A frivolous, pretty sort of thing that wouldn’t make too many demands on him, bear him an heir or two and leave him well alone.
The daughter of a former diplomat in India, Miss Letty Mountroy, came to mind. Porcelain blue eyes, blonde baby curls, a dainty figure, a vapid smile. He’d only met her once at a dinner party.
She’d do very well.
No, he did not care about Letty. But she would certainly make an exemplary wife. One needed not to care about one’s wife, he was certain. One merely had to coexist in a reasonable partnership. Marriage was but a business contract, anyway.
He did not really worry about Pen, he reassured himself.
Besides, she would make a terrible wife.
He nearly shot out of his chair.
The deuce! What was the matter with him that he was even thinking along those lines?
Alworth got up, repressing the memory of Pen’s expressive, dark eyes, over-brimming with impish laughter, framed by thick lashes. He sensed they veiled a deep sadness, a deep wariness, a deep hurt in her soul. She had lost herself in an earthquake in India long ago. Why was it he had the feeling he understood her more than she did herself?
Stuff and nonsense.
Disturbed, Alworth left the club.
He really had no time to lose.
He should court Letty Mountroy in earnest before Pen led him astray.
