Sara Lindsey - [Weston 03]

by A Rogue for All Seasons

  James winced. “You have nothing to worry about, my bloodthirsty little wench.”

  A tender smile curved her lips. “Then neither do you.”

  “What you should both be worried about is the spectacle Mother is going to make of you at her ball,” Henry interjected. He wasn’t looking forward to his mother’s ball, but at least he wasn’t the cause for the occasion. That honor fell to James and Isabella, along with Olivia, another of Henry’s sisters, and her husband. In the past two years, two of his sisters had married, giving him two brothers-in-law and two baby nieces. At times, everything felt a bit two much.

  Isabella grinned and glanced knowingly in his direction. “I don’t think we are the ones who need to be concerned.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Isabella sighed. “Have you learned nothing in all these years? What is our mother’s main purpose in life?”

  “Finishing her book?” Henry guessed. Their mother had been working on a collection of essays about Shakespeare’s heroines for, well, forever.

  “Yes, well, aside from that.” Izzie waved a hand, brushing aside their mother’s opus.

  At his blank look, she gestured between herself and James, then held up her left hand, wriggling the finger encircled by her wedding band. How could he forget? Even more than finishing her book, his mother wanted to see all her children wed.

  “The twins are a bit young for her matchmaking efforts. Lia and Genni are only twelve. Besides, they’re more interested in books than boys.”

  “The twins are fourteen, and the books they’re currently enthralled with are romantic tales. When they were over last week, Lia spent the better part of the visit rhapsodizing over one of the grooms at Weston Manor, and you know Genni will follow where Lia leads. Still, I think the twins are safe for now. Mama’s current project is well past marriageable age.”

  Henry groaned. “Is she back to Miss Merriwether again?” His mother had a soft spot for that particular wallflower. “The chit has been out for at least five Seasons. She—”

  Isabella stood and leaned over the table until her nose nearly touched his. “Not. Miss. Merriwether.” She punctuated each word with a sharp jab to his chest. “You!”

  “No.” He tugged at his cravat, wondering if the temperature in the room had risen drastically in the past few minutes.

  “Until the twins are out of the schoolroom,” Isabella continued, confirming his fears, “you are the only child Mama has left to marry off. The real reason for this ball is so she can look over this Season’s crop of debutantes with an eye to picking her future daughter-in-law.”

  “I’m too young to get married,” Henry protested. “I still have wild oats to sow.”

  “If even half of what I hear is to be believed, you’ve already sown more than your fair share,” his sister remarked dryly.

  “Besides, I am only four months older than you,” James reminded him, “and Izzie and I are about to celebrate our second anniversary. You’re going to need a better argument than age to avoid the parson’s mousetrap. There’s no reason to avoid it, though. So long as you choose wisely—and I can’t imagine your mother or sisters allowing you to do otherwise—I think you will find the wedded state most enjoyable.”

  “He certainly enjoys the bedded one,” Isabella drawled. “Though I think all men—”

  “Izzie, my darling, stop tormenting your brother. Will you see if the baby is awake? I’m sure Henry would like to see his niece.”

  “Very well,” Isabella huffed, as she rose and headed for the door. “But there is to be no fighting while I am gone,” she reiterated. “Just think how devastated Mama would be if Hal showed up to the ball with a black eye marring his pretty face.”

  Henry glowered at her back as she swept from the room. If Isabella was right—and he had learned that Weston women were nearly always right—his mother was intending to see him at the altar by the end of the Season.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Like all men, Hal wishes to be charge of his destiny. The trick lies in allowing him to maintain that fiction whilst guiding him in the desired direction. Should he meet the right woman, I do not imagine he will put up a great fight. Love has toppled far more determined bachelors than our prince…

  —FROM THE COUNTESS OF DUNSTON TO HER MOTHER THE VISCOUNTESS WESTON

  “NOW THAT SHE’S GONE, TELL me what’s troubling you.” James leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “There’s no use pretending otherwise. You haven’t touched the food.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite. Hearing that your mother is single-mindedly pursuing the end to your bachelorhood has a way of doing that to a man.”

