Lucien strode around the dining room table, running estate accounting figures through his head. Bales of hay, number of cattle, the price of barley—the amount of coal necessary to keep Kilcairn Abbey warm through the winter. Nothing worked.
“Damnation,” he swore, and followed that curse with several even more colorful ones.
This was too much. A man of his experience and reputation did not, under any circumstances, moon after an overaged virgin—and certainly not when he employed her as a governess. When he’d kissed her, he’d hoped that would serve to ease the tumult she caused in him. Now, though, aside from being painfully aroused, he had felt her hesitant, then eager, response. And then she’d trotted off to bed, safe and sound and still virginal, and he’d let her go.
He did one more circuit of the room, then halted before the door. What he needed was a distraction from his distraction. Throwing open the door, he headed down the stairs and into the back hallway where a dozen small, practical bedchambers stood tucked beneath the upstairs ballroom. Stopping before the first door, he rapped on the hard wood.
The muffled answer he received didn’t sound very polite. Unruffled, he knocked again, louder.
“All right, damn it all,” a voice grunted. “The house had better be on fire.”
The knob turned and the door opened. Rubbing one eye, Mr. Mullins gazed blearily at his employer. Immediately he straightened, blanching. “My lord! I had no idea—”
“Mr. Mullins,” Lucien interrupted, “I have a task for you.”
“Now, my lord?”
“Yes, now. I want a list. A list of twelve—no, make that fifteen—single females, of noble family, good character, pleasant appearance, and aged somewhere between seventeen and twenty-two.”
He intentionally cut off the age at two years younger than Miss Gallant. If a female hadn’t found a husband by twenty-two, she was obviously possessed of some deficiency, mental or otherwise. He hadn’t discovered Miss Gallant’s fault, yet, but he was sure to do so posthaste.
“Females. Yes, my lord. But…for what purpose?”
“For the purpose of marriage, Mr. Mullins. Have the list ready for me first thing in the morning, so we may begin eliminating prospects.”
As the solicitor stared at him, Lucien turned on his heel and headed back upstairs. Wimbole had retired for the evening, and the hallways were dark and quiet. Lucien entered his private quarters, dismissed his valet, and stripped out of most of his clothes. Pouring himself a brandy and downing the majority of it at one go, he sat in the dark looking out at the moonlight, and seeing a pair of turquoise-colored eyes.
He spent most of the night there. When in the morning Bartlett scratched at the door and then entered the master bedchamber, unbidden, Lucien had just managed his first consecutive twenty minutes of sleep all night.
“Damnation. What time is it?” he grumbled, reaching over the side of the chair and throwing a boot at his valet.
Bartlett caught it and made his way over to the east window, cloaked by heavy blue curtains. “Seven in the morning, my lord. Mr. Mullins has gone out, but he wished me to inform you that he will be back by eight, in time for your meeting.” He pushed the curtains open, and bright yellow daylight flooded the room.
Lucien groaned and threw an arm across his eyes.
“Do you wish Wimbole to make up something for your head this morning?” the valet asked, picking up his scattered clothing.
“No. I’m not drunk. Just tired. Have the harpies or Miss Gallant risen?”
“Miss Gallant and Sally left for Hyde Park some fifteen minutes ago. Penny and Marie were summoned to Mrs. Delacroix’s bedchamber as I left the kitchen.”
Bartlett’s cool efficiency was often irritating, but the valet kept his mouth shut, and he had impeccable timing and taste, which compensated for his occasional stodginess. “Bring me some coffee,” Lucien ordered.
“Yes, my lord.”
Lucien rose and pulled on the shirt and breeches Bartlett had laid out for him the night before. Thank God he and Robert had already planned to attend the boat races on the Thames today. Otherwise, he had a very good idea that he would spend the entire day mooning after his blasted cousin’s blasted governess.
He’d been turned down before, albeit rarely, and it hadn’t bothered him. He knew from experience there were a multitude of ladies he could seek to ease his frustration. And he knew just as surely that he would not be visiting any of them today—or until he’d resolved this damned annoying little standoff with Miss Gallant.
Being the proper, etiquette-minded lady that she was, she would spend breakfast lecturing Rose on how one conquered one’s baser emotions in favor of propriety, and he would be forced to listen to every word and know she meant it to apply to him. He didn’t want to hear it, and he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of saying it in his presence. Therefore, he finished his coffee upstairs and then went to find Mr. Mullins.
“This is what you came up with?” he asked, tossing the list back onto his desk.
“You did give me rather short notice, my lord,” the solicitor said, looking hurt. “And there are fifteen names, and they all fit the requirements you stated to me last night.”
“Fine. At least two of them can be counted on to attend the Howards’ party tomorrow evening.”
“My lord, is it truly your intention to marry—”
