“My sincere condolences.” Whitby shuddered, then raised his glass in a mock salute. “To the memory of the Duke of Brandon. May he rest in peace.”
“I’m marrying, not dying, you arse.”
“Is there a difference?” King asked wryly.
Damn it.Not much of one, as far as Brandon was concerned. Even if the thought of wedding one woman in particular didn’t terrify him nearly as much as it ought to. Indeed, the notionof marrying Lottie somehow held unexpected appeal. Waking to her every morning, shagging her silly each night…
But no, he mustn’t think of that now. There were five pairs of eyes trained upon him, awaiting his answer.
“Perhaps not. But rest assured, I’ll do whatever it takes to secure Wingfield Hall for the Society’s sake,” he vowed.
“Even so,marriage, Brandon?” Whitby shook his head. “You needn’t go that far. Surely there’s another way. One that isn’t so drastic. So completely bloody terrible.”
“Have you made the acquaintance of my grandmother? She has the tenacity of an ox, a dog, and a mule combined. I am persuaded she could put any general on a battlefield to shame.”
“Ihavemet her,” Whitby conceded with a wince. “Excellent point, old chap. The old harridan is rather terrifying.”
“Sounds as if the both of us will be married men soon,” Camden announced grimly.
“You?” Brandon turned to his friend, still surprised though Lottie had warned him as much on their carriage ride from Sidmouth’s wedding breakfast.
“Me,” Cam confirmed. “Although the lady has only just consented to be my wife—and with a list of stipulations five times longer than the bloody Magna Carta.”
“Stipulations?” Now this was interesting to Brandon, the very thought of his iron-willed friend bending to a prospective bride’s demands. “Never tell us you’ve fallen in love.”
“Christ no,” his friend reassured him. “You know I haven’t a heart. Nothing but a husk where it ought to have been.”
Brandon would have said the same for himself not long ago. But that had changed when Pandy had stormed into his life with her outrageousness, her utter lack of proper manners, and her dog perversely named Cat. Now, by contrast, he felt too much. It was as if his heart had grown large and tender and new again,softened by his daughter’s innocence in a way he otherwise would never have known.
He didn’t like it, but that didn’t make it any less true.
“Who is the fortunate lady in question?” King intoned, raising his glass. “Perhaps a toast is in order.”
“Miss Rosamund Payne,” Cam said.
“The chit with the pet squirrel who rides on her shoulder?” Riverdale inquired, sounding aghast.
“It’s not a squirrel, Riverdale,” Cam corrected. “It’s an African grey parrot, and yes, she does occasionally squire the thing about on her shoulder. Her name is Megs, and she delights in calling me all manner of names. The latest is ‘gormless shite,’ I believe.”
“I thought the chit’s name was Rosamund, not Megs,” King said, frowning into his glass. “And that’s a hell of a thing to be calling one’s future husband.”
“The parrot, you dolt,” Cam elaborated. “Her parrot is called Megs, and the bird in question is the one who has been heaping insults upon me. Miss Payne is quite obviously called Miss Payne.”
“Miss Payne. How very formal. I reckon you don’t have to marry her because you’ve bedded her, then?” Whitby inquired.
“Has anyone recently told you that you’re a rude prick?” Cam asked him conversationally.
“Always.” Whitby took a deep inhalation of his cheroot and blew a perfect cloud of smoke into the air above him, unrepentant.
“Stop nattering, the two of you,” Riverdale admonished. “You’re worse than a pair of squabbling biddies. We need to come to a decision about Wingfield Hall and the Society house party. If we want to cancel it, then we should act now.”
“I can’t afford to cancel it,” Cam admitted, his cheeks going ruddy.
“Can’t afford it?” King frowned. “What the devil do you mean?”
“I mean…I need my share of the funds,” Cam said. “I’m pockets to let, and I’ve already spent the blunt. It’s also why I need to wed Miss Payne.”
“And her squirrel,” King reminded him.