  “There was plenty of time for you to consume that entire plate of scones before Izzie brought that up.”

  Henry had actually considered the scones, but they looked a bit gray today… and lumpier than usual. Even so, he glared at his best friend, reached for a scone and shoved as much of it as possible into his mouth, an act he regretted as soon as he began trying to chew the damned thing. He had once eaten a handful of horse grain on a dare. That had been manna compared to this.

  James hooted with laughter. “Perhaps,” he said, once he had himself sufficiently under control, “I should have warned you. Our cook fell and twisted her ankle yesterday, and her assistant ran off last week with one of the footmen. We’ve had to resort to desperate measures in the kitchen.”

  Henry gulped his tea, hoping the crumbly mass in his mouth would congeal enough for him to swallow. Only by strength of will did he manage to choke down the foul mixture; it was only by even greater strength of stomach that he managed to keep it down. “Whomever you found to replace your cook shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the kitchen,” he grumbled.

  “I prefer her in the bedchamber myself.” James winked. “She’s a comely wench.”

  Henry took a second to sort through the meaning of his friend’s words, and then a wave of rage descended over him.

  “You bastard!” he snarled, lunging at James.

  “What are you—? Damn it, that hurt!” James protested as Henry hauled him out of his chair and landed a sharp jab to his side. James wrenched away and blocked the next blow, then snaked his leg around Henry’s ankle. Henry tripped, staggered a few steps as he struggled to keep his balance and then lost the fight.

  He didn’t go down alone. One of the legs snapped off a spindly-legged side table when he landed on it the wrong way. Not that there was a right way to land on a table.

  The pretty Wedgwood vase that had been on the table lay in pieces beside it, suggesting there wasn’t a right way for pottery to land on the floor, either.

  Isabella burst into the room and eyed the disarray. “Was I somehow unclear when I said there was to be no fighting?”

  “Good God!” Henry exclaimed as he picked himself up off the floor. “You sound exactly like Mother.”

  James sighed and shook his head.

  “I do not,” she snapped, sounding more like their mother than ever.

  A bark of laughter escaped from James.

  As Isabella rounded on her husband, Henry grinned in anticipation. Unfortunately, she saw him and changed her course.

  “I wouldn’t smile just yet if I were you,” his sister warned, planting herself in front of him with her hands at her hips. “I am certain this is your fault.”

  “He started it,” Henry contended. “Damnation, Izzie, the— He is—” He grappled with how to tell his sister what he had just discovered. In most households in Mayfair, the tidings would hardly qualify as news. He had always found it distasteful, but a goodly number of men turned their attentions to the female staff. He suspected a fair number of wives were relieved their husbands did so… but Isabella wasn’t going to be one of them.

  “He’s what, Hal?” she prompted.

  He shook his head. “Given all you’ve been through, you don’t deserve this, but it’s only right you should know. James all but told me he’s taking advantage of one of the maids
.”

  “Oh, Christ,” James muttered. “You misunder—”

  “I did not misunderstand,” Henry bit out. “I’ll call him out for you, Izzie, or I’ll hold him while you vent your spleen. I know the fire poker is one of your weapons of choice, but if you truly wish to punish him, force him to eat that plate of the girl’s scones.”

  Isabella’s eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms over her chest.

  “You’re being very calm about this,” he blurted out, just as she demanded, “What’s wrong with my scones?”

  “Your scones?” Henry exclaimed. “Do you mean to say you were the one mucking about in the kitchen?”

  “I told you it was a misunderstanding,” James muttered, rubbing his side. “Damn it, Hal, will you get it through your thick skull already? I love your sister. I’m not going to be unfaithful, no matter how terrible her culinary skills. Oomph!” Isabella elbowed him in his other side. “Not that she’s a terrible cook,” he amended quickly. “I hope she makes scones for me every day.”

