into the drawing room. A couple of big dogs followed, fopping down next to the duke’s chair with heavy sighs.
Uncle Josiah seemed to have shrunk, Lucien thought— though the fact that the duke was not on his feet no doubt contributed to the impression.
“Uncle Josiah.” Lucien gave a deep, formal bow.
“Hartford,” the duke growled, but he looked on past Lucien to Gavin. “And you must be Athstone.”
“Technically,” Gavin said, “I’m not, sir. At least, if I understand the rules from your solicitors’ explanations—”
“That’s Your Grace , to you. Fussy old women, those law readers. I expect they told you all about how you’re only the heir presumptive, so if I have a son you’ll be out in the cold. Exactly how likely do you think that is?”
“I have no idea, Your Grace,” Gavin said. “But it does me no harm to hope for that eventuality.”
The duke glowered and then gave a rusty laugh. “You expect me to believe you don’t want this? All of this?”
Gavin looked into the distance, almost as if he’d seen a mirage, and for a moment Lucien thought he was going to admit that he’d been lying his head off. But he didn’t need to say it; the thing was obvious. Who wouldn’t want Weybridge, with its thousands of acres of lush, productive land, its woods and fields filled with game, its lakes teeming with fish?
Gavin said, “You will believe as you like, Your Grace. What power do I have to change the mind of the Duke of Weybridge?”
“Trying to smooth me down now, are you?” The duke looked him over closely.
Lucien was impressed despite himself, for Gavin stood perfectly still, without coloring or turning a hair, under the inspection.
“Think you can get round me with fast words, eh?” the duke went on. “What’s this I hear about you arriving in a bang-up, brand-new curricle? Do not think to send the bill to me for your affectation. Or for that fine wardrobe—which I’m certain did not accompany you from the farm fueld where my solicitors found you. I’ll give you an allowance—I can do nothing else—but I won’t be held up for your extravagance.”
Gavin’s forehead wrinkled. “Then I suppose you will also refuse to pay for the high-steppers I bought to pull the curricle. What a shame that I asked my other groom to bring them along by easy stages so I’d have them to start the drive back. Well, I might return them to the seller, if I explain the circumstances.”
“The circumstances?” The duke sounded wary.
“No doubt someone would like to own the very horses that the cheeseparing Duke of Weybridge can’t afford.”
Lucien wanted to cheer.
The duke sputtered. “Damned cheek!”
“As for my grooms, I’ve already suggested they stay in the village rather than come here, in case it was too much trouble for the household to accommodate them.”
“You must be in your cups, you chawbacon—suggesting I haven’t room for your servants.”
Lucien saw the flutter of a skirt outside the drawing room door. That must be Emily, no doubt pausing to listen in the hope that the fireworks—and the volume of the duke’s ire—would die down before she had to come in.
“Of course, that wasn’t the only reason I left them at the inn,” Gavin went on. “They have instructions to watch over my mistress there and keep her out of trouble.”
The duke stared, his brows lowered—momentarily speechless.
Lucien gave a low, soundless whistle. “Gavin, ladies present. Well, one lady at least, and she doesn’t care for talk of mistresses.” He heard the unmistakable timber of his father’s voice as the Earl of Chiswick greeted Emily in the hall, and he was not surprised when an instant later Emily stalked into the room and made her curtsey to the duke.
“Miss Emily,” Gavin said. “I beg your pardon; I forgot. Lady Emily—”
Her gaze swept across Gavin as if he were empty air. “Since Father tells us we are not to make a fuss over you, Uncle Josiah, I shall
Uncle Josiah seemed to have shrunk, Lucien thought— though the fact that the duke was not on his feet no doubt contributed to the impression.
“Uncle Josiah.” Lucien gave a deep, formal bow.
“Hartford,” the duke growled, but he looked on past Lucien to Gavin. “And you must be Athstone.”
“Technically,” Gavin said, “I’m not, sir. At least, if I understand the rules from your solicitors’ explanations—”
“That’s Your Grace , to you. Fussy old women, those law readers. I expect they told you all about how you’re only the heir presumptive, so if I have a son you’ll be out in the cold. Exactly how likely do you think that is?”
“I have no idea, Your Grace,” Gavin said. “But it does me no harm to hope for that eventuality.”
The duke glowered and then gave a rusty laugh. “You expect me to believe you don’t want this? All of this?”
Gavin looked into the distance, almost as if he’d seen a mirage, and for a moment Lucien thought he was going to admit that he’d been lying his head off. But he didn’t need to say it; the thing was obvious. Who wouldn’t want Weybridge, with its thousands of acres of lush, productive land, its woods and fields filled with game, its lakes teeming with fish?
Gavin said, “You will believe as you like, Your Grace. What power do I have to change the mind of the Duke of Weybridge?”
“Trying to smooth me down now, are you?” The duke looked him over closely.
Lucien was impressed despite himself, for Gavin stood perfectly still, without coloring or turning a hair, under the inspection.
“Think you can get round me with fast words, eh?” the duke went on. “What’s this I hear about you arriving in a bang-up, brand-new curricle? Do not think to send the bill to me for your affectation. Or for that fine wardrobe—which I’m certain did not accompany you from the farm fueld where my solicitors found you. I’ll give you an allowance—I can do nothing else—but I won’t be held up for your extravagance.”
Gavin’s forehead wrinkled. “Then I suppose you will also refuse to pay for the high-steppers I bought to pull the curricle. What a shame that I asked my other groom to bring them along by easy stages so I’d have them to start the drive back. Well, I might return them to the seller, if I explain the circumstances.”
“The circumstances?” The duke sounded wary.
“No doubt someone would like to own the very horses that the cheeseparing Duke of Weybridge can’t afford.”
Lucien wanted to cheer.
The duke sputtered. “Damned cheek!”
“As for my grooms, I’ve already suggested they stay in the village rather than come here, in case it was too much trouble for the household to accommodate them.”
“You must be in your cups, you chawbacon—suggesting I haven’t room for your servants.”
Lucien saw the flutter of a skirt outside the drawing room door. That must be Emily, no doubt pausing to listen in the hope that the fireworks—and the volume of the duke’s ire—would die down before she had to come in.
“Of course, that wasn’t the only reason I left them at the inn,” Gavin went on. “They have instructions to watch over my mistress there and keep her out of trouble.”
The duke stared, his brows lowered—momentarily speechless.
Lucien gave a low, soundless whistle. “Gavin, ladies present. Well, one lady at least, and she doesn’t care for talk of mistresses.” He heard the unmistakable timber of his father’s voice as the Earl of Chiswick greeted Emily in the hall, and he was not surprised when an instant later Emily stalked into the room and made her curtsey to the duke.
“Miss Emily,” Gavin said. “I beg your pardon; I forgot. Lady Emily—”
Her gaze swept across Gavin as if he were empty air. “Since Father tells us we are not to make a fuss over you, Uncle Josiah, I shall
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