Bryght was surprised that his brother would reveal such overt opposition. “I doubt you know her. Miss Portia St. Claire of Overstead, Dorset.”
Rothgar’s dark eyes studied him for a moment then he continued to fill a plate. “Nerissa Trelyn’s cousin.”
“How the devil do you know that?”
“I was introduced to her last night. Short, slender, red haired. Not in your usual style.” He came to sit at the table.
“That should please you. You haven’t regarded the other contenders with approval.”
“It would depend on your reasons. I have become a convert to love in marriage.”
Bryght laughed. “Am I to wish you happy?”
“A philosophical convert only. Why are you marrying her?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Bryght amiably.
It seemed for a moment that Rothgar would insist, but then he said, “True.Whenare you marrying her? I might have a practical interest in that.”
“I’m not sure, but soon.”
“Ah.” There was a wealth of meaning in the word and the raised eyebrow that accompanied it.
Bryght felt damnably like a guilty schoolboy. “I haven’t taken her virtue, Bey. Or not much of it.”
“But enough, I gather. So be it. Honor above all. I suppose Elf should come to lend the girl credit.”
“The ‘girl’ is twenty-five years old.”
Rothgar’s brows rose. “Is she indeed? She looks younger. She will still be in need of credit and support, and I doubt the Trelyns are an unfailing bulwark. Do you not want your sister at your wedding?”
Bryght was finding Rothgar’s acceptance rather more abrasive than his opposition. “I would be delighted, of course. Why not the whole clan? Brand, Cyn and Chastity, Hilda and Steen and their family?”
“Cyn and Chastity are still newlyweds,” said Rothgar blandly, “and it’s too far for Hilda and her brood. Brand, Elf, and myself along with a few distant connections who are in town should form an adequate family presence. An aura of respectability.”
“A massing of Mallorens is hardly likely to convey respectability.”
“It will, at least, silence any troublesome tongues. What of Candleford?”
“No, thank you.” Bryght could feel his jaw tighten.
“You will need a home.” Rothgar’s dark eyes were searching, which meant Bryght could not look away.
“We will not be welcome here and at the Abbey?”
“Of course you will.”
“Then that is where we’ll live until I can afford to buy a place of my own.”
“How very bourgeois,” drawled Rothgar.
Bryght rose and stalked out of the room, Zeno hurrying to catch up.
Bryght regretted within moments letting Rothgar catch him on the raw. It was unreasonable not to allow his brother to buy the property and give him the use of it. He received no special reward for his work, which had increased the family fortune immensely, just the normal portion allocated to all the younger Malloren men.
By rights nearly all the Malloren property was Rothgar’s alone. Their father had left dowries for the girls, and the marriage portion of the second marchioness went to her three sons—Bryght, Brand, and Cyn. Her early death had meant it was sufficient to provide a start for them in whatever profession they chose to follow. It was not enough, however, to support them in idleness for the rest of their lives.
The bulk of the property had gone, of course, to the new Marquess of Rothgar.
