He shrugged.
“I suppose it would be fitting if she were attractive.”
“Yes, that would be an absolute must, I presume.”
“Well, not necessarily. Attractive wives could cause trouble.”
Bessie glanced up from her desk.
“Would a homely wife satisfy you then?”
Rhys shrugged again, indifferent to looks. He had witnessed a great deal of honor and cowardice in his time on the battlefield, and his perception of people had become skewed.
“Pretty or homely, I don’t think it matters.”
“Of course it matters, but perhaps I’m not giving you the benefit of the doubt. Tell me. What do you want in a wife exactly?”
Rhys thought about it for a moment before speaking.
“I suppose I should appreciate someone who is not put off by my hearing loss,” he said slowly, speaking on the one thing that worried him most. “I’m sure a number of ladies would find themselves displeased to learn that their husband had the hearing of an eighty-year-old man.”
“Hm. What else?”
“It would be nice if she were not so well born. Fenwick Park is still months away from being completed, so someone who isn’t particular about moving into a barely functioning estate.”
“A help mate then, in every sense of the word?”
Rhys sighed and slumped down in one of the leather club chairs that sat before Bessie’s desk. The chocolate leather beneath his hands was smooth and cool to the touch.
“Must I really list off a number of qualities like I’m buying a horse or something?”
Bessie leaned back in her chair.
“My dear boy, this was your idea. You were the one who said you didn’t have time to go courting ladies, being locked away in that heap of rubble up north.”
“It’s hardly a pile of rocks,” he countered. “And why waste your time worrying about me?”
She gave him a look.
“Because, despite us being vaguely related—”
“Hardly. Your dearly departed husband was my mother’s uncle. There’s no blood between us.”
“That may be so, but your mother was always kind to me, and I do not readily forget those who showed me kindness. I promised her, before she passed away, that I would see you settled when you returned home from the war—”
“Bessie—”
“And I will not renege on that promise. Now, you’ve already been at Fenwick Park for two years—”
“Eighteen months.”
“Very well. Eighteen months. Yet you cannot continue on like this, living a life of solitude. You need to rejoin society. Especially since the Crown has named you specifically for the Order of Bath.”
Rhys had been given hundreds of invitations from nearly every prominent family in London since his return from war, and he had successfully avoided each and every one. Yet two former commanding officers had informed him that the queen had personally expressed her desire to see the lieutenant married, since her son, the Prince Regent, had become enamored with Rhys’s heroics on the battlefield. It was widely known that the Prince Regent had not chosen a wife and with theking in poor health, the queen was determined to have the prince married before he ascended the throne.
Which was why Rhys had finally come to the Lyon’s Den. Though he had served his country bravely and boldly, a soldier’s work, it seemed, was never done. This was simply his duty and more importantly, the queen’s command.
“Then, perhaps you might be able to find a woman who will not swoon at heroic stories. I do not want to disappoint my future bride when she is met with a half-deaf husband and a crumbling estate.”
