bedchamber without kissing her again.Even the simple touch of her hand had kindled more longing within him than he had felt in years.
As he pulled his horse to a halt in front of Myron, who was both smiling up at him and patting the heads of his large hunting dogs, he reflected that there was a time he would not have felt a particle of remorse for using his friend in this manner.
Those days were past, he told himself as he dismounted and went to shake hands with Myron, who was a little heavier than he had been of yore, but otherwise not much altered by the passage of time. He was still tall and brawny, with brown hair untouched by gray, and a florid face.
“Welcome to my humble hunting lodge, Your Grace!” Myron cried happily.
Galen gave the fine stone manor an admiring glance. “Thank you for the invitation, Myron, although not every man would refer to such a splendid abode as a hunting lodge.”
Myron blushed like a girl getting her first compliment at a ball. “It’s a trifle, really,” he said with an attempt at modesty quite undone by his obvious pride. “Someplace to display trophies and keep the guns, that’s all.”
“If it is possible to have that much good hunting around Jefford, I really should have come much sooner.”
Myron roared with laughter and clapped hishand on Galen’s shoulder so hard he winced. “I do what I can to keep the wild population hereabouts under control. You must be parched. Care for a drink?”
“I would be delighted,” Galen replied as he followed his host into the front hall, which was decorated with an astonishing array of weaponry. The dogs trotted behind, then wandered off down the corridor.
“You’re not expecting a siege, I hope?” Galen inquired as he eyed the various lances, crossbows, arrows, bows, swords and pikes.
“I wasn’t before, but I am now!” Myron chortled as he ran an approving gaze over Galen. “Demme, age becomes you, Deighton! You’re handsomer than ever. We’ll have to fight off the women when they hear you’ve come.”
Galen sighed mournfully as they entered what Galen took to be Myron’s study, done in age-darkened oak paneling and decidedly masculine. Portraits of hunting dogs and horses covered the walls, and Galen realized the dogs had been headed here, for they now lounged around one particularly well used chair. Their presence and obvious familiarity with their places no doubt explained the heavy odor of dog in the room.
“Such is the story of my life. Besieged and beleaguered when all I seek is a little sport,” Galen replied.
Myron grinned as he poured him a large brandy. “Sport is what some of ’em are after, too, eh?”
Galen could not disagree. “Nevertheless, Myron, I am tired of such empty liaisons. I have decided I should marry, so if you know of any pretty, rich, titled eligible ladies nearby who are in need of a husband, I shall be happy to meet them.”
Myron walked toward Galen, unmindfully spilling brandy with every step. As Galen took the glass, he noticed that the once fine Aubusson carpet bore evidence that this sort of genial messiness was not unusual in Myron’s study.
“Married? You?” his host demanded.
Galen settled onto the worn sofa and regarded Myron with genial amusement. “I am not repulsive, I hope.”
Myron laughed so hard most of his brandy never stood a chance. “Repulsive? The Duke of Deighton? Oh, sink me for a simpleton, that’s good!”
“It has been brought to my attention by several well-meaning people that I am not in my youth any longer, and it is high time I took a wife. Therefore, if you have any suggestions, I am all ears.”
Myron cleared his throat and a serious expression appeared on his pleasant face. “Well, let me see…there’s Lady Alice de Monfrey—but she’s too old. And the Duchess of Tewkesbury’s daughter—but she looks like a bitch with a sour tooth.”He scratched his chin. “There’s Verity Davis-Jones—no, not her.”
“What is the matter
As he pulled his horse to a halt in front of Myron, who was both smiling up at him and patting the heads of his large hunting dogs, he reflected that there was a time he would not have felt a particle of remorse for using his friend in this manner.
Those days were past, he told himself as he dismounted and went to shake hands with Myron, who was a little heavier than he had been of yore, but otherwise not much altered by the passage of time. He was still tall and brawny, with brown hair untouched by gray, and a florid face.
“Welcome to my humble hunting lodge, Your Grace!” Myron cried happily.
Galen gave the fine stone manor an admiring glance. “Thank you for the invitation, Myron, although not every man would refer to such a splendid abode as a hunting lodge.”
Myron blushed like a girl getting her first compliment at a ball. “It’s a trifle, really,” he said with an attempt at modesty quite undone by his obvious pride. “Someplace to display trophies and keep the guns, that’s all.”
“If it is possible to have that much good hunting around Jefford, I really should have come much sooner.”
Myron roared with laughter and clapped hishand on Galen’s shoulder so hard he winced. “I do what I can to keep the wild population hereabouts under control. You must be parched. Care for a drink?”
“I would be delighted,” Galen replied as he followed his host into the front hall, which was decorated with an astonishing array of weaponry. The dogs trotted behind, then wandered off down the corridor.
“You’re not expecting a siege, I hope?” Galen inquired as he eyed the various lances, crossbows, arrows, bows, swords and pikes.
“I wasn’t before, but I am now!” Myron chortled as he ran an approving gaze over Galen. “Demme, age becomes you, Deighton! You’re handsomer than ever. We’ll have to fight off the women when they hear you’ve come.”
Galen sighed mournfully as they entered what Galen took to be Myron’s study, done in age-darkened oak paneling and decidedly masculine. Portraits of hunting dogs and horses covered the walls, and Galen realized the dogs had been headed here, for they now lounged around one particularly well used chair. Their presence and obvious familiarity with their places no doubt explained the heavy odor of dog in the room.
“Such is the story of my life. Besieged and beleaguered when all I seek is a little sport,” Galen replied.
Myron grinned as he poured him a large brandy. “Sport is what some of ’em are after, too, eh?”
Galen could not disagree. “Nevertheless, Myron, I am tired of such empty liaisons. I have decided I should marry, so if you know of any pretty, rich, titled eligible ladies nearby who are in need of a husband, I shall be happy to meet them.”
Myron walked toward Galen, unmindfully spilling brandy with every step. As Galen took the glass, he noticed that the once fine Aubusson carpet bore evidence that this sort of genial messiness was not unusual in Myron’s study.
“Married? You?” his host demanded.
Galen settled onto the worn sofa and regarded Myron with genial amusement. “I am not repulsive, I hope.”
Myron laughed so hard most of his brandy never stood a chance. “Repulsive? The Duke of Deighton? Oh, sink me for a simpleton, that’s good!”
“It has been brought to my attention by several well-meaning people that I am not in my youth any longer, and it is high time I took a wife. Therefore, if you have any suggestions, I am all ears.”
Myron cleared his throat and a serious expression appeared on his pleasant face. “Well, let me see…there’s Lady Alice de Monfrey—but she’s too old. And the Duchess of Tewkesbury’s daughter—but she looks like a bitch with a sour tooth.”He scratched his chin. “There’s Verity Davis-Jones—no, not her.”
“What is the matter
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