“If you find the rural life so tedious, I wonder why you’ve left the city at all.”
Uncle Albert started wheezing again. Or laughing. No, Daphne thought as the sound went on and on, he was definitely wheezing. She poured him a cup of tea, which he batted out of the way. She sat down again with the cup. She could use it, if he couldn’t. When he caught his breath Albert gasped, “The wedding, you gabby. I’ve come as head of the family to stop the wedding.”
Mama cried, “I knew it!” but the earl patted her shoulders.
“Don’t be a peagoose, Cleo,” he said. “You’re of age and need no one’s permission. Whilton cannot stop the marriage.”
“He cannot even stop a dog from stealing his supper,” Graydon murmured into Daphne’s ear, which riffled the curls there and tickled. She shifted farther away in the seat, fussing with the pastries on the tray.
“But I can point out you’re blighting your children’s chances of making a good match, I can. You almost ruined it already, raising ’em up like brother and sister. Took all the spice out of it, if you know what I mean. Of course, there’s Byron and his sister… Any road, making ’em brother and sister in fact likely makes it illegal for them to marry anyway.”
Suddenly Graydon did not find the situation quite as humorous. “Gammon, we’re hardly relations. Besides, with enough money, one can get a dispensation for anything.” He bit down on the lemon tart in his hand.
“Mama and Lord Hollister must think of their own happiness, Uncle,” Daphne put in, ignoring Gray’s rebuttal as mere argumentation. “I am thinking of making a match elsewhere, if it is any of your business.”
The rest of Graydon’s lemon tart fell to the floor.
“What, that prosy stick who hinted he had an interest here? You’d do better with Hollister’s cub, gel. He’ll be an earl someday, no matter how wild he is now.”
“Wild?” Graydon sputtered on the crumbs in his mouth.
“He’s a good, reliable, steady man, for your information, Uncle Albert.”
Graydon cleared his throat, but both Albert and Lord Hollister exclaimed, “Howell?”
While the major glared at his father, Daphne answered, “No, Miles Pomeroy, of course.”
“Faugh, with a husband like that, you’d be taking lovers in a month.”
It was Daphne’s turn to glare, at her uncle and at the choking sounds behind her.
“No,” Uncle Albert was going on, “you’d do a parcel better with Howell.” He ogled her from under his bushy eyebrows, looking her up and down—and inside and out, it felt. “Didn’t turn out half bad, for a filly from a weak stable. Too bad you’re so prim and proper; you’d make some man a cozy armful. As it is, you’d send him”—with a nod toward Graydon—“back to his mistresses afore the cat can scratch her ear. That little protégée of Harry Wilson’s as good as she looked?” he asked the younger man. “Or are you saving your shot for that Bowles widow, like a regular mooncalf?” He slapped his thigh at the witticism, and almost knocked himself out of his seat. “She’ll be more expensive in the long run, mark me, boy. And if she does get her claws into you for the gold band, that’s the last you’ll see of her panting to get between your sheets.”
Mama gasped, and Lord Hollister said, “I must protest this frightful conversation, Baron.”
“Protest all you want, from the other side of the door. You don’t like it here, get out. It’s my house, remember. Besides, where the boy makes his bed wouldn’t matter if you weren’t marrying an old biddy like my sister-in-law, Hollister. Man like you ought to be getting himself a young wife who can give him more sons. The one whelp you’ve got’s bound to get his head blown off; did you think of that? Then where’ll you be? Even I’ve got two boys, the heir and a spare.”
“Enough, Baron,” Graydon said with enough force to rattle the teacups in their saucers. “We’ve heard
Uncle Albert started wheezing again. Or laughing. No, Daphne thought as the sound went on and on, he was definitely wheezing. She poured him a cup of tea, which he batted out of the way. She sat down again with the cup. She could use it, if he couldn’t. When he caught his breath Albert gasped, “The wedding, you gabby. I’ve come as head of the family to stop the wedding.”
Mama cried, “I knew it!” but the earl patted her shoulders.
“Don’t be a peagoose, Cleo,” he said. “You’re of age and need no one’s permission. Whilton cannot stop the marriage.”
“He cannot even stop a dog from stealing his supper,” Graydon murmured into Daphne’s ear, which riffled the curls there and tickled. She shifted farther away in the seat, fussing with the pastries on the tray.
“But I can point out you’re blighting your children’s chances of making a good match, I can. You almost ruined it already, raising ’em up like brother and sister. Took all the spice out of it, if you know what I mean. Of course, there’s Byron and his sister… Any road, making ’em brother and sister in fact likely makes it illegal for them to marry anyway.”
Suddenly Graydon did not find the situation quite as humorous. “Gammon, we’re hardly relations. Besides, with enough money, one can get a dispensation for anything.” He bit down on the lemon tart in his hand.
“Mama and Lord Hollister must think of their own happiness, Uncle,” Daphne put in, ignoring Gray’s rebuttal as mere argumentation. “I am thinking of making a match elsewhere, if it is any of your business.”
The rest of Graydon’s lemon tart fell to the floor.
“What, that prosy stick who hinted he had an interest here? You’d do better with Hollister’s cub, gel. He’ll be an earl someday, no matter how wild he is now.”
“Wild?” Graydon sputtered on the crumbs in his mouth.
“He’s a good, reliable, steady man, for your information, Uncle Albert.”
Graydon cleared his throat, but both Albert and Lord Hollister exclaimed, “Howell?”
While the major glared at his father, Daphne answered, “No, Miles Pomeroy, of course.”
“Faugh, with a husband like that, you’d be taking lovers in a month.”
It was Daphne’s turn to glare, at her uncle and at the choking sounds behind her.
“No,” Uncle Albert was going on, “you’d do a parcel better with Howell.” He ogled her from under his bushy eyebrows, looking her up and down—and inside and out, it felt. “Didn’t turn out half bad, for a filly from a weak stable. Too bad you’re so prim and proper; you’d make some man a cozy armful. As it is, you’d send him”—with a nod toward Graydon—“back to his mistresses afore the cat can scratch her ear. That little protégée of Harry Wilson’s as good as she looked?” he asked the younger man. “Or are you saving your shot for that Bowles widow, like a regular mooncalf?” He slapped his thigh at the witticism, and almost knocked himself out of his seat. “She’ll be more expensive in the long run, mark me, boy. And if she does get her claws into you for the gold band, that’s the last you’ll see of her panting to get between your sheets.”
Mama gasped, and Lord Hollister said, “I must protest this frightful conversation, Baron.”
“Protest all you want, from the other side of the door. You don’t like it here, get out. It’s my house, remember. Besides, where the boy makes his bed wouldn’t matter if you weren’t marrying an old biddy like my sister-in-law, Hollister. Man like you ought to be getting himself a young wife who can give him more sons. The one whelp you’ve got’s bound to get his head blown off; did you think of that? Then where’ll you be? Even I’ve got two boys, the heir and a spare.”
“Enough, Baron,” Graydon said with enough force to rattle the teacups in their saucers. “We’ve heard
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