  As declarations of love went, this one was impressive, Henry had to admit. A man truly had to be in love to keep a woman around if she could not even produce basic sustenance. To offer to eat those scones again was nothing short of adoration. His sister apparently agreed, for she rewarded her husband with a quick kiss.

  “Perhaps I overreacted,” Henry admitted a bit sheepishly. “I have been a little out of sorts of late.”

  “Speaking of out of sorts,” Isabella murmured as the high wail of a child’s cry sounded from upstairs. “Can you refrain from destroying my home long enough for me to finish with the baby?”

  James pulled Isabella close for quick hug. “We’ll behave, love, I promise, and I’ll replace what was broken.”

  “I shall write to Mr. Wedgwood about a replacement for the vase. As for the table…” She shook her head. “Apologies to Mr. Chippendale, but I never liked it much. The legs were positively spindly.”

  She turned to Henry. “May I offer a word of advice, Hal? I’m not certain our mother has the right of it this time. It’s not a wife you need to find, but yourself.” She rose up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek before giving him an impish grin. “And while you find yourself, Mama will find a wife for you.”

  Content that she’d had the final word, his sister swept from the room. He and James seated themselves, and silence grew in the space between them.

  Finally, James ventured, “Come now, it won’t be that bad. There are benefits to the married state. I know these virginal misses seem all milk-and-water, but wives are every bit as lusty as mistresses are, and even more possessive.”

  A strangled growl rose up in Henry’s throat. “Please remember that your wife is my sister. I am not having this conversation with you.”

  “You and I have always discussed females—”

  “That was before my sister became one of them, er, one we talked about. She’s always been a female.”

  James’s lips twitched. “That wasn’t something I ever questioned, but your reassurances on the matter are comforting nonetheless.” His expression turned earnest then. “I apologize if I said something amiss. I want everything between us to be easy, for us to be as we were, but I don’t suppose we can be.”

  He knew James spoke the truth, but the truth was so damned unfair, he wanted to smash a dozen spindly-legged tables. Of all the men his sister could have married, why had Izzie gone and fallen in love with his best friend? He was happy for them, he really was, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t also feeling the tiniest bit sorry for himself. Still, that didn’t excuse his little tantrum.

  “I must apologize as well. My actions were unwarranted, and I—”

  “Consider the incident forgotten.”

  Henry raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “I would my sister were so understanding.”

  “She might surprise you. The two of you have more in common than blond hair and blue eyes; you’re both fiercely protective of those you love. Isabella understands that the reason for your outburst today was concern for her. She also knows the difficulty of letting go the past and rebuilding trust. For the moment, it’s enough that Isabella trusts me with her heart, and I trust her with mine.”

  “I do trust you,” Henry said, surprised by his friend’s words, “but sometimes my brain is a bit slower to react than my body. I never thought I would say Isabella was right about something, but ever since your marriage, perhaps even before then, I’ve been at a loose end. You and my father have families and estates; there are people dependent on you. That sort of responsibility gives direction to a man’s life, keeps his feet on the ground.”

  “Let me be certain I understand you correctly. You want responsibilities?”

  Henry scowled. “You needn’t sound so shocked.”

  “Sorry, Hal, but you must admit this is a change for you. Your idea of the perfect day is to sleep in, spend the remainder of the morning at Jackson’s, pass the afternoon at Tattersall’s, put in an appearance at some respectable ton event, and then enjoy being disrespectable until the early hours.”

  “Is that all you think I am capable of being—some sort of self-absorbed sybarite?” His voice rose sharply on the last word.

  “Of course I think you are capable of doing, of being more than that. I realized it a long time ago. I didn’t realize you wanted more. It’s horribly selfish, but part of me hoped you would always be Hal. That you wouldn’t…”

  “Grow up?” Henry gave a short, humorless laugh. “I think we all have to do it at some point, but I’m hardly about to take my vows.”

