“Life really can kick you a good one in the bollocks now and again, can’t it?”
Remembering what Paul had suffered, James bit back the snide comment that trembled on the edge of his tongue. “Indeed yes.”
“Look on the bright side, James. You can afford a new pair of boots, and now you’ll need new breeches as well. But it’s not going to mean you can’t eat tomorrow.”
“There is that,” answered James. “And to be fair, in answer to your earlier—and very inappropriate comments—yes, I am deeply attached to Miss Letitia Ridlington, and I plan on marrying her at the earliest possible moment.” He paused for breath. “Which plan, I would appreciate your not mentioning to anyone yet, since I haven’t quite managed to perfect the details at this point.”
“Aha. I knew it.”
“Smug bastard.”
“Thank you. I do work hard to maintain that reputation.” Paul’s laugh rang out as they emerged from the wood onto the rough walk that would soon be the lane leading to FitzArden Hall. “Why haven’t you asked her yet?”
“Because Letitia is somewhat of a force to be reckoned with.” James realized he’d just casually stated something that was so true it shook his bones. “If I did the proper, you know, bended knee in the rose garden and so on, she’d kick me out on my arse. She has some silly notion of not loving anyone ever. The Ridlingtons are an odd lot when it comes to the tender affections. From what I have learned, they didn’t get any affection at all, tender or otherwise, from that damned old Baron who fathered them all.”
“Bit of a bastard, was he?”
“He redefined the word bastard.” James sighed. “One of those men who seem to have had their hearts removed and replaced with a lump of granite. Look at the family. Edmund ran away to sea, deserting his inheritance. Simon vanished into the church. Letitia stuck it out by protecting herself with a shield, a wall she’s built around her heart that few can penetrate. I don’t know the twins very well, since they fled to town the minute they got the chance. And Hecate? She’s something else again and I’m honestly not sure what.”
“Good lord.” Paul sounded stunned. “That bad?”
“Yes, that bad. So now perhaps you understand why I’m not falling over myself to propose to Letitia.” He paused. “And there’s the matter of our ages too…”
“Your ages?”
James cleared his throat. “I am considerably older than Letitia, Paul.”
“No you’re not.”
“Indeed I am.”
“By how much?”
“Nearly ten years.”
“James, you are a great friend and I’m honoured to know you. So forgive me if I observe that in this instance you are being a pompous arse.”
“I must disagree.”
“Of course you must. But I will restate my assertion. You’re being an utter, bacon-brained, pompous arse. Women have always been—and will continue to be—centuries older than men, in ways we will never comprehend.”
James sighed.
*~~*~~*
There was still a final glass of brandy to be enjoyed and some friendly conversation to end the day, so it was a couple of hours after he’d arrived back at the Hall before James could open the book that had been burning against his hip on the walk home.
But Paul finally retired, leaving James free to go to his own rooms, which were completed enough for him to sleep there, and also work there if he needed to.
Being used to town life, it had taken James some time to adapt to the earlier mornings and consequent earlier evenings offered by country life. He found himself waking later than he should, then working harder all day, only to retire and stare at the room around him. Thus he’d decided to install a desk and chair for himself in the adjoining room off his bedroom. While this was in no way unusual for a gentleman, what was different was the fact that James actually used it.
There was no carpet yet, nor had the fireplace been deemed usable. One or two chimneys needed finishing before fires could be lit anywhere but the kitchen. He was assured of hot food, but the rooms would remain increasingly chilly until he could set the taper to the first log. He hoped it would be soon, since autumn was getting her hooks into the countryside and winter wouldn’t be far behind.
So this night he lit himself a branch of candles, grabbed a warm quilt from the bed and retired to his private study to peruse the stolen book with the last of the brandy.
Carefully unwrapping the string, he smiled at Harry’s ingenuity. The covers announced the volume to be a second edition of a treatise on the correct way to shear a sheep. Published in 1749.
He removed the old, musty covers, and placed the enclosed manuscript on the table in front of him.
