by Amelia Grey
Marksworth lived by the long held conviction that most gentlemen didn’t consider it a terrible offense to cheat on their wives, but if they caught a man deceitful at cards, they’d be ready to meet him at dawn or see to it he was never accepted in the houses of Polite Society again.
His son’s lack of interest in the politics of London, much less the whole of England or elsewhere, was a great disappointment to the marquis, but he’d never pouted about it. Marksworth considered Lyon’s refusal to set up a mistress in a home of her own and gift her with money, jewels, and nightly visits an even bigger tarnish to his name and an affront to all mankind who could afford to do so and didn’t.
Lyon wasn’t a saint. When he was younger, he’d tried his father’s lifestyle but didn’t feel the need to boast about it. He freely took pleasure and gave it. A mistress was an easy way for a man to enjoy and satisfy his primal need for a woman in his bed and was the best way to stay away from innocent young ladies. It didn’t take Lyon long to realize he didn’t want a mistress at his beck and call year-round. And he didn’t plan to live a life separate from his wife after he married, as did most titled men once they produced the mandatory heir or two.
Lyon wanted only one lady to cherish—a wife whom he loved and adored with all his being.
Wanting no more drink, he waved the server aside as he settled into an upholstered chair near the back of the room. He smiled as he opened The Times, remembering Lady Wake had the nerve to call fine brandy grog. No doubt about it, she was a lady to be reckoned with. Before he could finish reading the headlines, he heard his father making himself comfortable in the chair beside him.
“I’ve already read it and there’s nothing to take notice of in there today,” Marksworth said. “Most of it is rehashing yesterday’s stories. But, if you have nothing else to do with your time, you might as well glance through it and see for yourself. Welcome back to London.”
Lyon looked over at his father and smiled. “Thank you.” He refolded the newsprint and laid it on the table beside him before giving his attention back to his father. “Why didn’t you write and let me know that you planned to marry again?”
“You mean aside from the fact it appears I’m the only one in the family who’s interested in wedlock?” Marksworth grunted. “I would have written if I’d thought you cared a dram one way or the other about my matrimonial status.”
His father had always been skilled at making his point.
“I don’t,” Lyon admitted. “But I do care about you.”
At that comment, his father returned his smile. “That’s heartening. There’s no need for you to worry about me or my upcoming nuptials. You’ll like Miss Ballingbrand. It’s true, as no doubt you’ll recall, she had a miserable time of her first Season, but she’s older now and has put that behind her.”
Lyon couldn’t say he remembered her at all, so he stayed silent.
“She didn’t know how to deal with the crush of people at all the parties and idle conversation, but she is fairly intelligent. Not a young belle but she’s no weed on the shelf either. She’s not too fashionable as you’ll notice: quiet, pleasingly demure, and manageable.”
“Ah—manageable. Your favorite kind of wife.”
The marquis nodded. “The marriage will be an attractive convenience for both of us. Her uncle is old and wants to see her settled. She needs a husband to take care of her.”
“So she’s grateful, too,” Lyon commented, deciding not to be brash and mention that Cordelia had told him Miss Ballingbrand’s dowry had been generously padded with rich lands.
“For sure,” he remarked, giving Lyon a satisfied grunt. “I don’t know how I left out that admirable attribute when I was describing her. She’s all the things most gentlemen would desire in a wife.”
Marksworth’s hint of a nudge didn’t go unnoticed by Lyon. Those weren’t the qualities he was looking for in who he married. They both knew Lyon couldn’t give a damn whether or not a lady was demure. He’d actually prefer she wasn’t. He wanted a wife who was passionate. About him, about their life together. Why would he want a quiet spouse who seldom spoke to him or didn’t seem to care whether or not she was married to him? He wanted a lady who was vigorous, brave, and forthright in all things, especially her attitude toward him.
Lady Wake came to mind. Wearing the provocative red stays. No, she wasn’t demure. She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, either. Her passionate nature had been blatantly on display every time he’d seen her. She was headstrong to a fault. And he surely couldn’t say she was lacking in courage or a will of her own. She’d taken him to task with a vengeance when she thought he’d threatened the girls.
Marksworth laughed softly and said, “I’ve missed our visits, son. I’m glad you’re back.”
Brushing thoughts of the countess from his mind, Lyon gave his attention back to his father and said, “Me too.”
Lyon had little appreciation for London in winter. He’d rather be at Lyonwood riding across his lands, checking the barren fields and frozen ponds, and visiting his tenants to see how they were faring through the coldest days. Occasionally he’d have friends come for a visit to enjoy hunting, target shooting, and all-night card games. Winter life in the countryside had suited him nicely for the past few years.
Yet, he had to admit to himself—but not his father—that he had been thinking more about sons to tramp around the estate with him and a beautiful, loving wife to come home to after a day of plundering the land or hunting its game. Someone to dine with, play chess, converse, and laugh with in the evenings. A wife who wanted to be in his bed and actively share in the intimacies it provided. Fiery and zealous in his arms. He wanted her soft and warm snuggled next to his side when he went to sleep and awakened in the mornings.