  “That would be rather drastic,” James agreed. “This may take some getting used to, this idea of Hal Weston as a serious adult, but I daresay we’ll all adjust. Have you considered what you want to do?”

  Henry drew in a deep breath. “I want my own stud.”

  His guts twisted as he waited for his best friend’s reaction. If James didn’t believe he could do this, what chance did he have of succeeding?

  After a moment, James’s face split into a wide grin. “That’s a damned fine notion. You have as good an eye for horseflesh as Old Tatt had, rest his soul, and the bloody beasts respond to you as well as to any Gypsy. This is ingenious, Hal! Who came up with this idea?”

  “If you can believe it, I did,” Henry said, but his words lacked heat. Over the years, Henry had more than justified James’s insinuations about his intelligence, or lack thereof. What Henry truly cared about was James’s enthusiasm for the stud, which he had in abundance. As his friend’s energy washed over him, Henry jumped to his feet and began to pace about the room, skirting the wreckage of his earlier outburst.

  That, if nothing else, proved how badly he needed this. For some time now, he’d been drifting along; while he wasn’t unhappy, neither was he particularly happy. He simply was. And he wanted more than that. His life had become a monotonous stream of excitements that had long since ceased to excite him. The mere thought of the stud invigorated him more than all of the debaucheries he’d committed in the past three months combined.

  “I’ve already found the perfect place,” he told James. “Do you remember the Ravensfield stud?”

  “How could I forget? Our first year at Oxford and instead of studying, you dragged a group of us to Epsom for the Oaks. Then you wanted a souvenir, and we had to visit every breeder in the vicinity. I recollect Lord Parr was somehow involved.”

  “His younger son, Jack, was the owner.”

  “Was?”

  “You must have been in Ireland when it happened. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he took a kick to the head that killed him. It wasn’t the horse’s fault. He was a good racer, but Parr said he was too dangerous to live.” Henry shook his head in disgust. “In any event, Jack’s widow and daughter went to live with Parr. The old man sold off all the stock and closed the place up. For whatever reason, he’s kept it all these years.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Fate was lending her hand.”

&
nbsp; Fate. The notion had crossed his mind more than once since partnering with Parr’s heir in a game of whist one evening at White’s. The man had been in his cups, which neither helped him at cards nor impaired his ability to talk… and talk… and talk. And when he began to express his frustration at trying to convince his father to part with Ravensfield Hall, Henry had listened.

  He’d remembered the place, and he’d remembered, too, a dream that had grown in his heart between boyhood and becoming a man. He had discarded most things from that in-between time in his life, forgotten them or buried them away out of embarrassment, but now he began to dream once more of neatly fenced paddocks and airy stable blocks housing the finest horseflesh in England. His heart raced at the possibilities spread before him like endless acres of fresh green grass…

  “Fate?” James arched one dark brow. “Perhaps the property is entailed.”

  “It isn’t and, from what I gather, neither Parr nor his heir has any interest in horses. Parr is holding on to the place out of sentiment. He’d do better to let go of the past and look to the living. His granddaughter is making her come-out next year; the money Parr could get from selling the estate might go toward her dowry.”

  “An excellent idea,” James agreed. “Of course, if he were out to catch the future Viscount Weston for the girl, he could always offer the estate as her dowry.”

  “Bite your tongue! My interest is in bridles, not brides.”

  “Are you certain?” Isabella asked as she entered the room, her daughter, Bride, in her arms. “Would you like to hold your niece?”

  She didn’t wait for a response, just pushed the little one into his arms. Henry took her easily, bade his perfectly tied cravat farewell, and wished his waistcoat buttons luck. Despite her very tender age, Lady Bride Sheffield was winning handily in the ongoing war she had waged upon her uncle’s vestments.

  Henry gazed down into a pair of thickly lashed blue eyes, the same shade of blue as his own, and simply marveled. “She is more beautiful every time I see her.”