn’t need to read the letter—he’d written it himself, addressed it himself, sealed it himself. The staff knew, of course. They took the post off each day and brought him the incoming mail all sorted into business, personal, and family correspondence.
This letter had gone out as family correspondence; it came back as personal, as if by action of post, his marchioness could dissolve their marital bond—though not the decades of familiarity marriage had engendered.
Her ladyship was dissolving his sanity. Season by season, year by year, her stubbornness and independence were taking a toll on his reason and on his ability to hold his head up socially. Nobody said anything to his face, of course, but his womenfolk were not
Not the girls and not their mother. Taking their cue from the marchioness, his three daughters went about socializing all over the realm, spending the Season in London, the summer at various house parties or by the sea, back to London for the Little Season, and then Yuletide with friends and cousins.
If the northern summer light didn’t appeal to Joan’s confounded artistic inclinations, he’d have nobody to share an eighty-seven-room mansion with but Spathfoy. And Spathfoy bided at the family seat only periodically to look in on the farms, or possibly—lowering, odious thought—on his own father.
Quinworth’s voting record in the Lords was distinguished. His holdings prospered year after year. He was accounted a handsome man, a man still in his prime, and from time to time he considered forming the kinds of liaisons available to wealthy, titled men even long past their prime.
Then discarded the notion, unwilling to take the final step that would prove Deirdre had won. With a sense of growing despair, he held the letter to his nose and inhaled.
“Spathfoy has proposed marriage to me.” Hester had to speak slowly because her Gaelic was very much a work in progress. She could understand almost everything Fee and Aunt Ariadne said to her, but they made allowances for her weak vocabulary and faulty syntax.
Ariadne’s face lit with pleasure. “This is marvelous! You will be Fiona’s aunt twice over. Have you told the child?”
Hester got up to pace the small, slightly overheated drawing room where they were having their late-morning tea. “I haven’t given Spathfoy my answer, and to be honest, I’m not sure what it will be. Augusta says I should make him wait, and suggests because of what happened with Jasper, I might not know my own mind.”
“What happened with Jasper was unfortunate. I trust your fears in this regard have been relieved by Spathfoy’s attentions?”
The question was delicately put while Aunt Ariadne fussed with the tea tray. Hester stopped her pacing and regarded Ariadne’s serene countenance.
“Is there something you’d say to me, Aunt?”
“Mr. Deal checks the sconces in the occupied hallways twice each night, or he has one of the footmen do it to ensure the wicks aren’t smoking and there’s adequate oil in the lamps. He told Mrs. Deal, who told me, that he heard laughter coming from your bedroom long after the family had gone to sleep. According to him, this is proof the house is once again haunted by some previous owner of dubious political judgment.”
Hester turned away as if regarding the gardens beyond the window, though she couldn’t help but smile.
“Laughter in bed is a wonderful thing, young lady. A thing to be treasured, and if I had to guess, I’d say Spathfoy is overdue for some laughter wherever he can find it.”
“You’ll think me wicked.” And still, Hester did not risk looking Aunt Ariadne in the eye.
“I’m the one who told you to get back on the horse. Aren’t you going to drink your tea?”
Sly old boots. Hester obediently resumed a place on the sofa. “I haven’t, you know. Not entirely. Gotten back on the, um, horse.”
“Oh, of course not.” Ariadne passed Hester a cup of tea that had to be tepid by now at best. “Though in my day, we didn’t buy a pair of boots without trying them on.”
Hester hid her smile behind her teacup. “You are incorrigible, Aunt.”
“I’m an old woman with a lot of lovely memories. If you’re lucky, you’ll grow up to be just like me.”
“Are you telling me to accept Spathfoy’s proposal?”
“I’m telling you not to let me eat all these cakes by myself. You haven’t known his lordship long, but sometimes, long acquaintance isn’t necessary in affairs of the heart. Has he said he loves you?”
Hester set her teacup down more quickly than she’d intended to. “Love?”
“It’s all the modern rage, the love match, or at least the appearance of one. You can marry where you will, Hester, and Spathfoy can likewise. In my day a woman was bound by the preferences of her parents, at least the first time around, but so were the young men. It put the new husband and wife in some sympathy with each other, which was often an adequate basis for friendship.”
“I think Spathfoy could be my friend and I his.” This felt like the greater confidence, not the fact of his proposal, but why she was considering it.
“Ah. You really should have some cakes, my dear.”
“You are no help whatsoever, Aunt.” Hester took two chocolate cakes—Fee wasn’t underfoot to appropriate all the chocolate ones before anybody else had a chance—and regarded them side by side on her plate. “I want to accept Spathfoy’s proposal, but I am uncertain.”
“It’s hard to be completely sure, though nice if you can be. I was with my second and third husbands.”
“And?”
“One turned out to be an idiot, the other was the love of my life.” She took a placid sip of her tea while Hester wanted to pitch a cake at her.
“I haven’t known Spathfoy long, I haven’t met his family, I don’t know the state of his finances, he hasn’t given me a ring, and he has not declared his feelings for me.”
“If you wait for a proper Englishman to declare his feelings, you will soon be an old maid. The ring can be procured easily enough, and I can assure you the man’s wealthy. His mother is a genius with figures. What is the real reason you’re hesitating, my dear?”
Hester considered her tea cakes, then the view out the window, then the hearth, which sported a fire despite the temperate day.
“I’m not sure.”
But it had to do with love. She was fairly certain her hesitation had to do with love, and the likely lack
