Viscount Vagabond by Loretta Chase Page B

m’lord, you’ve someone particular in mind.”
    “No,” the earl replied without looking up from his plate.
    “No?” the son echoed in some astonishment.
    “But Frederick, what about Miss—?”
    “No,” the earl repeated. “It’s none of our affair, Letitia. The lad is perfectly capable of finding his own wife.”
    “Why, yes, of course,” Lady St. Denys agreed as she turned apologetically to her son. “I never meant to imply, dear, that you were not. Only that you go about so little in Society—”
    “Doesn’t go about at all,” her husband interrupted.
    “Why, yes, dear, and that is just the point. If he does not go about in Society, how is he to find a suitable girl?”
    “Perhaps, Mother, I ought to advertise, and ask my secretary to screen the applicants for the position. Worked well enough for finding a valet.”
    “Oh, Max,” the countess gasped.
    “Got a valet, have you? I thought you appeared more presentable than usual.”
    “But, Frederick, he can hardly advertise for a wife as one does for a servant. What would people think?”
    “How should I know? None of our set’s ever done it before.”
    “Oh, Frederick, I believe you’re roasting me. And you too, Max. You wicked creatures.” The countess smiled indulgently and returned her attention to her dinner.
    Baffled by his father’s uncharacteristic behaviour, the viscount had trouble concentrating on his meal. Never in Max Demowery’s twenty-eight years had his parent shown any confidence whatsoever in his younger son’s judgement.
    The father had the same tall, strong Demowery physique. However, his features were haughtier, more aquiline and forbidding, and maturity had added distinguished grey to his thick hair. That and the extra stone or so of girth made him a formidable figure—one, in fact, of a man accustomed to command. The Earl of St. Denys was indeed so accustomed, having inherited his title at a very early age. His voice rang out in the Lords as he enumerated with sonorous regularity his colleagues’ errors. That same voice resounded with equal force through his household. The Old Man, Max often complained, had never noticed that his children had graduated from leading strings.
    Lord St. Denys had not permitted his eldest son to take orders, though that was what Percy wanted and what everyone knew him best fitted for. The earl had also tried to choose his daughter’s husband. Fortunately, unlike Percy, Louisa had not inherited her mother’s meekness. She’d refused. Threatened with being locked in her room until she could work herself into a compliant frame of mind, she bolted, dragging a reluctant abigail with her, to take refuge with the one human being her papa could not command—his formidable cousin Agatha.
    In this Louisa had followed the example of her younger brother, who’d been running away from everyone and everything since his little legs were strong enough to carry him. Max had run away from home innumerable times. At the age of ten he’d fled Eton and would certainly have found other ways to make himself unwelcome there after being dragged back had not a young, perceptive master taken the restless boy under his wing and found work to challenge him.
    Max had managed his Oxford career with a few scrapes, but without disgrace. Immediately upon quitting that institution he’d enlisted under a false name as a common soldier. The earl had eventually tracked him down and gotten him discharged. Less than a year later, Max smuggled himself on board a ship bound for the New World.
    There he’d have contentedly remained had Percy not met with the riding accident. Rebellious as Max was, even he was no match for the claims of eight centuries of Demowerys. Even he could not ignore this one great duty, especially after the earl had effectively sundered the one tie that might have kept his new heir in that raw, wild, young country. The place had suited Max. It appealed to his restless nature, his impatience with