And unlike his father, who left the tedious affairs of land holdings and business ventures to his accountants and solicitors, Lyon took great interest in checking all of the books and records of the various assets himself. It wasn’t that he looked for discrepancies because he didn’t trust his managers, overseers, or accountants. He did it because he enjoyed the challenge of going through each entry, cross-checking the debits and credits, and making sure all the numbers were correct.
“You may think otherwise, Marksworth,” Lyon said, “but I’m not against you having the companionship of a wife.”
“Yes, I know. You just don’t understand me keeping a mistress as well.”
“You have three.”
“I’ve known two of them for many years,” he argued as if that explained it, and then sighed ruefully. “I don’t have the heart to turn them off, and I do still enjoy going to see them from time to time.”
“It’s not for me to approve or condemn the way you choose to live your life. Nor is it any of my concern how a woman chooses to earn a wage for herself.”
“Thank you,” his father said sarcastically and then grunted another laugh. “You are just like your mother. Always trying to understand me—and it can’t be done.”
Lyon bristled at that statement. It wasn’t that he was trying to understand his father. He simply didn’t agree with him about love, ladies, and women. That said, Lyon would still rather have a conversation with Marksworth than anyone else. It was always a challenge.
“But, I loved her anyway,” Marksworth continued. “She never understood why I was never satisfied with what I had for long. She knew and accepted the time would come when I’d want more. Horses, land, businesses … women. I can’t explain it now any more than I could explain it to her twenty years ago. There’s nothing to say other than I gain a tremendous amount of satisfaction from obtaining and keeping whatever it is I want.”
There was no doubt about that. And, Marksworth was well-respected and envied for his business acumen. He improved his holdings in some way every year. Lyon wasn’t against acquiring more wealth. He appreciated it. Took great care of it and enjoyed it. But he had no desire to live his life trying to add to it.
Lyon notic
ed a server walking toward them, and his father said, “I’ll order us a glass of port.”
“I’ll have one later,” Lyon said, shaking his head.
“Too much of it last night?”
“Much to my head’s distress this morning,” he answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. He’d not paid attention to how many times his glass had been filled while playing cards.
Marksworth shook his head at the server. “I thought you were past those days.”
“So did I.”
“Tell me, is there any chance you plan to select a wife this Season?” his father asked when their conversation grew quiet.
“This is old, rocky terrain, Marksworth, and no use going over it again. My views haven’t changed since last you asked.”
“Nor have mine.”
“You swear you loved my mother, so would you allow me to fall in love before I marry, too?”
“Of course,” Marksworth said with a slight frown. “I want you to. But as they say, the day grows late for the harvest while your heart searches for love. Keep in mind you were going off to Eton when I was your age. A man with a title to pass down shouldn’t wait so long to have a son. You could do me a favor and at least tell me there is reason to hope you might find love this Season.”
Unbelievably, Lady Wake crossed Lyon’s mind again. He shrugged off thoughts of her, but he couldn’t shake the sudden feeling that he was ready to find love. Someone other than his friends to share Lyonwood with him.
Irritated by his lack of possibilities, he said, “I don’t want to look for a bride as if I were looking for a mare to furnish my paddocks with colts.”
Marksworth quirked his head and lifted his brow, and gave Lyon an exaggerated smile. “I’ll be happy to do the honors for you. Mr. William Palmont’s daughter is making her debut this Season. I met her a few nights ago in their home. Quite by chance. She’s lovely, delightful and full of vigor. I think you could love her.” His father looked pointedly at him. “She has serious brown eyes, which should appeal to you. She’s most definitely extremely intelligent, which you would insist upon and appreciate. And she seemed quite discerning, which should suit you perfectly since you’re so picky.”
“Picky?” Lyon shifted in his chair. It was unusual for Marksworth to deliberately rile him. Though he couldn’t say his father didn’t know what he was looking for in a wife. “I’m selective.”
“If you prefer that word, fine. Use it.” He paused, then inhaled loudly. “I suppose the meaning of both fit though I suppose you aren’t old enough to be jaded.”
“And I don’t need your help finding a wife.”
Marksworth cleared his throat and looked about the room before settling his gaze on Lyon again. “You haven’t done a very good job of it so far. At the rate you’re progressing, I’ll be an addled, decrepit man before you give me a grandson.”
Lyon shook his head and smiled warmly as he looked at his father. There was no getting the best of him. And Lyon suddenly noticed Cordelia was wrong about his father not aging at all. His aunt must not have looked closely at the Marquis recently. He had a smattering of gray in his hair, though it hardly showed in the light-brown color. Not much of the aging color, but enough to be sure. In any case, it was nice to know his father didn’t think that nearing fifty was old.
“Perhaps a change of subject is needed,” Marksworth offered as a sign of peace. “Have you had the opportunity to speak to your new neighbor over the hedgerow?”
The mention of the countess caused a slow roll in the bottom of Lyon’s stomach. He sat up straighter in the chair. “Lady Wake?”
