Markham’s sister had the bloodline. He had the name. If he married Markham’s sister, wouldn’t a child of their union be both a legal and a rightful heir?
“Your sister, you say?” Bromton set down the decanter.
Markham nodded. “Lady Katherine.”
“I do not recall being introduced.”
“She’s been out of Society. But surely you have heard of her.” Markham scowled. “Imust have spoken of her, at least.”
“Not that I recall.” Then again, he’d been single-minded while grooming Markham. Steady-handed, he filled a second glass. “Why was she banished?”
“Beau Brummell deemed her the most unmarriageable lady in the kingdom.”
He handed Markham the drink. “Unmarriageable, you say?”
“She is now,” Markham said with frustration, “all because a valet’s son with an inflated opinion of his wit made one, silly quip.”
“Brummell’s quips have ruined powerful men.”
“Does Brummell’s opinion matter to you?”
He paused to consider. “The problem is not insurmountable. I’d prefer my wife possess a sterling reputation, of course.” But if he married Lady Katherine, he could retain all—a more intoxicating solution than the blood-red liquid in his glass. “Your sister, is she…?”
“Becoming?” Markham plucked a miniature from his waistcoat pocket. “See for yourself.”
Bromton set down his drink and cradled her likeness in his palm.
Lady Katherine’s hazel-green eyes matched Markham’s in color and intensity, but her auburn curls framed feminine cheeks rosy with youth and health. And her quintessentially aristocratic nose sat above cherry-ripe lips.
…cherry-ripe lips whose fullness called out with no less than invitation.
He blinked. His celibacy had stretched too long. Clearly.
Either that, or the all-consuming obligation to set things right had stunted control when most he needed strength. This plan, should he choose to execute it, would require absolute vigilance.
“The likeness is remarkable,” Markham said.
“She is…engaging.” He glanced up. “She could also be mad.”Markhamcertainly seemed touched.
“She is no Bedlamite.” Markham’s face set into grim angles. “She has borne uncalled-for shame with dignity.”
Bromton’s hand closed protectively around the portrait. “What prompted Brummell’s quip?”
“Two failed betrothals.”
Scandal. He loathed even its scent. And yet, he was already mired to his neck, wasn’t he?
“Elaborate,” he commanded.
“Groom number one: Septimus Chandler, our village rector’s son.”
“A step down.”
“Not truly,” Markham replied. “Our rector is the youngest son of an earl. And it was, at least on her part, a love match.”
As if such a thing existed. “Yet this love match failed to reach the altar.”
Markham swallowed. “He died.”
