Ever since the musicale, his staid, predictable sister had proven herself as unpredictable as anyone else. In the past few weeks, she had signed both a wedding contract and a performance contract at one of the most prestigious opera houses in Town.
Society was reeling just as much as their mother was.
But Heath’s love and respect for his sister had never flagged. Unfortunately, neither had the wagging tongues of the gossips.
He would be much further along on his various cases for paying clients if he had not suddenly needed to devote a great deal of time and resources to ensuring neither Camellia nor his family became laughingstocks.
Anyone who dared hurt his sister would bear the full brunt of his wrath.
“Heath!” Bryony glanced up from the worn deck of playing cards she had been dealing to herself and her sisters. “Marvelous timing. We can still deal you in.”
He shook his head. “I’ll spectate. I’ve a meeting with Father in ten minutes.”
Three very impressed faces swiveled to stare at him.
“How did you do that?” Dahlia asked in wonder. “I’ve been trying for months.”
“Have you tried being the firstborn male?” Bryony asked pointedly as she riffled the remaining cards.
Dahlia tilted her head back and made an exasperated sound toward the ceiling. “Why do I keep forgetting to be born first and male?”
“Unfair,” Heath protested. “I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”
Bryony put a hand up to her ear. “What’s that? I can’t understand you over that silver spoon in your mouth.”
Even Camellia cut him a flat look. “Did Father also attempt to betroth you to an elderly stranger?”
Heath sank into a wingback chair without responding. So much for talking sense into his sisters. Their points were valid.
“You don’t require an audience with Father.” Bryony placed a comforting hand on Dahlia’s knee. “I’ve consolidated my investments. As soon as I can withdraw money, I’ll be in more of a position to help.”
“How much do you need?” Heath asked. He had never confessed that most of his client income was automatically directed toward the school’s dwindling accounts.
Dahlia gave him a tired smile. “Keep your coin. You need a dowry far more than any of us do if you’re to attract the perfect bride someday.”
Heath affected an aggrieved expression. “What of my charm? My chiseled countenance? The shiny wheels of my new barouche?”
“Latest news just in from London,” Bryony stage-whispered. “No Society lady has ever cared a fig about the wheels of a gentleman’s barouche.”
“Every lady appreciates a good ride,” Heath replied blandly, expecting to be showered with pillows.
Dahlia stifled a yawn. “You cannot shock us with rakish double entendres. Camellia is married now, and if you ever wondered whether her ‘Lord of Pleasure’ is truly world-class at perform—”
Heath leapt to his feet. “Is it two o’clock? It’s nearly two o’clock. I had better stand outside Father’s door so that I am within earshot when he calls for me.”
The girls erupted in giggles as Heath beat a hasty retreat.
He positioned himself outside his father’s study, careful not to slouch. Father was keen on positive first impressions. One’s heir must never disappoint.
And, oh, how he would disappoint his father if the baron realized Heath so much as daydreamed about an attachment with Miss Winfield!
Yet he was bewitched. The sparkle in her eye, her infectious smile… Heath could not go a single moment without her pretty face once again dominating his thoughts.
At first, he had wondered if they might suit. Then, he had feared they would. But ever since that first moment at the Dulwich Picture Gallery, there had been no hope of hiding the truth.
Number one: he and Miss Winfield suited very, very well.
Number two: it changed nothing. He still could not have her.