“Or Lady Kitson Fairbright or Mrs. Brina Feld. Though I’m told those two don’t live on the property. I have no idea how often they might visit. They helped Lady Wake finance the school.”
Interested in what else his father knew about Lady Wake, Lyon shifted in his chair again. “How do you know about this?”
“The same way I knew Miss Ballingbrand had changed her mind and decided she didn’t mind if she married after all. You should know by now not many things happen in London I don’t know about.”
Yes, Lyon did know that, but it hadn’t occurred to him to ask his father about his incensed neighbor.
“How did it come about? The school. Does Lady Wake own the property? Is she leasing it from Mr. Bottles?”
His father’s brows rose and he looked keenly at Lyon. “You are inquisitive about this, aren’t you?”
“There’s a half dozen or more girls living next door to me. I’m curious,” he offered, hoping his father wouldn’t start asking him questions he didn’t want to answer and wasn’t sure he could.
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. When you said Lady Wake’s name, you suddenly looked as if someone had just sat down on your favorite hat.”
Lyon smiled. His father didn’t miss much. Lyon was irritated with the countess, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t also interested in her and what she was doing. She intrigued him with her bold, hot-blooded spirit.
“Just the simple facts will do, Marksworth.”
“Very well. I’m fine with you hoarding your thoughts and keeping me in the dark. Mr. Clements, Lady Wake’s solicitor, was Mr. Bottles’ representative as well. Lady Wake wanted to buy a property large enough for a small school, and Mr. Bottles wanted to move to York to be with his daughter. Clements put the two of them together and they settled on a price. Are those facts simple enough for you?”
His father grinned. So did Lyon.
So Lady Wake owned the house. That was good to know. The thought that he could purchase it from her immediately entered his mind. At a hefty profit to her, of course. He’d even help her find a more satisfactory place to move the school. Where there was plenty of land for the girls to roam and play.
“Do you know why three ladies of considerable means would want to open a boarding school to teach the finer arts of manners and whatever else girls are taught?” Lyon asked. “I would think they’d be more into teas, card parties, and reading societies.”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s not an ordinary boarding school. It’s not for the girls of Society. Not even those whose families find themselves financially embarrassed for one reason or another. It’s unique in that it’s only for girls who lost a father or brother when the Salty Dove sank. The men who worked on the ship. The stewards, attendants, and so forth. I really don’t know the finer details, but the girls are from those unfortunate families. They would probably never have the opportunity to be taken in by anyone to learn a trade unless someone took them in to train as a scullery maid. I’m told the widows’ school will teach the girls to sew. Quite admirable of the widows to take on such a charitable project.”
By the time his father finished, Lyon felt as if he’d swallowed a lead ball. He couldn’t believe he’d wanted to stop the girls from playing! What a blasted thing to do.
“I hadn’t heard that about the school,” Lyon said, his admiration for Lady Wake growing. She was not only daring and zealous, she was kindhearted, too.
Most of the ladies he knew wouldn’t even toss a coin of their pin money to a street urchin, much less take a portion of their inheritance and open a charitable school to teach girls how to sew. To even think about the hardships of the workers’ families was compassionate. To financially help them meant she had a generous, giving nature. That impressed Lyon. He’d bet his stable of stallions no one other than the three widows had done so much for others after the tragedy that took so many lives. Now, he was wishing like hell he hadn’t marched over to quiet the girls. He’d no idea about their past and certainly not the connection they had to Lady Wake and her friends.
No, he couldn’t consider trying to buy the property from her after all. The girls’ lives had already been upset enough with the tragedy. He wouldn’t add to it or their fears again. He would endure the school. How, he didn’t know.
“Identifying the families and then finding them was quite an undertaking
as I understand,” his father continued. “Apparently Clements hired excellent people and handled everything for the widows in this endeavor so they didn’t and shouldn’t have to get involved in the intricacies of the school.”
Lyon wasn’t so sure about that statement. The countess seemed very involved and protective of the girls. He had a feeling Mr. Clements didn’t do anything without the capable Lady Wake’s suggestion or permission.
“You’ll remember all three of the ladies lost their husbands when the ship sank.”
“I do remember that.” Lyon was also thinking he might well be the ogre he swore to Lady Wake he wasn’t.
“There’s been spots of gossip about it for the past two or three days,” his father pointed out. “But if you haven’t been to a dinner party, you probably wouldn’t have heard. It’s not the kind of talk you’d hear at a card game. Some ladies, mostly the older ones, think they’ve gone too far from what’s acceptable with this endeavor, but others think it’s fitting they are doing something so benevolent. I assume in a way to memorialize their husbands. They’re being hailed as the wonderful widows by a few.”
“I agree,” he said, wondering why Lady Wake hadn’t told him more about the school. Perhaps because he hadn’t bothered to ask. “They should be recognized. This was very charitable of them.”
The conversation fell quiet again for a few moments before his father revived their earlier discussion by saying, “You know I gave serious consideration to not marrying again.”